atlas-likes-writing - Tumblr blog

atlas-likes-writing · 8 days

Text

June of Doom Day Four: Punishment

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Character(s): Sunday, Gopher Wood/Penacony's Dreammaster, Robin.

Summary: After the events at Clock Studio Park, the entirety of Penacony is thrown into chaos. The Dreammaster is demanding answers; answers that Sunday does not have.

Word count: 1,536

Tags: Angst, whump (technically), abuse, physical abuse, threats, violence, manipulation, emotional manipulation.

Author's Note: I'm actually super proud of this one. Just as a note: the term "Master" is used but it is not in a NSFW context, don't worry. Also, is this just me projecting my hatred of Gopher Wood? Yes. Do I care? No.

@juneofdoom

Masterlist | Day Three

“Sunday.”

The Halovian’s head snaps up from where he kneels at the feet of Gopher Wood: the current Dreammaster of Penacony. He was summoned by the figurehead earlier that night after Aventurine’s little tantrum. The giant crimson gash in Dreamscape sky formed by that Self-Annihilator is still fresh and weeping at Clock Studio’s Park, and it is Sunday’s fault for letting it happen. Or that is at least how Wood sees it.

“Yes, Master?” The compliment is familiar on his tongue and sickeningly so. He forces himself to hold eye contact with the man above him as he lounges about on his now imposing chair.

This is not the first time.

“What happened tonight?” It is phrased like a statement, not a question – but Sunday answers anyway with practiced eloquence.

“An Emanator of Nihility snuck into Penacony posing as a Galaxy Ranger, and the IPC ambassador – Aventurine of the Ten Stonehearts – took her in battle and lost.” The script he has ran through in his head is simple and succinct, just as the man above him prefers.

“Unsurprising, but I am not asking you to tell me things I already know, Sunday,” Wood states plainly, lifting his hand and checking over the fabric of his gloves as if bored with the Oak Family head. Sunday’s eyes remain trained on the Dreammaster’s but it is an actual that remains unrequited.

“I’m unsure of what you mean, Sir,” Sunday lies.

“You know exactly what I mean, child.”

He hates being called that. It is demeaning and implies inferiority. He supposes in this situation that he is inferior to Gopher Wood, but that doesn’t interfere with his distaste for the term. Not that he would ever be courageous enough to demand better treatment. Sunday knew what he was signing up for when he was a child, and he intends to follow that through.

(He, in truth, had no idea. He was manipulated and groomed.)

This is for Robin’s sake.

That is the thought process he has now and is the exact same as the one he had during one of his first interactions with Gopher Wood when he was only that: Gopher Wood. He expects that it will be the same thought process he has for the rest of his life and beyond.

“Do not make me ask you again.” Gopher decides to look at him now, the image of grace and neutrality.

Sunday fights the urge to swallow the lump forming in his throat and instead attempts to mirror him.

“Apologies, Master,” Sunday begins. “I’m not sure what you me-”

A harsh slap sounds out in the large room, and it echoes nauseatingly back to Sunday’s ears as his head is whipped to the side. His cheek stings, but he doesn’t dare reach to his own face to soothe it.

This is not the first time.

Wood’s façade cracks slightly, showing visible anger and distaste before it reverts to its statue-like nature.

Gopher sighs, voice clearly showing restraint. “You’re making me repeat myself. I hate repeating myself. I thought you would have learned this by now.” Sunday recognises that tone of voice and he can’t stop himself from freezing up.

“You know what must happen now.”

This is not the first time.

Sunday nods. Slowly.

“Yes, Master.”

“Get up,” the Dreammaster commands. Sunday does so immediately, lifting himself up from the ground and standing resolutely in front of him; the image of elegance. One hand rests at his lower back, the other on his stomach as he watches the man in front of him. Gopher remains where he is, moving his hand to press a button that Sunday knows is connected to a microphone. He leans in and begins to speak.

“Robin, dear? Can you come in?” he asks, voice melodious and full of pleasant timbre. It is a voice that Sunday hasn’t heard in a long time.

