#a skull full of maggots

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

[dvchvnde]

excerpt; hitchhiker au | Simon Riley x Reader gore. graphic descriptions of decomposition. implied noncon.

“You’re not real,” she whimpers, words a rough scrape out of her raw, torn throat. “You can't be real.”

He doesn't answer tonight. Silent in his appraisal, his hatred; the bloodlust rolls off of him in waves, a suffocating deluge that tangles in her chest. Heart pulsing at the base of her throat, clogging her airways. She can't breathe. Can't move. Can only watch as the man cocks his head slowly to the side in a mutated parody of consideration. Confusion. Taking her in as he stands in her doorway, massive body filling the frame in an outline of black, making him more shadow than man. An apparition that haunts her at devil's hour. Always.

The moon's glow casts a line through the open window. A pale meridian between them. 

Childishly, she thinks of hiding under her blanket. Bad things can't touch you under the covers. Curling into a ball with her eyes squeezed shut, fingers plugging her ears. Wishing for her mother. Howling for her dad. Waiting until morning when the thing haunting her finally leaves.

But he doesn't. Not tonight. 

And she knows if she tries to hide, he'll just crawl into the bed next to her—

“Fix your bumper yet?” He asks, measured in his mockery. The weight of his words makes her stomach churn. Nausea a cold, familiar comfort that tethers itself to her ribcage. “Better get that fixed before someone comes askin’ questions, pet. Clean the blood off it, too. Caused quite the nasty spill.”

His directive makes her want to curl into a ball. “I–I didn't mean to, I didn't—”

“What'd you tell everyone? Hit a deer? Left ‘im in the bushes to die? And now he's got maggots crawlin’ all around ‘is ‘ead. Eatin’ his brains clean outta ‘is skull—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up—you’re not real! You're not real—”

The man—Simon Riley, her mind supplies bitterly, brokenly; tinged full of regret and sorrow and hatred—lashes out in an instant, moves like water, like shadows on the wall, the too bright flicker of a moving car, until he's in her face, looming over her. A massive, unclimbable wall. And she hates it. Hates when he's this close to her. Close enough to smell the stench of rotten blood that dries on his chest, the side of his head. A brown stain that sinks into the too-large frame of his chest. 

He smells of death. Sickening. Tainted with a noisome sweetness that glues in her nostrils, leaks down her throat. She can taste him there, right on her tongue. Him. Simon Riley. 

Missing, the newspapers say. But only she knows the truth. Stowed away in a facsimile of a grave by the swamps, left to rot. Here, in her bedroom. Waiting for her whenever she tries for a modicum of sleep. A veteran. A drifter. Homeless, they write, and he barked out an ugly laugh as he read over your shoulder, but said nothing else as you scrolled. Tense. Shivering in your seat, waiting for the day the police show up and arrest you. You did a terrible thing. A horrible thing. Pay for what you've done—

His hand reaches out, fingers wrapping around the delicate arch of her throat. The width spans the entirety of it until the bone china, the vulnerable slope, is clenched tight in his slick, slippery palm. Moss, she knows; it grows over his hands and feet now. The earth reclaiming the body she threw into the swamp—

“Not real?” He mocks, wrenching her closer by her throat. Pulse thudding like the wings of a hummingbird against his thumb. “Oh, pet. M’very real—”

He leans in, too, until his horrid face is lit by the sliver of pale blue moonlight. Scraps of tissue slough off of his head, skin purpling beneath the balaclava that peels off in patches. Animals, he'd told her idly, like talking about his body being eaten away by creatures was piecemeal. The jaundiced bone of his cheek pokes out from raspberry skin. It shifts when he speaks, and draws her eye to the devastation of his mouth. Jawbone visible; muscle blackened, clinging by a strip of thin tissue to his lower mandible. His teeth gleam in the light. Yellow and crooked. The rest of his face is covered under the blood soaked fabric of his mask. A small mercy, she thinks.

But the worst is his eyes. 

Once black, midnight grey, is now filmed over. Milky. And the other—

Something moves in the cherryred chasm. A long, thin black line slinks out of the gaping hole. Another. Another. From the rotten socket, a large spider emerges, crawling over the craggy pieces of his broken nose, making his decomposing body her home. 

She whimpers as the bile surges up, swallowing it down when the blue skin of his mouth peel back in a horrifying grin—

Something white falls from the corner of his eye, rolling down the slick, damp skin of his oily face in a mockery of a teardrop, the image glueing to the bone deep remorse that coils like a noose around her neck. Tighter, tighter. 

His tongue lulls out. Cold, slimy, when it flickers over the trembling ridge of her jaw. Fingers digging into her skin, stealing the warmth from her flesh. The air from her lungs. 

He'll have her like this, she knows. Always does when he gets in these moods—the kind that makes him touch her more, sink boney fingers beneath the hem of her pants, and cooing in her ear about how much he wants to eat her alive. Buzzing with some strange, electric energy. She can't run. Can't scream. 

Going to the police isn't an option when she buried a body under loose rocks and sticks. Hit and run. Vehicular manslaughter. Life over in a blink—

No. No—

She just has to wait, she thinks, her eyes slipping shut as his rancid breath curdled over the tears on her cheeks. Wait until his body rots all the way. 

Until he's nothing but bones—

Only then will this ghost finally leave her alone. 

[hvman-scvm]

NECROLUST || SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

PAIRING ;; SIMON “GHOST” RILEY / SENTIENT ! ZOMBIE ! READER (MALE, YOU/YOUR PRNS USED)

SUMMARY ;; love beyond the grave ig

CW ;; Simon is kinda sick on the head but we love him anyways, borderline romantic necrophilia ?? I guess. No actual smut included tho, usual zombie stuff like rotting n whatnot, established relationship, kind of silly ngl ?

WRITER’S NOTE ;; the title is a mayhem song bcuz I’m a total poser. There’s so much stuff 4 zombie ! Ghost which - don’t get me wrong- I like, but there’s barely any love 4 zombie ! Reader, and luckily ghost is just full of it.

Simon sighed in focus, a medical needle in hand as he sewed up your jaw for what had to be the 100th time, not that he minded; he loved taking care of you. It was hard to keep your jaw in place with how soft your rotting flesh is, how it kept ripping with the smallest movements.

He shook off a maggot that crawled into his hand, tying off the last thread and leaning in to kiss the newly sewed up, slimy skin where your jaw connects to the top of your skull.

“Better?” He spoke softly, he knew you understood him, although you never spoke back. The way your clouded eyes landed on his briefly let him knew that you not only hear him, but understand what he’s saying to you. As you moved your jaw up and down experimentally, you rapidly moved forward, trying to latch your teeth on whatever of ghost’s flesh you would reach first. But he was faster, tutting as he put a hand over your mouth, not affected by the sight of your maggots crawling over his gloves.

“Bad. No biting.” He said as if he was speaking to an untrained dog, before patting your head almost condescendingly. He reached around for the muzzle they keep on you and quickly attached it over your head, receiving a growl in response.

