[modern au - fic: Modernism]
Title: Modernism
Characters/Pairing: Jean Louis. Sexual fantasies.
Summary: Snapshot. Harmony is just about striking the right keys.
Warnings: Snuff. Sexual murder. Somewhat explicit but very short.
Modernism
It’s not the way she gasps for air. It’s certainly not the pale colour of her limbs, blood spilling onto the ground in splotches of brownish red. If Jean Louis had been the poetic type, perhaps he could have gone for the look in her eyes - pure terror, helplessness, the ever-present hope that someone will intervene. The cameras are rolling, however, and she’s far beyond her own finish point; from here on, there’ll only be degeneration. Regression of the mind, atrophy of the body in slow motion.
No, what he really likes about this scenario - what truly makes his body completely overheated, trousers tightening to the point of painful discomfort - is the way her limbs are straining against her bindings. The way her hands are balled into fists against the rack, her body stretched to its maximum capacity (and beyond), shoulders long since popped from their sockets. It doesn’t matter that she knows what’ll happen. The shine of the knives on the background portfolio spells out the truth better than any verbal diatribe; this is the end. You are never getting out. The pain is going to end only when your breath catches in your throat for the last time. But she’s fighting anyway, isn’t she? He shifts slightly on the couch, picking up the remote and hitting ‘pause’ for a few seconds. Watches how, in the still-frame shot, her frail body arches away from the burning pokers, how her mind refuses to accept because the human body, in terms of basics, can do nothing but attempt to move on. Live. Take what’s there and wait for the opportunity to improve upon it.
The fire leaves traces of black on her skin, third-degree signatures in smoking flesh as she screams, her voice muted by blood and semen. It’s disgusting. It’s a disaster. And he can’t help it; he turns up the volume, body tingling, hands clenching and un-clenching by his sides. They take her apart only in stages. Torture for the sake of torture must last. She cries for mercy, for the right to surrender. Her body, meanwhile, fights on. It’s a contradiction that you seldom get to observe and he’s enthralled. He doesn’t like pain, doesn’t normally get off on causing it in others, but then again, murder is rarely senseless enough to leave human nature skinned to its essence.
When they start breaking her bones, her screams turning frantic and choked, he thinks that she must wish she could just give up. Let it all happen, detach herself from her body and forget about life. But that’s not how it works, as her producers are well aware; something like this wouldn’t sell for millions if her body left her rapists longing for fulfilment after only minutes. And he loves how it’s such a locked-up condition of human existence - that persevering is only beneficial if you’ve put yourself in the lead. Wanting more becomes ironic to the point of arousal when the most you can aim for is getting buried ten feet under. It’s just too fantastic. In its simplicity, this twenty-minute piece of horror is the most accurate depiction of the difference between human tragedy and success he’s seen. And he’s rock-hard over it, more than he’s ever been.
They take turns fucking her in between breaks, her body falling apart slowly enough to leave gaping holes for their entertainment. The sexualized pendant to the physical torture doesn’t do much for him, but it adds to the feeling of entrapment, of intensity. Like a reverse assembly line, pieces removed and bits unscrewed, her body sagging like a ragdoll and her every orifice raw. It’s only when Marcel enters the room and pauses, eying him like he’s never seen him before that he snaps out of it enough to turn off the television, the DVD churning on in silence. The girl nameless, her body a continuous piece of art and him, wishing he could hang it on his wall and give it the exhibition it deserves.
*