What? No. This isn’t what they agreed upon. Sunday would take the brunt of Wood’s torment to protect Robin from harm. This is not what they agreed on all those years ago.

“Master? What are you doing? You can’t hurt Robin. You promi-”

Gopher cuts him off again. “Silence.” The younger Halovian immediately closes his mouth. “Do not speak again for your sister’s sake.”

The Oak Family head itches to say something. To go over to that wretched man and destroy him from the inside-out with Xipe’s blessing. To rip those glasses off his face, shatter the lenses, and stab them into his vocal cords so that he may never speak to him or Robin ever again.

He doesn’t do that, though. The consequences are much too dire. His fingers twitch in apprehension and Gopher shoots him a quick glare over the tops of his glasses as a result. He stops, and the door behind him opens to his sister’s kind voice.

“Mr. Gopher Wood? You wanted to see me?” Robin asks, the smile she carries everywhere evident in the way she speaks.

The Dreammaster smiles, and Sunday wants to rip it off his face. “Robin, my dear! Come here, will you? I have a present.” Robin does so gracefully, silvery hair cascading beautifully behind her as she walks in front of Sunday to stand dutifully before Wood. He stands and unhooks the chains connected to his glasses’ frames, taking them off. He folds them up neatly and hands them to the woman. “Keep a hold of these for me, okay? They’re giving me an awful headache and I don’t trust myself to put them down and not lose them,” he laughs. “Oh, and these too. You know how I am with losing things.” Gopher then proceeds to tug at the fingers of his pristine white gloves and takes them off, folding them just as neatly and placing them gently into the outstretched palms of the youngest of the two siblings. He reaches up with bare hands and closes Robin’s fist around the objects and smiles again, eyes warm. Sunday remains frozen where he stands, feet rooted to the elaborate tile flooring.

Robin poorly conceals the confusion in her face and shoots a quick glance at her brother, who attempts to mimic the Dreammaster’s cheery smile. Always full of that childish innocence, Robin eventually returns the smile and turns and curtsies to Gopher Wood, who chuckles and quietly gestures the door in an act of dismissal. The woman understands and twists again to leave.

It happens so fast that Sunday almost misses it. The Dreammaster lunges at Robin and grabs her. Is he going to kill her? He can’t. Sunday would kill him if he did that. The young man steps forward slightly, ready to protect his sister, only to be halted by a withering glare from Gopher Wood and the sight of what is happening in front of him.

He’s hugging her.

Robin freezes up, clearly taken off guard. Her face is concealed by Wood’s arms, so Sunday can’t see her expression, but he imagines it’s one of shock. An expression that probably mirrors Sunday’s own. Much to his horror, Robin eventually returns the hug, wrapping her arms around the man in front of her. They stay like that for a while and Sunday grows more and more antsy with every passing minute. Finally, he lets go, and gently grips Robin by the shoulder and tilts his body down so his eyeline matches hers.

“You are like the daughter I never had. You know that, right?” he states, before gesturing to where Sunday stands statuesque. “Just as your brother is like a son to me.” At Robin’s nod, Gopher chuckles and ruffles her hair playfully. It seems mundane, but there’s an ominous undertone that only Robin doesn’t detect. She giggles and turns to leave a second time, smiling graciously to Sunday as she passes. The door eventually clicks shut behind him, and Gopher’s kind, fatherly persona falls in record time, replaced by his original rageful neutrality.

“I will never hurt your sister, Sunday,” he begins. “As long as you do as I say. That was our agreement, yes?” The Oak Family head nods, fear now evident in his face. “Good. That will change if you continue to act out of line. Do you understand me?”

Sunday nods again and Gopher storms over to him, pissed. The younger man steps back out of instinct. The Dreammaster raises an arm and punches Sunday across the jaw, causing the man to stumble and fall over backwards. Out of fear, he doesn’t move from there, only putting his hands below his body to support himself as he looks up at Gopher as he towers above him. The older man crouches down to Sunday’s level and grabs him harshly by his now sore jaw. He pulls him towards him, his face now inches away from Sunday’s as he stares him down.