“You’ll be fine, love.” He said sincerely, looking at you sadly; he missed you. He missed being able to have conversations with you and feeling your warm skin on his own. He brought you to his chest, getting another growl. He sniffled, tears threatening to spill from his eyes as he kissed the top of your head. “They’ll find a cure, I promise.”

It was a daily routine; he’d patch you up, then getting overwhelmingly sad at your helpless state- at his helpless state. He wished he could find a way to bring you back. But a part of him, a part he buried deep inside himself, found enjoyment in this. He loved how reliant you were on him in your rotting state, loved the way your clouded eyes held eye contact with him and how incomprehensible growls would leave your rotting vocal cords whenever he would ask a question.

He caressed the top of your head, kissing it gently as he leaned his face on it. The smell of rot filled his nostrils, and he found himself taking it in by inhaling deeply. It was intoxicating.

[sweeter-than-teafood]

Texting

AN: I was inspired by the artifact for Amy and Sitri’s card, and thought up the silliest thing lmao.

Tw: A lot of swearing from these devils. Also, this is going from what we’ve seen from Day 3 of the Unsightly Guy event. So it may be ooc in the future. Or not. Yeehaw.

✨—————————————————————✨

-3am, Gehenna’s Palace-

Bzzt!

A new message? Sitri glared at his phone as the lit screen illuminated his entire bedroom. Who could be texting him at this ungodly hour?

————————————————

-Hell-Oh Talk: 1 new message-

Amy (Online now)

Status: Ew 2 drinking tea. Can’t b me, I’m manly as fuck.

————————————————

Sitri rolled his eyes at the violent devil’s status. Of course he’d think that, he has no patience to enjoy sophisticated hobbies. He probably couldn’t even pour from a teapot if the instructions were written on the bottom.

He opened the message, expecting to see some pathetic diatribe of how canned coffee is superior and that tea-making yields zero-rizz.

Amy:

Lol, maybe MC would lyk u if u weren’t 2 busy 😭 over their dead gramps. Solomon! Solomonnnnnn… Wot a loser u r! Enjoy ur left hand, buddy! 😂

…

Crunch!

Sitri ground his teeth, pissed off by the message. How dare he! The Descendant of Solomon liked him just fine! Who was he to comment on their relationship, when he hadn’t even met them yet?!

Fingers started typing away with a fury that wasn’t usually displayed by Sitri. He hit send, and decided to head to the tearoom for a cup of black tea to calm down.

-Meanwhile on the outskirts of Gehenna-

Amy smirked at the message he had just sent to Sitri. Sure, he would block his number because that fancy prick had nothing useful to say to him, but sometimes it was fun to unblock him and send an insult just to ruin his day.

Bzzt!

Oh? A reply so soon? Well, whatever it said, Amy was certain that it was complete and utter angelshit.

————————————————

-Hell-Oh! Talk: 1 New Message-

Sitri (Online now)

Status: Only a fucking idiot would use a stick as a weapon. Have some diversity, you caveman

————————————————

Amy scoffed at Sitri’s status. Of course he’d think that! He thinks he’s hot shit just because he trained in many weapons! But nothing bashes in angel skulls better than what he uses! Sometimes simple is better!

He opened the message, ready to read some sad sob story about Solomon.

Sitri:

What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch?

I'll have you recall that it was I who graduated top of our class in the Gehenna Military Program, and how I am an esteemed alumni of the Hades Intelligence Student Program, I've been involved in numerous secret raids on Heaven, and I have over 666 confirmed kills.

I am trained in guerilla warfare and I'm the top pistolier in the entire Gehenna Miltary Forces. You are nothing to me but just another measly target.

I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before in this Hell, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over a simple text? Think again, fucker.

As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across Hell and your GPS location is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, you lowly maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life.

You're fucking dead, loser. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my bare hands.

Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed and armed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the Gehenna Capital Military Force and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the country, you little shit.

If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "funny" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you goddamn idiot.

I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. I’ll use your tears to steep my tealeaves in, because nothing will bring me greater satisfaction than to see you snivel and beg for mercy. You're fucking dead, you cowardly bitch.

Amy let out a harsh laugh. Did this dickhead get ahold of some dank shit from Abyssos? The levels of delusion were incredible. His finger hovered over the textbar, before he decided against it.

“I have better things to do than to entertain this butler wannabe. Maybe later.”

-Sometime later, in the Palace of Gehenna-

That damn bastard.

>>Seen 16hrs ago

Sitri grits his teeth in annoyance at the ever increasing hours on the small bar. First that meathead talks shit about him, and now he can’t even form a response?

‘He’s probably masturbating to this, that fucking asshole.’

Sitri shuddered in disgust at the mental image and quickly threw himself into his paperwork as a welcome distraction.

-Gehenna’s Outskirts-

Amy decided to finally reply to Sitri’s lengthy text. He ponders for a second; there are so many things he could say to further fuel this tea-drinking bastard’s aggression. But he opts for something simple that will infuriate him.

-Palace of Gehenna-

Bzzt!

Sitri looks up from his paperwork to see his phone light up. He immediately grabs it and clicks on the notification.

—————————————

-Hell-Oh! Talk: 1 new message-

Amy (Online Now)

Status: Bitches b mad lmao

Sitri chose to ignore the devil’s pathetic status for now. He opened the message.

Amy:

Nice CV, loser. Still get no bitches tho.

Sitri stared blankly at the text, before he closed his phone. What a waste of time.

“I’m not even going to reply to that.”

Little did he know, he would pick up his phone ten minutes later to start typing away.

[solar-bean]

Jut found out that the full Touchstarved game might not be out till 2025 so here's a scenario I imagined with Ais. Has the others interact with mc too, but Ais is the main love interest. Hope this doesn't feel too much like my oc. I chose the Unnamed route so that may be brought up.

Worth The Trouble ( Ais x GN Reader )

( Content Warning: Violence, Blood, cursing, Ais being Ais, Remember what he did to that guy in the demo )

MC = Y/N ( I'm too tired from finals to type the slash, sorry 😭)

It started off as a normal day in Eridia, or at least as peaceful as things could be in the hellscape of a city. MC went to the market for some light grocery shopping, their small tote bag half full, when a group of kids zoomed past them. For a flash they could see that the kids' arms were full of produce, a few stray fruits leaving a trail in their wake. It was mere seconds before an enraged yell from a man was heard.

" Get back here you little shits!!!" the a man, a local produce seller, barreled down in the kid's direction. Nearly knocking down passersby, MC included.

One of the smaller kids tripped, dropping all of their stolen goods. They called to their friends for help but it was too late. The seller had already grabbed them by the collar like a stray puppy.

" Stupid maggot! I'll show you what happens to thieves around here!!" He pulled back his meaty fist to strike them.

Without thinking, MC ran to grab his wrist before the blow landed.

" Hey! That's going way too far."

The seller looked down at them and snarled.

" Stay out of this! This is between me and this little thief here."

" I get that but look at them." MC pointed to the kid's dirty clothes that were holding on by threads. " Clearly they aren't stealing for the fun of it. Can't you let them go?"

