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originemesis · 1 month ago

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@bored2deathiswear xxx

The fizzles of heat administered along the shivering slope of his back as the threads of flesh began to knit back together is mutely noted, though it does little to stifle the self smothered sounds of seething helplessness from escaping the balled up former visage of a celestial army's cornerstone. Light vibrations from the muzzle on his soul's ampage output sounds in pitiful putters beneath the beckon of claws both careful in mending as they were destroying. A twinge of blackened pain like an endless pit in his stomach earned a shudder as the skin seemed to reach out for a reunion with the sawed off ends of the wings that slid over as if to fasten back only for the bruising blow of a firm stomp to reverberate throughout his shoulders as the flesh slowly formed rough and ruined over their connective points.

He'd reach out with a twitching talon towards the nearest one, tip barely brushing the end of a primary feather as if it were the same touch of that brought about his creation. The subsequent throb of the sealed skin doesn't dissuade his reach - merely intensifies it with a grimace and grappling and reaching. Hadn't he been through this before to know better? To reach after the fading image of his first 'wife' and a supposed 'friend' as they disappeared into the shadows beyond the garden gate? All while he lay with a broken branch beneath him and a broken rib inside of him, pleading for them to wait-

[Don't do this- you can't...!

Reverberations of pain in his side coinciding with the severing of frail, feathered bone from flared shoulders.]

But they didn't wait. And neither did his captor carrying his wings out of the room when he reached out as if a few handfuls of grabbed air and a closed and shaking fist would be enough to convince him to put him back together the way he was. Even if that was exactly what the other had done despite the uncomfortable reality of shouldering humanity broken on the floor.

He'd remain there- healed yet crippled into the compliance of just another inanimate object or piece of furniture in the room for three days without so much as a sneeze. When he finally has the wherewithall to shift, it's cautiously as if he anticipates the sharp heel of that boot to just be there pinning him like a skewered butterfly to the spot. A whole day is spent testing the limits of what he thinks is his allowance of space before still more follow with him inching ever closer to the window. Always on the floor because each time he thought to stand, his balance without the familiar flutter of his stolen appendages quickly wobbles out from under him.

It's only after a week and a half that he manages to sink his talons into a wall and use it to walk along the edges of the room, stopping on occasion to inspect what he manages to come across on the way to the only natural light source in the enclosure. He loiters around a guitar propped on the plaster, carved of blackened wood and set with strings likely fashioned from the tendons of some hell beast. He'd bring it to his final roosting spot near the window, finding it's form distasteful and its infernal tuning no where near as capable as his axe, but it's not like he has that at his disposal now. Doesn't even have the route between his soul and the string's reverberations to project past a simple acoustic endeavor. Still...it's enough. Music was a lot of things among angels- it was the means of translating the inner indecipherable workings of the soul. Likely why his gritty riffs hardly earned him a place in any choir up top since only the Exorcists seemed to share the same melody making capabilities that complimented his the most. Birds of a feather and all that shit . Of course, music was also a way to express the length of neverending joys. But for him in that moment in the window, it was more of a way to soothe frazzled nerves that not even flesh mending magic could stich back together.

"-the sun don't wait for someone like me, who's got more wants than needs..." Through the night he'd warble periodically while playing around with the infernal instrument's knobs until finally at the beak of hell's red dawn, he'd gotten it as close to a divine emittance than it could physically go, which was meager enough to lightly graze the shallow heat of his soul on every sixteenth strum or so. "So I'll sit still...as seasons move on. Though I hate to watch'em-" A faint echo of heaven in hell- translated through lips of the dusty, red Earth. "-leave. I hate to watch'em...leave."

Several months in captivity, and he's still refusing the hot meals that appear in the room. It's not like angels need to eat, but he'd clearly not missed any meals in heaven regardless. He'd been through enough famines outside of the garden to know when stuffing his face was a need both indulgent as it was therapeutic to frazzled nerves gathered throughout the work day. Still, he sat by the window with his helmet planted against the glass and a talon boredly curling around a noodle from the plate of spaghetti set beside him from the night prior. Cold already...likely with meatballs made of his ground up wings if he had to guess what that absolute psychopath would serve him.