“Use your words, child. Do you understand me?” he repeats.

With his voice muffled, Sunday lets out a weak “Yes,” and Gopher throws him back onto the ground. He stands back up to his full height and gazes down at him, lips now curling into a sneer.

“Your dedication to your sister’s wellbeing is admirable, Sunday. Let’s see how deep that dedication runs.”

#june of doom #june of doom day four #honkai: star rail #honkai sr #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr sunday #hsr gopher wood #hsr robin #hsr fandom #hsr fanfic #tw abuse #tw manipulation #tw physical abuse #tw physical violence #tw emotional manipulation #fanfic writing #ao3 fanfiction

16 notes · View notes

atlas-likes-writing · 9 days

Text

June of Doom Day Three: Ambushed

Fandom: Star Wars

Character(s): Obi-wan Kenobi, Darth Vader/Anakin Skywalker

Summary: An AU where Vader discovers Obi-wan at a much earlier time period. (Set a few weeks before "Kenobi")

Word count: 800

Tags: Angst, nostalgia, major character death, canon divergence.

Author's Note: My motivation went solely into yesterday's prompt, so expect quality control for this one to be a little on the worse-for-wear side of things. Enjoy! As always, comments and reblogs are much appreciated.

@juneofdoom

Masterlist | Day Two

Obi-wan Kenobi is beginning to understand why his former apprentice despised sand so much.

It’s everywhere. In his hair, in his shoes, down his tunic, in his cot, in his food – no matter where he looks and no matter what he does it is always there: sand. He supposes it’s what he gets for choosing to stay on Tatooine to look over the son of his old padawan.

He misses him. Anakin- of course.

He was a brother to him. The closest thing to family one could get to someone disallowed from forming attachments. It’s hypocritical. He knows it is. But one cannot help but look back to more promising times. Where the galaxy was Kenobi’s oyster, and he had the ability to do good. Real good. Not just stabbing droids and fighting various Sith lords but maintaining peace and prosperity between all people.

Now, Anakin is no more. Replaced and manipulated by Sheev Palpatine to be molded into something inhuman. Something dangerous. He is no longer the small slave boy he met on this very planet all those years ago. He is Darth Vader: the devastating pawn of the Empire that can ground whole Starship battalions with a simple wave of his hand and clench of his fist. And you know the most ironic part of it all?

Obi-wan is the one who pushed him in the wrong direction in the first place.

But you already know this. I won’t elaborate. Obi-wan pushes Anakin to the Dark Side (intentionally or otherwise), Order 66 takes place (his brothers tried to kill him), the Jedi are dead (didn’t I say I wouldn’t elaborate? Never mind), and now they are both alone on opposite sides of the galaxy.

Or so Obi-wan thinks.

It happens on his way back to the cave he calls home. It’s late evening – the twin suns falling between the cracks in the rock in front of him and blinding him. He carries a lump of bread under his armpit and a bag full of various mechanical parts that will hopefully be used to repair the Speeder he managed to salvage a few rotations ago, as well as the miniscule number of credits he earns at his pitiful job.

He steps into his home after trudging along for a while, dropping the bread at one point and grumbling as he bends over to pick it up again, only for the contents of his bag to spill out all over the floor.

His old strength has left him, and the Force is elsewhere, so he is forced to pick it all up by hand. It’s only when he finally returns all the parts to the bag and places it on the table with a tired thud that he speaks.

“You’ve grown senile in age, Kenobi. I thought you were better than this.”

He freezes in place. Maybe, if he is deadly silent and still and doesn’t turn around, he won’t see him.

“Look at me, Obi-wan.”

Well, that didn’t work. Slowly and with a dreaded pit in his stomach, Obi-wan turns to face his old padawan. Once done, he is rooted to the spot where he stands. Frozen. Useless.

“Say something, Master.” The courtesy is spat at him like venom and Obi-wan fights the urge to flinch at it. It has been years since anyone has called him that. A black, soulless visor glares at him from where Vader stands in the corner of his room as if he were the Boogey Man.