The seller scoffed at them, foul breath fanning their face. Thankfully they held back their disgust.

" I'm not running a charity. If the kid wants to eat the kid's gotta pay."

MC thought for a moment as they stared at the child, who was still curled in a protective ball. Although their face was covered, it was clear by their trembling that they were crying. MC immediately remembered all the times they'd been hungry and in need after they fled the temple. While they survived they couldn't imagine doing so at this child's age. How long had they been suffering?

" I'll do it."

" Do what?"

" Pay." MC reached into their cloak and pulled out their coin purse. " I've got plenty to spare." which wasn't true but they'd manage. The seller gave them a long, calculated glare before sighing.

" Fine."

He put the kid down. They gave a quick glance to the seller then the MC before grabbing their haul and scurrying off to where the rest of the group went. MC wasn't expecting a thank you, but the last look the kid gave to them over their shoulder was enough.

" Ok," MC counted the coins in their palm, leaving the purse nearly empty. " Will this be enough?"

The seller took the coins. Counting each while scratching his stubbly chin.

" Yeah, almost..."

MC looked at him confused. They were sure that they gave him much more than his nearly, spoiled produce was worth. They almost didn't notice his arm go up. But they did feel the strike across their face. Everything went white for a moment as they stumbled. Pain flared over the entirety of the right side of MC's face. They pressed their palm to it and whipped their gaze back to the seller stunned.

" What the fuck is your problem??!!" they shrieked at him.

" Don't look so confused. You said you'd pay for everything. That includes punishment. " He let out a dark chuckle and walked pass them. " Maybe think twice next time you wanna be someone's savior."

MC gawked at his back. What kind of asshole pulls a stunt like that. He got his money fair and square. Clearly he just wanted a reason to cause someone harm. They wanted to let it go and move on but crap that hit really hurt. His hands were big enough to crush their skull and they were pretty sure that his ring cut their cheek. There was no way they were gonna let him walk away so easily.

" Hey!"

The seller turned around and was met with a fist right to the nose. He reeled back, giving MC enough time to land a kick to his kneecap. He fell to the city floor with the gracefulness of an old dying ox, MC's coins going down with him. They grabbed a handful of them before making a break for it back to the Wet Wick.

Out of breath, energy, half their coins and what little faith they had in humanity, all MC wanted to do was go to sleep in their room and maybe have some of their scraps for dinner. It could've been made into a full meal but they hadn't realized they'd dropped their tote bag until it was too late. Thankfully, the bar sounded empty from the outside, so at least they could avoid the headache of possibly socializing.

" Hey sparrow."

Shit.

There right in his usual spot at the bar sat Ais, accompanied by Vere and Leander.

" Hey Ais..." they said weakly, pulling up their hood even more to hide the blooming bruises.

" Um Excuse me. I'm here too dear. Goodness has being here already dulled your manners?" came Vere, tail playfully swaying.

" Hey Vere." they said quickly as they tried to flee to their room, but that would've been to easy.

" Oh MC how was the market did you get anything good?" Leander asked, conveniently getting in front of them and blocking their path. They didn't look up at him and did their best not to adjust their hood again.

" Yeah, yeah it was good."

" But where's your tote ba-"

" It's getting late I'll see you guys later." MC swerved around him, nearly home free.

" Sparrow."

They stopped. Ais' piercing gaze burning into their back.

" Come here, please." he instructed in a soft yet stern tone. They couldn't resist him. He'd only pry more if they did, so reluctantly they sat next to him, avoiding eye contact.

" Take off your hood."

They stayed still. The air filled with a tense silence.

" Ais come one. They've probably had a long day. I'm sure their fi-" Lenader nearly choked when MC took their hood off. " What the hell happened?! Are you ok?!"

" Obviously not." Vere scoffed. " Thought I smelled blood but that's nothing new for you. Do tell, what mess have you found yourself in this time, MC?"

MC let out a tired sigh. Leander's worrying and Vere's teasing made for a sickening combo on an already shitty afternoon.

" It's nothing. I just ran into a bad guy at the market. Nothing interesting." They were about to get up to leave when Ais' hand was placed firmly on their shoulder.

" Humor us would ya? What really happened?" While the slight smile on his face was meant to be assuring, MC knew he was up to no good.

" Really it's nothing. I just saw some kids steal some food and one of them got caught by the seller. So I thought hey why not be nice and help this clearly starving child. But nope! As usual the situation blew up in my face. Apparently coins weren't enough payment for the guy so he- " They mimicked the back-handed slap motion they'd been a victim to. " The asshole didn't even have the decency to warn me first, so I thought it was only fair to get in a few blows in myself then run like hell before things got too heated. So yeah that's it. Nothing special."

After what they hadn't meant to be a ramble there was another thick silence. Crap maybe I said too much. Then a low chuckle came from beside them. Oh good Ais found the story amusing, maybe they were worried for nothing. But that was quickly put aside when they turned to look at him.

His grin was downright dangerous. Fangs gleaming and all. His eyes were even worse, glowing with a bloodlust that would scare a soulless shitless.

" I'll be right back." he said, getting up from his seat and stretching out his tired joints with a pop.

" Ais." Leander warned. " Let's think about this, ok buddy."

" Nothing to think about. Now," He stood in front of MC and leaned down to their level. " Which seller was it?"

MC felt their pulse quicken. Not just from being at eye level with Ais, but also from the immense violent aura he began to exude.

" Really Ais it's fine. I hit him pretty hard so we're even."

" I'm sure you did. But this is purely for my own selfish vices. I can't rest easy knowing this jackass is going around threatening kids and hitting customers. So who was it?"

" Ais. It's not worth the trouble just let it g-"

Ais' hand swiftly taken ahold of their chin. With a gentleness that greatly contrasted his character, he tilted MC's face to better examine the damage. They couldn't help the heat that rose within them.

" Plenty worth the trouble to me." He tilted their head back to face forward. " Who was it, MC."

Maybe it was the softness of his tone or the way he said their name instead of Sparrow, but they confessed. Even down to what stalls the seller's had been next to. He gave them a small, genuine smile and went on the hunt.

" Well, there's no stopping him now. Let's get some ice on that bruise, hm." Leander went around the counter, paying no mind to MC's breathless expression. In no time he came back with clean rag and another with ice inside. " Alright let me see."

Before he could attend to their face, Vere cut in.

" Leander, didn't the doctor leave some magic elixir or whatever for minor injuries in the backroom?"

" Oh you're right. He did. I should go get it."

" Yes you should." Vere smiled sweetly then frowned once Leander was out of sight. " Good I couldn't tolerate him for much longer without Ais here."

" Don't get too excited, he'll be back soon." MC reminded him.

" No he won't," Vere swiped the rag that Leander left on the counter near the ice bag before turning back to them with a mischievous smirk. " I poured those nasty medicine bottles out weeks ago."

MC gawked at him.

" Why would you do that? What if someone needed those?"

" What like you? Don't be such a baby you'll be fine. Now hold still. I can only take so much of you blood smelling up the place."

