#cioccolata x reader
Summary:You need help and Cioccolata is the only one who can provide. You know he’s dangerous, but you’re despetrate.
Words:1686
Ao3:[HERE]
A/N: Let it be known that I did not want to publish this at first, but I can’t leave my degenerates hanging. It’s a doozy. Very bloody. So I’m putting the whole thing under a Read More. HEED THE WARNINGS. I feel like I can’t stress this enough.
WARNINGS:Implied/Referenced Drug Use - Drug Use - Forced Anaesthesia - Graphic Description Of Torture - Wound Fucking - Blood and Gore - Manipulation
You’re a quivering mess, hands trembling as you curl your fingers weakly around Cioccolata’s sleeve and tug. “I need you to give me something, anything. ” The sound of your own voice, low and raspy, croaking out each word like you’re in terrible pain makes you wince. In truth, you are. Not physically, no, but mentally you’re an absolute disaster.
You don’t know what’s real anymore: every day feels like a blur. There are times when hours fly by and you don’t even notice, and other days you feel every second pass agonizingly slow. You’re disoriented, losing your way in the hospital halls and misplacing your belongings constantly. It wasn’t like this before: you remember coming to therapy for minor depression, but after meeting Cioccolata your condition had only worsened. You didn’t think for a second he’d been the one to cause your distress, but you knew something wasn’t right. It wasn’t until last week that you realized being near him wasn’t healthy, so you broke off all contact. He didn’t take it very well.
However, you had nowhere else to turn –you needed help and he was the only one, aside from your psychiatrist, with access to the lab. Without a prescription you’d never get back on medication, though you knew for a fact that Cioccolata had ways of obtaining drugs that went under the radar of the laboratory staff.
Cioccolata looked down on you, not a hint of mercy in his eyes. You disobeyed him, rejected his touch when he so graciously offered to relieve some of your stress–why should he help you? He pulls a familiar looking pill bottle from his pocket, holding it just out of your reach. “You mean these?” he asks, and you recognize it now: you thought you’d lost those! “Do you think you deserve them?”
Your mouth feels dry suddenly, words dying on your tongue. He took them from you, as punishment, you realize. When you don’t answer, he laughs.
“You will have to earn these, (Y/n). Good timing too, I was in need of a new guinea pig.”
Cioccolata starts by testing your limits first. Your tolerance for pain being the most important one: no use wasting anaesthetic if you’re perfectly capable of handling his ‘treatment’ without it. He puts you on a slab in an abandoned storage room of the hospital basement. Restrained with leather straps, fastened uncomfortably tight around your wrists and ankles. You’re completely nude by his request, shivering against the cold, hard metal beneath your exposed flesh. His stare hides both sick enjoyment and scientific curiosity– you’re a specimen to be dissected, a mystery to uncover and he can hardly contain his excitement. A grin breaks through his calm façade as he raises a scalpel to your chest, and you feel your heart begin to pound against your ribs.
“Be good and I’ll take care of you, okay?” he says, and you nod without a second thought. “Hold still,” he says, a bubbly joyful tone twisting his supposedly warning words into something more resembling a threat.
The incision is shallow, but you cry out nonetheless. It takes a few seconds for the blood to flow, and Cioccolata watches it drip from the cut, the smile on his face stretching into a frightening, deranged grimace. You start to think he may be even crazier than you. He makes another, equally insignificant slit in your skin. You manage to control your voice this time, bravely biting back a wince as your teeth sink into your bottom lip. This wasn’t so bad, you thought. You could do this. Unfortunately, this was only the beginning of your test: Cioccolata hadn’t even scratched the surface yet, so to speak.
For the next 30 minutes, you hold your own, but with each drag of the knife the pain becomes more intense. Individually, they don’t hurt as much, but as a whole your body is beginning to burn. He takes his time, marking a tally down your smooth skin until every inch of you has met his blade. An hour later, you’re completely covered in paper thin slits –blood trickling from each cut down onto the table below. Despite the sweat forming on your brow, you feel painfully cold inside. You’re crying, but he doesn’t seem to care. In fact, Cioccolata is delighted. You’re stronger than he’d anticipated. There’s only so much the body can take before the mind begins to crumble, and you’re about to reach that threshold. When you’ve well and truly become catatonic the real fun can begin.