“Anakin, I-”

Vader cuts him off. “Anakin is dead. We killed him on Mustafar.” Obi-wan dislikes the usage of ‘we’ in that sentence. “I am here, finally, to cut off some loose ends. Doing so in this way makes you luckier than most. I’m here to kill you, Obi-wan.”

It’s then when the Universe decides to play a trick on the old Jedi Master. It’s then when the Universe decides to thrust all the nostalgic memories of the past on the man. The joy, the sadness, the howls of laughter, the sounds of blaster bolts and lightsabres making contact with each other. Times were simpler back then – when Obi-wan was a padawan himself and Anakin a simple slave boy trying to help his mother. The kind, righteous, simple boy who stands in front of him is no longer kind, righteous, or simple. He is a blight of terror that strikes fear into the hearts of millions- maybe even billions or trillions in the galaxy.

The sound of ignition of Vader’s lightsabre reaches his ears, and Obi-wan closes his eyes. In the back of his mind, he sends a sorrowful prayer and apology to the son of the man in front of him, whom he is yet unaware of his presence on the planet.

“Do what you must.”

#star wars #star wars au #star wars fanfiction #obi wan fanfiction #obi wan kenobi #darth vader #anakin skywalker #kenobi series #angst #major character death #hehe spoilers whoops

9 notes · View notes

atlas-likes-writing · 10 days

Text

nightwing being hurt in the field, and over comms he can’t get out what was wrong, nearly in shock, and jason puts on his best batman™️ voice and says “robin, report.”

and it snaps dick out of it enough to say concussion, possible broken ribs, and a gash in his side.

no one talks about it, and then a year later, damian does the same thing to tim

#i wanna write this rahhh

28K notes · View notes

atlas-likes-writing · 10 days

Text

@mellowwhumps

RAHHH THANKYOU SO MUCH THAT MEANS THE WORLD /gen <333

June of Doom Day Two - Double-crossed/Forced to Watch

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Characters: Veritas Ratio, Aventurine, Sunday

Ship: Golden Ratio (Aventurine/Dr. Ratio)

Summary: An AU where Sunday knows about the three Cornerstones during the confrontation between himself, Aventurine, and Dr. Ratio. Chaos, whump, and angst ensue.

Word count: 3,364

Tags: Whump, angst, graphic depictions of violence, torture, mind control, mind manipulation, illusions of pain but it isn't technically real, manipulation.

Author's Note: I don't know how I vomited up over 3000 words for this, but here I am. I hope you enjoy! As always, please comment and reblog as it helps me out a bunch (and gives me a much needed serotonin boost). This is not beta-read so please let me know if there are any spelling/grammar mistakes/goofy pacing.

@juneofdoom

Masterlist | Day One

Two men stand side by side in front of huge oak double-doors, both in elaborate clothing; one in green, black, and white, and the other in blue, white, and gold. They are presumed to hate each other. They do not. Far from it, actually. They have found a special kind of companionship during their short period of knowing each other. Who would’ve thought a Stoneheart of the Interastral Peace Corporation and a professor of the Intelligentsia Guild could get along? Especially with temperaments as different as theirs. Aventurine: a “crazed gambler” as the other likes to put it. A man of extraordinary levels of luck and the tendency to value petty bets over his own life. Veritas Ratio: a “stuffy doctor” as the other likes to playfully tease, much to his dismay. A professor of profound intelligence, continually disappointed by the divine entity that refuses to cast THEIR gaze in his direction standing next to the man cursed to withstand the favour of another. Both are pitied. Both are revered. Both are about to stab the head of the Oak Family in the back.

“Sunday is just beyond this door. Are you ready?” the doctor asks, his head turned towards the shorter man beside him.

Aventurine’s eyes remain trained on the door in front of him. “Yep. You?”

“Tell me your plan.”

“I’ll play it by ear.”

“Are you serious?”

“When am I not?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“It was a rhetorical question, Doctor.”

“Mine was nothing of the sort, Gambler. Are you telling me you do not have a plan for facing Sunday?”

“Three chips will do.”