With a similar gentleness as Ais, Vere took hold of their chin and began to dab the blood away from the cut that was already beginning to close. MC didn't have the energy for anymore shock today, so they relished in the care.

" You know. This pacifist act you're playing won't do you any good in this city"

MC sighed and grabbed the ice bag to put on their bruise once he was done with the cut.

" I'm not a pacifist. Trust me I've got nothing against that jerk getting what he deserves. I just don't want Ais to get in any trouble because of me."

" Hmph, now why would Ais get in trouble?"

" Because, he's a monster. What if the Senobium punishes him for being too violent?"

Vere hummed to himself. He carelessly tossed the bloody rag on the floor and leaned back against the counter, tail swishing languidly.

" Oh don't fret dear. The Senobium's too up their own asses to care about a few lowtown brutes getting torn apart. Besides I highly doubt Ais would do anything so dreadful as to get a punishment like mine. And if he did..." Vere's eyes turned a bright pink, his fangs seemed longer as well. " I'd tear this city to the ground before they laid a finger on him."

MC just stared at him for a while. The primordial fear in their gut was unmistakable, but they couldn't help but feel a bit relieved.

" Well I'm glad Ais has a friend like you to look after him."

The fox scoffed.

" I'm not his friend."

A bit confused by that response, they were sure he was joking. The duo seemed as close as Mhin and Kuras if not more.

" Ok then I'm glad you're his very close, foxy furry acquaintance."

Vere's ears went down as he scowled at them.

" I can break you like a twig. Don't forget that."

They merely chuckled at that although they weren't entirely sure if he was serious or not.

" Sorry for the wait!" Came Leander's chipper voice. He rejoined the two with a small container of bandaids and a bottle of unknown liquid. " Took me forever to find this elixir. I could've swore we had more bottles. Thankfully, I always stash a spare."

" Wow how great is that Vere." MC gave him an innocent smile that in turn got them glare. Vere definitely meant that threat now.

----

Ais arrived back at the bar late into the night. He wreaked of blood despite his best efforts to clean himself. He didn't want to make another bad impression on his new...new friend? Acquaintance? Whatever they were he wanted them around him more often. Which would be hard if they were scared of him. Did he scare them before when asking about the seller? They seemed nervous, but most people were around him, especially after knowing about his brutal tendencies.

Perhaps they didn't mind. He got a good look at the seller's broken nose, and what he could assume was an injured knee that made it all the easier to catch and corner him. The sparrow really did have a tough side after all. He was almost sad that he sullied their work with his own. No one would suspect that what was left of the asshole was the handiwork of two pissed off individuals. Maybe returning their tote bag full of goods and the coins that he'd swiped from the guy's pockets would be a good enough apology gift.

The barkeep was cleaning shot glasses when he arrived. Out of no where a wave of unease hit him. Maybe he came back too late and should just leave their stuff here.

" Got something for MC. Can you give it to them for me?"

The barkeep only spared him a quick glance.

" Do I look like a delivery boy? Drop it off at their door yourself, I'm busy." She replied with a bitterness that he always found amusing.

" Yes ma'am."

He was in front of their door when the doubt came back, sweaty palms too. What the hell was he nervous for? He doesn't get nervous. This was just a small favor for a frien-aquaintance. Just put the stuff down and go. But what if someone took it? Maybe he should see if they're awake first. Maybe not what if he wakes them up.

Annoyed by his rambling thoughts he did least smart thing and opened, which should've been locked, door. It was dark inside, aside the moonlight from a small window. His higher than average vision could make out a small bed with a lump under the covers. Next to it was a dresser. He made his way to it quietly, mentally cursing the metal on his boots for the creaks they made in the floorboards.

Finally at his destination, he set the tote bag and coins on the dresser and turned to leave. But curiosity got the best of him. He snuck a peak at MC and it was all over. The covers were up to their nose. There was a small bandage on their cheek. The bruising seemed to have healed a bit. Ais had never seen them look so peaceful. It was actually pretty cute. Then he realized how creepy this whole situation was and made his way to the door.

" Ais...?"

Shit!

He stopped mid step, looking over his shoulder at them. Their eyes were barely open and their voice was quiet and soft.

" That you?"

He sighed.

" Yeah it's me sparrow. Don't worry just wanted to return your bag. I'm leaving, go back to sleep." he kept walking.

" Are you ok?"

He stopped again, wide eyed.

" What?" he asked.

They yawned.

" I smell blood."

Oh, he thought. They were worried about him? That's actually really sweet. When was the last time anyone got worried for him? Vere and Kuras maybe. But they knew he could handle himself. It's what's he's good at. Looking out for himself when no one will. When everyone else leaves eventually.

But maybe MC wanted to stick around.

He smiled, unsure if they could see his face so he made sure they could hear it in his voice.

" I'm just fine sparrow. It's not my blood you're smelling."

They smiled back before yawning again.

" Good. Well see ya later I guess..."

They curled back into their blanket and pillow, already drifting. He took in the sight one last time before leaving and closing the door.

" Yeah see ya later."

The barkeep and every wander through the night had no idea why the feared demon renegade, Ais, had the softest smile on his face all the way back to the wastelands.

[thecatspasta]

Bc I need a full list of the limb adjacent Arthur Lester blogs I am making one that will be updated as I discover more

If you find this post as a reblog pls check to og post before suggesting a blog. Ctrl f is your friend. Ok lets go

Arthur Lesters:

Right arm (og)

Left arm (sequel)

Criminal mind

Paternal instinct

Dead daughter

Receding hairline

Left pinky

Evicted maggots

Ribcage

Cunt (me :))

Clitoris

Tits

Top surgery scars

Hippocampus

Gut

Mental state

Partner

Liver

Whimpering

Will to live

TKiller cells

Scar tissue

Piano

Slutty waist

Small intestine

Irises

Throat

Intestines

Coccyx

Prostate

Trachea

Thighs

Eyes

Canine teeth

Nose

Leg hair

Prefrontal cortex

Dick

Balls

Femur

Gallbladder

Bones

Blood

Metatarsals

Right footsie

Left nostril

Eyeballs

Ass

Perineum

Left kidney

Nipples

Left shoulder

Amygdala

Left knee

Graymatter

Frontal lobe

New pinkie

Entire body

Right ear

Mouth

Canine teeth

Ovarian cyst

Wooden pinkie

Uvula

Veins

Endocrine system

Facial hair

Left foot

Moral compass

Carpal tunnel

Becracked spine

Skull

Missing ear piece

Cock

Broken bones

Middle c key

Injuries

Better half

Appendix

Neck scar

Matted hair

Tummy

Eyebrows

Inguinal masses

Mustache

Knees

Ass hair

Maggot

Nose

Uterus

DID

Better Half

Vocal Cords

Skin

Endometriosis

Others:

Darkthur lesters lost arm

Faroes music box

Faroes Lesters bathwater

Faroes lungs

The butchers hat

Larsons shattered eyeballs

Johns left foot

Johns right foot

Johns eldritch eyes

Fausts sharp femur

Mr fausts femur

Yellows top left tentacle

Yellows tentacock

Oscars hammer

Father Oscars left arm

Kaynes bare grippers

Kaynes canines

Parkers closeted corpse

[saintobio]

LOST WORLD

“when the end approaches, but the apocalypse is long lived.”

pairing. satoru gojou, reader

genre. angst, post apocalypse au

warnings. unedited, gore, death, zombies infectious diseases

Do you remember what life was before Satoru Gojou?