Still twirling idly as he sendes the other enter the room after...well it's not like he knows how long he's been there. But from the subtly gaunt appearance of his jaw beneath the mask, it wouldn't be hard to imagine just how long he'd been snubbing meals. Oh well- at least they're no longer splattered against the wall like a projectile shot of paintballs. A self serving sigh is the response the suggestion receives without him ever even turning around to assess what the other meant. Chin propped on his other hand, he rests his eyes as the light disappears from his cracked face briefly before slits of yellow study the sprig of fallen-camelia tapping the window pane.

"...yeah, because it was soooooo 'good' for me the first time." Though a painful gurgle in his stomach seems to disagree with him. More man presenting than his wings allowed, it seemed to have awakened that frantic post Eden hunger in his psyche. No one would be able to tell from the faintly gaunt edges of his jaw he hid under his helmet, but there was no hiding the brewing storm in his mid section, even as he offered a growl of frustration of his own to stifle it before returning his attention to the noodle he kept winding around his talon up to the knuckle.

"...frankly, I'd rather fuck one these steaming piles of shit you call a meal." Crash. The plate smashes as he finally knocks it off the window's ledge with the neutered energy of a cat incapable of seeing any god with it upon a tabletop - except for itself of course.

#//welp #//back to cunting #suggestive cw #bored2deathiswear #verse ; // dark without a dawn

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s0fter-sin · 1 month ago

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fainting goat hybrid!ghost whose father and brother loved to scare him and make him faint; exploiting a weakness he didn’t understand and didn’t know how to stop. they took sadistic pleasure in watching his body lock up and fall to the ground with no hope of catching himself until he ended up with more bruises and scrapes from falling than from being beaten

that helplessness chafed at him and he forced himself through the drawbacks of his biology to secure a place in the military, even with the prejudice against prey animals. just for him to take a mission in mexico and find himself enduring the “hospitality” of roba who thinks his involuntary paralysis is a great deal of fun; especially when he learns he’s conscious the whole time

what haunts ghost most is his waking autopsy

not the pain of the incisions, not the trauma of watching roba reach into his body and play with his insides, but the knowledge that he couldn't get away because his own body betrayed him. he wasn't put under, no drugs coursed through his system. he didn’t have restraints fitted on him to lock him to the operating table. it wasn’t necessary

roba just had to make him faint first

after digging himself out of his grave, ghost puts himself on a dangerous cocktail of muscle relaxers and other medications; hormones that block hybrid instincts, vasodilators to increase blood flow and stop his muscles locking up, anti-anxiety meds to cut off his surprise response at the root. he puts his body through the wringer to the point that medical is constantly worried for his health and shocked that he isn't regularly OD’ing

but he will never let his body betray him again

#what up i saw a video about fainting goats and was like ‘i can blorboify that’#ive never seen this specific hybrid type before and got so giddy with the idea that i might be presenting something new before the courts #the rest of his family werent hybrids but his father blamed his mother for letting him become one #saying she must have a recessive gene that ‘poisoned’ his offspring #(but hes the one that has an incomplete family medical history wink wink nudge nudge your fault cunt)#i go back and forth between soap being a predator hybrid but still submitting to ghost no matter how repressed he is #or another prey hybrid who is the furthest thing from ashamed about his instincts and needs #but either way he can smell the almost sickly scent coming off ghost in waves to the point that he cant help scratching at his nose #he hates it. hates the way it covers up his natural scent but he doesnt know what to do #hes always taken pride in his identity #but ghost? hes mutilitating himself from the inside and he doesnt know how to help him stop #coming out of my cage and ive been doing just fine.txt #we’re a team. ghost team #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #hybrid au #cod fic #john soap mactavish #soap cod #save post

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