After that short bicker, Aventurine winks at the man and steps forward to push open the door. It takes everything in Ratio to not sigh and roll his eyes. Doing so would only encourage the man in front of him further, so he instead schools his expression to one of his usual neutrality and calmly strolls into the room behind his companion. Inside sits Sunday, who raises from his seat on the opposite side of the huge circular table and welcomes the two men with a gesture of his hand.

“It seems my puzzles are too effortless for you, IPC ambassador,” he begins.

“I see you put a lot of effort into welcoming me, Mr. Sunday. However, this is no way to greet a guest,” Aventurine replies coolly, crossing his arms.

Sunday smiles, teeth glinting in the light above him. “Well, this isn’t an invitation, but a summoning. Before we speak, I need to test your character. You understand, yes?” He gestures to Ratio, whose expression remains unmoving. “I imagine this knowledgeable doctor friend of yours has been of great help, hm?”

Aventurine’s faux smile matches the man in front of him. “Certainly. You ought to know this better than I do – he has already faithfully fulfilled his duties, hasn’t he?”

“Yes. The doctor has assured me of your noble character. He considers you, like himself, a virtuous person who can be trusted by The Family.” Ratio is getting a little sick of being talked about as if he wasn’t in the room. He doesn’t let that show on his face, of course, but he can’t help but feel a little irked.

“You don’t look too well,” the ambassador suddenly states bluntly. “Am I making you anxious? If not, then it means I’m on your side.”

“You’re a wise man, Aventurine.” The Halovian places his hands behind his back – the image of grace. “My only concern is that you’ve used your wisdom at the wrong time to meet the wrong person and put yourself in a situation where you shouldn’t be.” His sister’s death. “If I wasn’t mistaken, you have just made a serious accusation against The Family.”

“You are not mistaken. Depravity is creeping in around you, Mr. Sunday.” This is certainly not how Ratio would go about this. This is creeping into increasingly dangerous territory. “There’s no need to be evasive. Let’s talk about your sister, shall we? Many suspect her death to be the work of outsiders, but I know you are of a different opinion.”

Ratio can’t tell for sure at this distance, but he could have sworn that Sunday’s posture tenses.

“Now, your noble status has become a shackle, preventing you from apprehending the murderer and avenging your sister’s death. You’re feeling anxious because you’re out on a limb. But don’t worry. I am on your side.”

Despite the tightness of his shoulders, Sunday’s voice betrays no such tenseness. “I’m immensely honoured by your concern for me, Mr. Aventurine – since you’re so selfless and generous, I believe you wouldn’t ask for anything in return, would you?”

“Naturally, you wouldn’t incur any loss from this. I simply want to reclaim what is mine: my liberty, and my personal items under the Family’s custody – the bag of gift money, and-”

“The Cornerstone and the box that it inhabits.”

“That’s right.”

“A treasured asset of the Strategic Investment Department, a sacred stone that seals the Emanator of Preservation, granting significant power to each of the Ten Stoneheart's, yes?”

“You would be correct.” Where is this going? This is like an elaborate chess game, two players taking the other’s pieces for their own gain. For all his intelligence, Ratio can’t figure out who has the most pawns at their disposal. He knows he is one of them, but his move has already been made.

“For an object so precious, it probably comes at an even higher price than other forms of recompense.”

Aventurine frowns – a performed frown – but a frown nonetheless. “I’m sure you’re aware of the high level of risk I’ll be undertaking to bring the truth to light-”

“Mr. Aventurine,” Sunday starts, raising a hand to silence him. “When you’re out and about, do you always make adjustments to your appearance? Your tie should be on the centre line, your shirt must not protrude from your vest, your trouser creases should be perfectly straight, and always aligned with the tips of your shoes.”

The blonde nods. “Of course.”

“I don’t, because it is not appropriate to do so in the company of others – you should make sure you are presentable and in order before leaving the house. Unlike you, I’m not the kind that takes risks. The Cornerstone must remain in the custody of The Family.”