It was sad. Miserable. Pathetic in every sense. The world had no meaning, and existing felt like a punishment rather than a privilege. The things you were doing had no purpose. They were repetitive, soulless, and depressing. Each time you’d find yourself staring outside of the window, the skies were becoming gloomier. The miasma of decay was getting thicker. There was scarcity in food and water. Yet, there was no option to go outside of your abandoned home when an eerie fog with the acrid smell of rotting flesh and blood were everywhere haunting you.

At one point, rather than trying to survive in a world that no longer welcomed you, you believed it would have been easier to just perish. Die at long last just like everyone else you knew. The people who once had a family, a lover, a pet, and a friend—they used to be people like you. Alive and breathing under your warm skin and fully-functioning set of human organs. But now, they were the opposite of what you once knew. They had become ghastly, tottering creatures looking at you with their frenzied, colorless eyes, and their putrid, saliva-filled mouths. In fact, when a couple of them managed to break into your home, staggering to chase you around the house with the rabid eagerness to masticate on your innards, you thought of finally just letting things be. After all, no one was left. You were probably the only living being in an area full of decomposing, white-blanched corpses. With their wretched appearance and fetid smell, the last bits of humor inside of you wanted to go along and mimic their series of raspy growls. You were dying, anyway. Finally.

You knew you were dying. You anticipated how their disease would soon be inching its way into your flesh.

That, with no resistance, you would let yourself be one of them.

That was your plan. That was… until every single zombie in your vicinity was sniped with a shotgun. You could barely move as bits of flesh, blood, and sinew flew all over the place. Their skulls—busted. Their entrails—falling out. You would have screamed in disgust after seeing maggots crawl out of their eyes, but then your eyes caught sight of the hero who saved the poor damsel in distress. His arctic white hair, electric blue eyes, and porcelain skin. There was no sign of a single disease in his body.

Damn. How could one person shoot a shotgun with such precision and accuracy? But more importantly, how much of a cliche was it for him to show up and be your savior at the brink of your death?

“Satoru Gojou,” he’d easily introduced himself, pulling his makeshift mask down while standing tall behind the army of foul-smelling beasts that he just massacred. What a cool man. What a dream. What a… what a… hold on, wasn’t he too good to be true?

“I must be dead,” you even joked at the time despite your struggle to catch your breath, “There’s no way a random guy would just come up here and save me like this.”

One smirk from him was all it took to completely win you over. “You don’t look dead to me.” And then a hand to help you up. “Come on, we gotta leave this place.”

And so you did. You were brought to a safe haven that you never thought existed. You were acquainted with people who had a beating heart and an uninfected brain. You were given the golden ticket to cohabit with them in a secured camp and an acceptable living condition. Everything was rationed, but you had no right to ask for much in a situation like that. All you could offer was your gratefulness, and every time you saw your godly, angel-faced hero, you could not help but think of how much you owe your living life to him.

So much so that you would think about ways to approach him without becoming a bother. He was your typical popular guy, expected by the others to rescue their lives. You were just one of the many. He had the virtue of a soldier, ready for war just to make sure that his people were safe and sound. Maybe he actually was in the army before, which could explain the reason for his expertise in guns and survival. There was no way for you to know when you barely had the chance to talk to him, and sincerely thank him at the very least, for saving your life when you almost lost it.

But then, he must have heard the same thing from the countless women who followed his tail each time he arrived back in the camp. The ladies would scramble on their feet just to make sure that they were tending to his needs; feeding him warm meals, treating his wounds, making him laugh.

You see, crushing on a stranger was a ridiculous idea, especially in the middle of an apocalyptic world. You kept that thought in your head as you stepped through a pile of mud, cursing under your breath while continuing towards the pathway to the bonfire. No, you didn’t make it there. Because someone had smoothly pulled you by the belt loop, dragging you behind the tree before he revealed his most admiring self.

“S-Satoru,” you stammered without a reason. Or maybe you did have a reason. He was good-looking enough that your thoughts were becoming jumbled. A hot mess, truly, with his mop of white hair and his piercing blue eyes. Not to mention his parted, pink lips and his slightly exposed toned chest.

“You’re really out here pretending I don’t exist, huh?” There was that playful tone and that goddamned attractive smirk. With his hand moving to your lower back and his forearm resting on the trunk of the tree, you almost let out a swoon. “I was waiting for you to approach me.”

You turned your face away a little, only to a certain degree so he wouldn’t notice the heat on your cheeks. “That’s funny ‘cause… since that day, I’ve actually been waiting, too.”

“Hmm?” he tilted his head and deepened his gaze.

“I mean, waiting for an opportunity,” you clarified, releasing an awkward chuckle, “to talk to you and thank you. You’re just always surrounded by people, so…”

He straightened his posture as he pulled away and began nodding his head, as if he was connecting the dots in his head. “You can always walk up to me. Anytime,” he assured, “I’d actually love to know you more.”

You knew what everyone else might be thinking; ‘Seriously? You’re having a love affair in this situation?’

Well, if you were going to meet death, anyway, why should you settle being a miserable, lonely woman?

“You’re a miserable, lonely woman,” spoke one of the survivors in your cabin, Meredith, glaring at you with her arms crossed across your bunker. “That, or you just truly lost it.”

While she was laughing and moving her index finger in circles beside her head, the other survivor was decent enough to shush her, telling her to stop throwing insults towards you. “Quit doing that. She needs time to adjust,” said Shoko Ieiri, “It’s traumatizing out there, you know?”

“Yeah, but she still needs to help us with some errands here! We’re not living here for free. We have duties. Ugh… I’m so sick of cleaning the nasty toilets.”

“She’ll come around. Be patient with her.”

“She’s been here for two months! She can’t just stay in her bunker all day and do nothing!”

“Meredith—”

“Hey, lunatic!” her amber eyes bore into you. “Wake the fuck up and get your ass workin’. If you really wanna survive, you need to do your job.”

You took a deep breath and sighed. “Can I… Can I see Satoru first?”

Meredith let out a groan. “Here we go again.”

“Wh-Why?” you asked, frantically. “I just… I wanna talk to him. I wanna thank him for saving me.”

This time, it was Ieiri who sat at the corner of your bed, patting your back in a soothing motion. “Satoru is…” she hesitated. “He’s not here, Y/N. He never was.”

As if lightning struck your entire body. “What do you mean? What do you—? He was here. He was just talking to me last night!”

“I know, I know.” Ieiri sent you a look of sympathy. Sympathy that you didn’t really ask for. “I understand it’s been a difficult time. It’s been a really traumatizing experience, but trust me, everything’s going to be okay.”