It doesn’t take much longer for your subconscious to shatter: you’re hurting too much, the mental strain of watching your body be decimated finally reaching its peak. You let out a bloodcurdling scream, arching off the table before going completely limp against it. Your head bangs down, hard, but you don’t feel the impact anymore. You feel nothing. Cioccolata circles your form, admiring his good work.
“(Y/n)?” He calls out to you, but you don’t respond. “Are you still with me?”
Despite the rise and fall of your chest indicating that you’re still breathing, Cioccolata checks your pulse anyway. You’re alive, barely –and he aims to keep you like that for a long time. The hazy glaze over your eyes fills him with glee and desire. You just look so damn beautiful on Death’s doorstep –barely hanging on to the threads of life. It’s arousing, he finds, and why not indulge? It’s not like you’re in any position or state of mind to object. Not like last time.
He finally administers a localized anaesthetic in your abdomen. You lay motionless as Cioccolata climbs atop the surgeon’s table, knees on either side of your hips. Unfortunately, he’d bound your legs a bit too tightly, making your sweet cunt inaccessible. No matter –he was nothing if not creative with his specimens. Cioccolata gazed down at your bruised and bleeding form, conscious but barely present, and allowed his free hand to stroke himself through his uniform. You were a sight for sore eyes, and there was no sweeter view in the entire world. He moaned without restriction, furthering his own arousal. You saw it all, heard it all –and he knew you did. When he was well and truly hard, he wasted no time freeing his cock from the confines of his trousers. All he had to do now was make himself a hole to fuck.
Cioccolata’s hands, steady like a surgeon, made the incision in your underbelly, just below your navel. You let out a half-hearted whine, the first noise you had made since going catatonic, and he felt his heart rate skyrocket at the sound. Blood begins to flow from the wound towards your pelvic region and Cioccolata, pleased with the width and depth of the cut, positions himself near the opening. He uses two fingers to spread the hole apart, then slides his cock into you. Your body involuntary jerks against your bindings, making them rattle against the metal surface of the table. Cioccolata groans out in pure bliss, relishing in the welcoming wet heat of your insides.
There’s no need for it, but his hands clamp around your hips to keep you in place as he thrusts into the self-made hole. It’s a perfect fit to his girthy cock, just like he indented. Enough room to wiggle and pound into you, without being too loose or getting too close to your vital organs. Cioccolata looks at your body bouncing limply with each thrust of his hips, moaning each time your head bangs against the table. Your eyes shimmer with a degree of awareness that has him overjoyed: you can hear him, you can see what he’s doing to your weakened body and it’s driving him mad. His hips snap against your abdomen with reckless abandon and Cioccolata knows, that if he’s given you the correct dose, you’re about to start feeling everything he’s doing to you.
He watches your face, counting down the seconds as the anaesthetic begins to wear off. Your eyes widen, and he grins as your agonized voice rips through the stale air. You feel him now, pounding into a slit that shouldn’t even be there. His movements are controlled, almost careful not to damage you any further, and you know now that he wants to keep you alive. You find no comfort in that knowledge, realizing it means your suffering has only just begun. Cioccolata moans in the most obscene manner you’ve ever heard, making sure you know just how much he’s enjoying being inside of you. It makes you feel sick. The wet squelching of his cock ramming into your abdomen reverberates in your skull, fueling the tears streaming down your face. You don’t even realize you’re howling in pain until your throat starts burning.
Your uncontrolled sobs are enough to make him lose it. Cioccolata tightens his grip on your hips and leans his entire body weight into you, grinding his pelvis into your bleeding, abused orifice. With a few final uneven bucks of his hips, his cock twitches inside of you. Each wave of his orgasm, you feel his release flow into you –mixing with your own blood and sweat into a nightmarish sludge.
Cioccolata withdraws himself. Laboured breathing fills the silence. You stare up at him as he trails a hand over all the little cuts and bruises he’s left all over you. “You’re so beautiful like this…” he lets out, the look in his eyes a mix of contentment and complete insanity. As his hand reaches your navel, Cioccolata presses down, chuckling at the sight of his cum and your blood gushing out of the wound below. “Perfection…you did so well.”
After wiping himself clean of your blood and tucking himself away, he slides off the table, making his way to your side. “I’m impressed you’re still conscious after all that,” he says, and grabs you chin, turning your head to face him. The tears leaking from your eyes make his chest swell with pride. “Let’s get you nice and clean, then stitch you up, yes?”