Looks like the first piece has been taken. Aventurine sighs. “...No room for negotiation?” At this, Ratio moves from where he stands next to the IPC ambassador to the bookshelf closer to Sunday. Ratio must admit that he is a pawn to both players. He doesn’t like it, but it’s a necessary evil. This room is a giant chess board, and he just took his turn.

Sunday shakes his head. “Please don’t let me turn you down twice.”

“...Fine. The gift money is fine. I suppose you wouldn’t mind that, yes? After all, a businessman can’t function without a bargaining chip.” To that, Sunday lets himself raise an eyebrow.

“You compromised quicker than I thought you would,” he notes. “Unfortunately for you, it is a gambler that needs a bargaining chip, not a businessman. I have no qualms in giving you your gift money, but before that, I need you to tell me-”

Suddenly, Aventurine gasps and takes a step back. His eyes glaze over, and he looks at the Halovian in confusion. It’s a look that appears real. Sunday’s halo glows a myriad of psychedelic pinks and blues and yellows and greens. Ratio must turn away to prevent his distaste from becoming apparent. Sunday is using the power of the Harmony.

“What exactly is in the box that you have decidedly forsaken?”

Sunday raises his arms reverently and looks to the ceiling. “Oh Triple-Faced Soul, please sear his tongue and palms with a hot iron, so that he will not be able to fabricate lies and make false vows.”

“...What is this?” Aventurine shoots a glance towards Ratio, but sees his head turned.

“Under the light of the Harmony, all wickedness is revealed. I implore THEM to shed THEIR light, and I’ll ask you questions on THEIR behalf. You have two minutes to prove your innocence and gain my trust.”

“...And if I refuse to answer?”

“You can certainly try – at your own risk, of course.” Sunday grins. “We’ll see if the Harmony rejects you.” At Aventurine’s decided silence, the sky-haired man begins his interrogation. Ratio turns his head back to the two men. Despite his disgust, he cannot help but be a curious man, so he watches.

“Question: Do you own a Cornerstone?” he asks.

“Yes.” The answer is immediate, almost as if it escaped Aventurine’s mouth before he had the chance to think about it. Not good.

“What a simple answer,” Sunday states, nodding in faux approval. “You, too, understand that nonsense leads only to your expense. Let us continue.”

“Did you hand over the Cornerstone to The Family when you entered Penacony?”

“Yes.”

“Does the Cornerstone you handed over to The Family belong to you?”

“Yes.”

“Is your Cornerstone in this room right now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you an Avgin from Sigonia?”

What has that got to do with the current circumstances?

Aventurine falters slightly at the question, clearly taken off guard. “Yes. Why do you know that?”

Sunday ignores his question. “Do the Avgins have any ability to read, tamper with, or manipulate one’s own or another’s mind?”

“What?” he barks out a laugh at the apparently ludicrous question. The action makes Sunday’s halo brighten and Aventurine winces before answering properly. “No. Does it matter?”

“Do you love your family more than yourself?” Sunday asks, tilting his head to the side. These questions are getting weirdly personal. Ratio crosses his arms.

“Yes.” An immediate answer.

“All of the Avgins were killed in a massacre. Am I correct?”

“No.”

“Are you your clan’s sole survivor?”

Aventurine hesitates. “...Probably.”

“Do you hate and wish to destroy this world with your own hands?”

A second hesitation. “No.”

“Alright. Final question: Can you swear at this very moment, the Aventurine Cornerstone is safe and sound in this box?”

A third. “Obviously.”

Sunday nods. “Very well. I have no further questions.”

Ratio gives out a silent sigh of relief. Sunday moves around the table and strolls towards Aventurine, his halo is so bright that even Ratio can feel it. The atmosphere of the room is suffocating in the will of the Harmony. The high-inducing rainbow of colours escaping from behind the head of Sunday is becoming overbearing for the doctor, let alone for Aventurine. He can’t help but feel pity for the Sigonian.

Sunday halts a few steps away from the Stoneheart. He taps his finger against his chin as if pondering something. “You know, if there could only be one thing I detest in this vast Universe: it would be dishonesty, Mr. Aventurine.”