You held onto her arms as tears pooled your eyes. All those voices in your head, the pain in your heart… “S-Stop. What are you saying, Ieiri? He was… He was with me.”

“He’s dead,” she said the very words you refused to hear. “He didn’t survive the first wave of zombies that infested our town.”

“But…” You shook your head in hard refusal. “But he was there, he rescued me.”

“It was Suguru who did,” Ieiri confirmed, reaching what appears to be a bottle of Fanapt pills under your pillow. “Satoru’s not with us anymore. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss.”

[wolfxplush]

rotting gary smith

GEHDHAJDJSJJD GRINS. You know the rules.! Read tags for warnings!

Rotting in Happy Volts

Gary Smith sat motionless in the corner of his padded cell, the room reeking of antiseptic and stale air. He hadn’t moved for days—maybe weeks. Time was nothing but a cruel joke now, slipping away like the memories of his former self. He used to be sharp, cunning, unstoppable. Now, he was something else entirely. He was rotting.

At first, it was subtle. His body, stiff with disuse, ached in ways he hadn’t known were possible. His skin, once taut with the tension of his schemes, had grown pale, hanging loosely over his bones like a sick parody of his former self. He could feel it—his body was giving up, breaking down piece by piece, decaying from the inside out.

He still refused to move. Refused to let them win. The orderlies would come in and check on him, poke and prod his limp form, but he’d just stare straight ahead, his lips frozen in a twisted grin. Let them think he was broken—he was far from that. Even as the smell of rot began to cling to him, he didn’t care. His body might be falling apart, but his mind was still there, trapped behind his dead eyes, screaming to be let out.

The real horror began when his flesh started to blacken. It started at his fingertips, the skin splitting like old fruit. Dark, necrotic patches spread slowly up his arms, veins bulging as if they were trying to escape from beneath his skin. His nails peeled off, leaving raw, bloody stubs that wept and festered. He could hear it sometimes—the faint squelching of his decaying muscles, the soft slurp of tissue breaking down into liquid beneath his skin.

The stench was unbearable, even for him. The smell of death clung to him, thick and pungent, filling the room like a dense fog. The orderlies gagged when they entered the cell now, covering their faces, but no one dared to touch him. They were too afraid, too disgusted. His body was a breeding ground for filth, for rot, for disease.

Gary relished it. He could feel the maggots crawling beneath his skin, burrowing into the muscle, feasting on what was left of him. His chest, once full of life, was now a hollow cavern. He could see it in the mirror on the wall during the rare moments when he caught his reflection. His ribs were visible through his skin, the tissue between them melting away. His eyes had sunk deep into his skull, the whites turning yellow and bloodshot, like two rotting eggs in a shattered face.

But he didn’t care. He sat there, still, unblinking, his mind buzzing with a thousand incoherent thoughts. The pain was dull now, a distant memory like the feel of his own limbs. His legs had long since given up, blackened and stiff like tree roots left to rot in wet soil. His lips cracked and bled every time he smiled, but that was the only movement he allowed himself.

In his mind, he was still winning.

The worst part was the smell—an overwhelming, oppressive scent of putrefaction that seeped into every corner of the cell. His body was decomposing in real-time, and yet, somehow, he was still alive. His organs were shutting down, turning to mush inside him, but his heart—his heart kept beating. Slow, labored, like a broken metronome ticking away to the rhythm of death.

His teeth had started to loosen now, falling out one by one, clinking softly onto the cold floor. His tongue was swollen, the taste of his own rotting flesh filling his mouth like copper and death. Every breath was a struggle, a wet, gurgling rasp that echoed off the padded walls. The air itself seemed thicker, saturated with the sickly-sweet odor of his decaying body.

One of the orderlies finally snapped. Gary watched through half-lidded eyes as the man bolted from the room, vomiting into the hallway. The others followed, terrified, unsure of what to do with the living corpse in cell 102. They couldn’t take him to the infirmary; he was far beyond that now. He was beyond anything they had ever seen.

Gary’s grin widened, his cracked lips pulling back to reveal the rotted stumps of his teeth. His gums were black, festering. He didn’t care. Let them run. Let them fear him.

He was Gary Smith. He would never stop rotting, never stop decaying—but in his mind, he was still in control. His body might be a decaying mass of putrid flesh, but his will—his will was eternal.

As his body continued to liquefy around him, Gary let out a low, wheezing laugh. His vocal cords tore with the effort, blood and pus dripping from the corners of his mouth. But it didn’t matter. The walls could rot with him for all he cared.

Because Gary Smith wasn’t just rotting. He was the rot.

Time didn’t exist anymore—not in any form that mattered. The concept of hours, days, or weeks was laughable now. The clock in Gary’s mind had long since stopped ticking, and his body had followed suit. His limbs had atrophied, the muscles shrinking and receding beneath the skin, which clung to his bones like old, dried leather. His fingernails had fallen off completely, replaced by the jagged, yellowing tips of exposed bone that scratched at the floor when he moved—though movement was rare these days.

The staff avoided him now. He was a lost cause, an untouchable. They couldn’t risk the contamination. What he had—whether it was a disease, a curse, or just the product of his madness—they didn’t know. All they knew was that Gary Smith was rotting in his cell, and no one could do anything to stop it.

The doctor had come once. That had been amusing. A fool in a white coat, clipboard in hand, trying to stay professional, trying not to gag at the stench. Gary had been slumped against the wall, staring through sunken, half-dead eyes as the doctor rattled off some pointless questions.

“Can you move your fingers, Gary?”

“How do you feel today?”

“Does anything hurt?”

Gary had just grinned at him, lips peeling back from his teeth like decaying meat from bone. The doctor had left after five minutes, handkerchief pressed tightly to his nose and mouth, face pale as if he’d seen a ghost. In a way, he had. Gary was no longer part of the living world.

Days passed—maybe. Gary had lost count. The smell, once unbearable even to him, became background noise. The reek of rotting flesh was nothing compared to the screaming in his head, the sound of his own thoughts echoing back at him from the dark corners of his cell. His mind, once sharp and calculating, was beginning to fray at the edges, unraveling like an old rope left to rot in the rain.

He was aware of the rot, the way it spread through his body like a cancer. He could feel it in his stomach, the slow, insidious liquefaction of his organs as they gave way to decay. Sometimes, he would cough, and thick, dark blood would spurt from his mouth, staining his chin and dripping onto the floor. His lungs had begun to fill with fluid—a vile, sludgy mix of pus and blood that gurgled with every breath, making each inhale a ragged, desperate effort.

But still, he laughed.

It wasn’t always audible. Sometimes it was just in his mind, a sharp, cruel cackle that echoed off the walls of his skull. He was rotting, yes, but he was winning. The world had abandoned him, forgotten him, but Gary Smith wasn’t about to go quietly. Not without leaving his mark. His hands were the worst. They had shriveled into twisted claws, the fingers curling inward, skin tight and blackened. His bones had begun to poke through in places, jagged splinters of white against the necrotic tissue. He could see them, the veins under his skin, dark and swollen, pulsing with the slow decay that had taken root inside him.