Wait, what? That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. Ratio can’t stop himself from shooting a glance towards Sunday from where he stands behind him.

“I- I beg your pardon?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You have been lying through your teeth ever since you stepped onto this planet.”

“Well- yeah. I haven’t exactly tried to hide that. Isn’t that what your mind-fuckery is all about? To get me to tell the truth? Or are you just trying to show off?” he asks, subtly glancing at Ratio. “Or does your ‘power of the Harmony’ not work?”

“I can assure you, the Harmony influences all. However, I will admit that I have hidden something from you, Mr. Aventurine,” Sunday replies, his wings pitching downwards a little.

“Well, isn’t that a surprise,” the gambler retorts, evidently filling his words with as much sarcasm as he can muster. His knees buckle slightly, clearly struggling under the weight of the Emanator’s gaze. Ratio can’t look away.

“While my powers of persuasion have every capability of forcing the truth out of your lips, I decided to do a little experiment to see if you’re capable of honesty of your own volition,” the angelic man says. “You apparently are not. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Aventurine stays silent.

“I’m saying that I know that you’re lying to me.”

Throughout this entire negotiation, this is the first time Veritas has felt fearful. The room becomes even more suffocating, if that’s even possible. He forces his own face to remain neutral. He plays the role of traitor in this grand play, after all. He must see it through for his companion’s sake.

From where he stands, he can see Sunday’s shoulders shake. He’s laughing. He’s enjoying this.

“I know about the Topaz Cornerstone. I know about the Aventurine Cornerstone. And, as similar as it is to your own, I know about Jade Cornerstone.”

Oh. Shit.

“How you managed to sway not one- but two individuals from a group as discordant as the Ten Stoneheart's to go along with your terrible plan is beyond me.” Sunday barks a loud laugh. “Truly, you are too much of a risk-taker, Mr. Aventurine. Now-” the man lifts an arm out in front of him, as if reaching for Aventurine from a distance. Ratio can’t stop himself from taking a step forward. He can’t let the man he cares for break in front of him.

“Kneel.”

His knees hit the floor, the full force of the Harmony crashing down on him. The scolding feeling of something forcing itself into his brain causes him to squeeze his eyes shut. He opens his mouth to scream, but it’s as if his throat has closed. Useless and silent.

“What on earth are you doing?” The other man looks on, frozen.

“You are not the only liar in this room, Aventurine.” He turns. “Come here.”

He leans forward from where he kneels and falls onto his hands and knees. He crawls over to the Halovian, stopping only when his head almost hits Sunday’s thigh. He falls back onto his calves, looking up at him in pure disgust.

“Don’t look at me like that.” His face is forced into neutrality against his will. “Let’s play a game, Aventurine. Tell me what your plan is and what Ratio has to do with it, and I’ll let him live.”

From where he kneels, Ratio turns his head to gaze at Aventurine, unable to look at him in any way except for indifference. He’s fucking terrified, but he can’t make that obvious no matter how much he wants to.

“Can’t you just force the truth out of me? Why not do that instead?” he asks, looking at his companion on the floor with an expression Ratio wishes he could mirror – fear.

“That’s boring,” Sunday replies simply. His calm demeanour is steadfast but with a smile that is growing wider with every passing second. “I find this maintains much more efficiency.”

Aventurine scoffs, still attempting to keep his act. “What does killing an Intelligentsia Guild member do for you that maintains efficiency? You’re mad.”

“It maintains efficiency because you care about him, Mr. Aventurine. I see all in the Dreamscape. I see the looks shared between the two of you. The companionship you fostered in the short time of knowing each other. You may think you’re able to disguise your relationship with insults and petty arguments, but you cannot. It is frightfully obvious. Besides, you’re more likely to answer truthfully if the life of someone you care about is at stake.”

“This is pathetic! He has done nothing to you.” It’s obvious that Aventurine is grasping at straws here.

“You’re right. He has done nothing to me. He has lied and told falsehoods but only because you told him to. I have no reason to do this,” Sunday shrugs, his grin becoming a little too wide.

There is an oppressive silence that follows. One that draws the line between predator and prey; master and slave; the controller and the controlled.

“I’m doing this because I hate you, Mr. Aventurine. And you love him.”

With that, an excruciating pain sets Ratio’s nerves alight. It rips through his mind and tears into his heart and lungs and stomach and extremities. His back hits the floor and he spasms where he lies, agony devouring his senses.

Veritas Ratio screams.

He is not a man that screams. Not usually. At pain he normally gives a small grunt and gives a debilitating glare to whomever or whatever caused him harm. Anything more would infer a weakness he doesn’t have. Not here. Here, his voice is guttural and raw and pitched and agonising. It echoes around the room and rises above the Choir of the Harmony that deafens everything else. His eyes snap shut so tightly that he sees stars dotting around in the darkness of the underside of his eyelids.

“Open your eyes,” several cacophonous voices demand.

He does, his eyelids shooting open through a compulsion that makes him sick. The psychedelic neon colours of the Harmony streak across his vision and blind him. He continues to convulse on the floor. The pain causes him to double over as stinging tears rip themselves from his eyes and smudge the red under his eyes.

“Look at him.”

His head snaps up and his eyes meet Aventurine’s. He’s frozen in place and looking at him in pure horror. Undoubtedly, he has been compelled to stay where he is, made obvious by how much his legs shake and his fingers twitch in futile attempts to reach Ratio. The doctor’s breaths come out in short wheezes, his chest rising and falling in quick succession as panic sets in his bones. While he is not a man to scream, he is also not a man to panic – it is a brief episode of intense anxiety that the brain concocts and transforms into a physical response. Ratio is a man of knowledge and has ways of stopping panic in its tracks before it takes root. In this case, however, knowledge is stripped of him and thrown out of the window. In a small corner of his mind, Ratio knows that this onset of fear and panic is caused by the effects of the Harmony. It is superficial. It is not real.

But Aeons above – it fucking feels real.

It carries on for what feels like hours. For all Ratio knows it could have been. If he was more cognizant, he would wonder what Sunday’s goal in this endeavour is. Is it to drive Aventurine into telling the truth? To prove a point? The answer to that is between Sunday and his Aeon.

He’s sure he blacks out every now and again, the pain writhing across his spine easily becoming too much for his body. He faintly hears the calm voice of the Halovian above him standing resolute as he speaks to Aventurine. He can’t make out coherent words, but by what he can tell from the Stoneheart’s expressions it’s nothing good. He should have been sent to the waking world by now, right? That’s what everyone in The Family says happens. If you want to leave the Dreamscape, you can. You can wake up in your designated Dreampool whenever you want without hindrance. Or is Sunday stopping that as well? He doesn’t know if that’s even possible.

It’s only when he is once again on the edge of falling out of consciousness that the power of the Harmony lifts from his trembling and fragile body. It isn’t slow like he expected it to be – but rapid. It is immediate and the loss of such a suffocating presence is almost as painful as it was before. He quickly feels arms wrap around him from where he lies limp on the floor, the familiar fluff of the collar of Aventurine’s coat warming his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Veritas,” he whispers in his ear. “I should never have let this happen to you.”

Faintly, the doctor hears the wooden door of Sunday’s office click shut. It’s then when he realises, he has been picked up and brought out of his room. Through pained eyes, he gazes at Aventurine. He then lifts a heavy arm to cup the man’s cheek, before slipping into unconsciousness for the final time.

22 notes · View notes

atlas-likes-writing · 11 days

Text

June of Doom Day Two - Double-crossed/Forced to Watch

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Characters: Veritas Ratio, Aventurine, Sunday

Ship: Golden Ratio (Aventurine/Dr. Ratio)

Summary: An AU where Sunday knows about the three Cornerstones during the confrontation between himself, Aventurine, and Dr. Ratio. Chaos, whump, and angst ensue.

Word count: 3,364

Tags: Whump, angst, graphic depictions of violence, torture, mind control, mind manipulation, illusions of pain but it isn't technically real, manipulation.

@juneofdoom

Masterlist | Day One | Day Three