And his face… oh, his face was a sight to behold. He caught glimpses of it sometimes in the reflection of the steel toilet bolted to the floor. His once piercing eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, surrounded by dark, rotting flesh. His nose had begun to collapse, the cartilage eaten away, leaving a gaping hole that leaked a constant trickle of thick, greenish fluid. His lips were cracked, split down the middle, revealing the few teeth he had left—most of which were chipped, yellow, or simply gone.

But his eyes… his eyes still glimmered with the same cruel, calculating light they always had. The rot hadn’t reached his mind—not yet. He could still think, still plan, still hate.

He sat there, day after day, stewing in his own filth and decay, as the world outside moved on without him. The walls of the asylum seemed to breathe with him, exhaling the same stench of death and rot that clung to him like a second skin. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he could hear the whispers—the voices of the other patients, lost in their own madness. They murmured about him, about the “dead man walking” in cell 102.

He had become a legend in this place, a figure of fear and disgust. Some of the younger orderlies refused to even enter his cell, muttering about curses and plagues, about how Gary Smith was something beyond human now. He was no longer just a patient—he was an infection. A disease. A warning to the others of what happens when the mind breaks beyond repair.

But Gary didn’t mind. Let them fear him. Let them avoid him like the plague. He was still Gary Smith, still the smartest, most dangerous person in this rotting asylum. His body might be falling apart, but his mind—his mind was as sharp as ever. And as long as he had that, he had power.

One night, as the moonlight filtered weakly through the barred window, Gary felt something shift. It was subtle at first—a faint crawling sensation under his skin, as if something was moving, alive beneath the surface. He looked down at his arm, the blackened, leathery skin twitching and bulging.

Maggots.

They had found their way into him, burrowing through the rotted flesh like worms in a corpse. He could feel them wriggling inside him, feasting on what little was left. A normal man would have screamed, would have begged for help, for release.

But Gary just smiled.

The maggots were merely doing what they were made to do—consume, decay, destroy. In a way, they were kindred spirits. They were breaking him down, piece by piece, but they would never touch his mind. His mind was untouchable. Invincible. The body was weak, yes, but the mind… oh, the mind was eternal.

He plucked one of the wriggling things from his arm, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It squirmed in his grasp, desperate to escape. Gary chuckled, a low, rasping sound that tore at his ruined throat. “You and I,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, “we’re not so different, are we?”

The maggot wriggled, and he crushed it between his fingers, the tiny body bursting with a sickening squelch. He wiped the remains on his tattered clothes, leaving a smear of yellowish fluid behind.

The rot had taken almost everything now. His legs were useless, blackened stumps that oozed pus and blood. His torso had collapsed inward, the skin sagging like a deflated balloon, revealing the jagged outline of his ribs. His arms were little more than sticks, covered in peeling, necrotic tissue.

But Gary’s mind was alive—oh, it was alive.

He could hear them now, the whispers growing louder. The other patients, the doctors, the orderlies—they were talking about him. They were afraid. They didn’t know what he was, what he had become. But Gary knew. He was more than just a man. He was the rot. He was the decay. He was death itself, living in a broken body.

And as long as he existed, they would never forget him.

———

So fun fact I have a deep phobia of maggots. I did almost throw up writing this!!!

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

[filthystill]

@dxsole one night stand. im sorry. im really fkn sorry.

In the night he dreamed.

Rats. Eating each other. Sea of carnage, blood, brains, teeth. On loop. His brain was eating itself, under heat of magnifying glass from sadistic child that didn't play by our rules.

Light. In the nightmare. Light, oasis in the desert. But it wasn't right. The sky burned red. The battle was over, and he stood, with his broken nose, in his armour, with his sword. Greece? Rome? Where the fuck was he? Who the fuck was he?

It was in his genes, somewhere, locked away. A battle somewhere. And he locked eyes with her, picking through the bodies like they were made of butter, horrible crunch, horrible crack.

He was on top of her. Hand around her neck. Thrashing her against the dead pines. Fractal glimpse of something that couldn't be real, drunken hands, hard fucking. She was in the battlefield. Did she know warmth?

Do you remember when the sky burned, for real, for you? They were all dead. You seen to that. You filled him full of lead, and you caved his fucking skull in, and you burned it all down.

Someone was at the end of his sleeping bag. Someone huge.

"Dirty boy," Rasputin said, matte eyes glinting by embers of campfire. "Check dick for maggots." He said, between frantic cough. Jimmy couldn't move. Sleep paralysis used to terrify him. Now, he just sat back and regarded the show with bitter indifference. It knew it couldn't scare him anymore. So it just talked to him, and every face it wore was one he killed himself. Caved his head in with a hammer. It wasn't pretty. He could see slick of brain, in the dark, "when was last time you fuck?" Bluntly asked, cold fading in, something cold, against him. "Long time. Lot of aggression. Maybe you fuck dead bodies now, huh?"

Ice fucking cold.

He's reluctant to move, shivers against her for a good half hour, trying to figure out what the fuck happened last night. He'd set up camp. Drank a few beers, saw a couple things. Scene missing.

Cold fingers in his mouth.

Oh man. He ripped himself out the sleeping bag. Puked black bile. Steadied himself on a tree. Puked again. He was totally naked, black gunk all over him. "Girl got me hypothermic."

Bleary eyes, he rummaged his back-pack. Rolled a fat blunt. Got the fire going properly. Stomping around the woods, dick swinging, collecting only the best sticks.

Once he was warm enough, he kicked her foot, "hey -- you wanna go again?"

[melonba11s]

Dependent (Lawrence/MC Fic)

Several months ago I uploaded an incomplete version of this fic. Now the full version is here, and I hope you all enjoy it!

Minors and Ageless blogs do not interact, you will be blocked.

Contains: Description of rot, amputation, mutilation. Gender Neutral MC who has a vagina, Lawrence.

Morning was coming. You had been up all night. Not that you had much of a choice anymore. He controlled most of your life now, from what you ate, what you did… How you looked. You laid on your side, staring at the remains of what had once been working limbs. 

Skin twisted and fused over exposed bone and muscle, not unlike the gnarled roots of an old tree. Pushed and forced to bend to the will to the rest of the forest around it, or in this case, to the will of Lawrence’s crude stitches and strange salves. You couldn’t remember much from when he took them, only that smile on his face as he looked down at you. You thought for sure you would die. Visit the river and allow yourself to float away as he described. 

For a while you had found yourself wishing that you had died that day, blood pooling out of your severed limbs and flooding the floor around you. Warm but cold, you could still feel it lapping at your bare skin if you did not keep your mind occupied enough. You had moved past those feelings of wishing you were gone though. You had spent so long mourning the things you would never do again, from the mundane things such as holding a pen or snapping your fingers, to the joys of life such as petting a friendly cat or cooking delicious food. 

You had been depressed, and it had annoyed Lawrence. At first he had tried to help you feel better, you remembered the flower crowns he’d clumsily made from poppies, his favorite flower, the chains of clover he’d make out in the woods and bring in to dress you in. Gentle kisses on your eyelids, assuring you that you looked beautiful. 

You hadn’t felt beautiful though. You’d felt broken, a waste of space. And soon enough he grew sick of trying to comfort you. 

“Forget it.” he had said one day, showing you the delicate bird skull he had found in the woods, covered in moss. You had barely lifted your head in acknowledgment of his waxing poetics over the beauty of the thin bones. And his bitter tone had sent a shiver up your spine, and instantly, dread had filled your stomach. 

You had upset him. So you had struggled to sit up. 

“N-No! Go on!” Desperate, you whimpered in pain as you attempted to move towards him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” the apologies kept falling from your lips, like the petals from a cherry tree blossoming in spring. And with each apology, your world closed in around you until his apartment was all that was left of it. Upsetting him felt far worse than anything else in the world now. 

 Lawrence would bring you bits of the outside world that was now alien to you home. Food, Flowers, Plants, Bones, sometimes little gifts. On his days off, he would go to the forest to work on his art. 

His art… You had not been spared from becoming part of his artwork. Or at least, what had once been you. Lawrence hadn’t put those delicate fingers and lovely red strings of muscle to waste. You remember cringing and letting out a strangled sob when he first showed you the photos. What had once been your arms and legs had been broken and manipulated into crude poses, sticking up from the dirt and reaching for the sun and stars, a macabre flower. 

Eventually though you began paying attention to his words as he showed you the pictures he took. His art was different from anything you’d ever seen in a museum. Unlike a Van Gogh painting, which remained the same no matter how much time passed, every minute, every day, every month contributed to his pieces. 

You now asked to see the photos when he would return from the woods. Greens and grays adding themselves without being asked too, creeping across the skin like spilled paint. Maggots and beetles, forever moving, ensuring that the piece would never remain the same from one second to the next. Skin falling slipping and falling from now purple toned muscle, exposing pale bone that glowed in comparison to the dark colors surrounding it. 

    And how happy he looked when he’d bring out his phone to show you the photos, the shine in his eyes as he explained what had happened, what had been added by the earth to the art now. So you asked to see more, to see other pieces. If you could be so bold though, none of his other pieces compared to what he had made with you. Animal bones and flesh could only do so much, after all. 

But Lawrence wasn’t here right now. Your only source of human contact was gone more often than not. He worked a night job, and slept during the day. Thus you had grown used to sleeping during the day and staying awake all night, waiting only for him to return. And as content as you became to sit and wait for him, you still became restless. You could still remember the day, a few months ago perhaps? You’d had enough, no matter how much it hurt, you needed it. You needed to move, you needed agency. 

You had rolled yourself off the bed with a sharp whine of pain as you hit the floor. You laid there for what felt like hours, preparing yourself. Then you moved your left arm, resting part of your weight on it. It hurt, and you let out a sob. The pain would have to come second though. Tears flowed freely, though you kept yourself as quiet as possible, so as not to disturb Lawrences neighbors. Eventually you had managed to balance yourself on all fours, shaking, panting, choking on your own breath. 

You crawled around in circles slowly, leaving a trail of tears and spit as you kept going, telling yourself that it would hurt for a while. And that’s how Lawrence had found you, about to collapse, still moving, your stumps mottled with bruises, eyes puffy and red, mouth dry.  You were so immersed in your own mind that you didn’t notice him until he spoke, his voice louder than usual.

“What are you doing?” he had been angry, lifting you up easily and setting you on the same chair you had sat in when he first brought you home. You couldn’t explain yourself sufficiently to him, he couldn’t seem to understand how much you needed to move. 

“You’re never getting out of here. You’re mine.” he growled, his face close to yours. 

“I don’t want to leave, I don’t.” You kept repeating yourself, still in tears, but now those tears were from the knowledge you had hurt him, made him angry.  No matter how many times you said those words, you had not convinced him that you were not trying to leave. So for a time he had forced you to drink some strange tea before he left, leaving you there unable to move, unable to speak, barely able to breath. 

When did he begin to trust you? You thought hard back through the past. When he had first stopped making you swallow his bitter mixes, stopped tying you to the bed so you couldn’t roll off, stopped attempting to control your movements. Your thoughts were interrupted by the jiggle of a key. He was home. 

You slid yourself off the bed with practiced ease now, making your way across the floor, but also making sure you were out of view of the doorway in case someone was passing by. They wouldn’t understand either of you. They’d try to separate you both. You’d never see Lawrence again, a thought too painful to dwell on for long. Only when you heard Lawrence close the door behind him, and the harmony of clicks as he locked the door back up, did you make yourself seen. 

Moving as fast as you could across the floor, you lifted yourself onto your hind legs, pawing at his leg and whining, looking up into those stormy blue eyes as he smiled down at you. 

“There you are…” he mumbled, setting down his bags as he got to his knees, running a hand along your back, as if you were a cat he had taken in off the streets. He nuzzled his cheek against yours, pulling you close, his hug more like a vice grip. He buried his face into your hair, which had grown long over the months, running his fingers through it like a wind blowing through overgrown grass. He was inhaling your scent, the familiar musk of his apartment, the spiciness of the homemade medicine he would apply to your stumps, the ever so faint smell of fake lavender from the cheap shampoo he used on you. 

“I got you a gift…” his voice was soft, as he dug through one of the bags he had with him. “Don’t laugh… It’s stupid but, when I saw it in the machine, I thought of you. I figured maybe you’d like it.” 

He had stuffed it into the bag, crushed and folded to hide it from others view. But you could tell it was soft, fluffy even. He dug his hand into the soft fabric, pulling out a large, floppy rabbit. It was anything but natural, a bright blue, an expression more human than animal on its flat face. Unlike anything Lawrence would ever like, something he would never usually bring into his home. But he did, entirely for you.

“I love it!” you instantly dove into it, almost kneading it with your forearms as you nuzzled it with your cheek. Something to hold onto as best you could as you waited for Lawrence to return. “Thank you so much, I love it so much.” you repeated those words yet again. A practiced repetition. One that ensured Lawrence and comforted him, letting him know he made the right decision. You stopped your cuddling of your new toy though and fell still as your stomach growled, loudly. 

Lawrence fumbled around suddenly. Whenever you gave signs of needing something, like food or water, he would always rush to find the thing you needed. Scared of watching you wither away like one of his plants would if he were not attentive enough. 

“Dinner, that’s right. Uh.” He rustled through his bags. Lawrence didn’t keep much food in the house, he once told you that it all seemed to rot way too quickly. Much of the food you consumed thus, was either convenience store fare or fast food. Though you remembered fondly the time he had splurged a little, and gotten take-away from a family restaurant down the road. 

“I uh, got us some hamburgers today.” He held up the familiar brown bag, grease starting to soak the bottom of it. “Let me just, get us some plates and cut yours up for you.” 

He stood, hurrying off to prepare the food. At first, Lawrence had insisted on hand feeding you, something he still enjoyed doing now and then. But eventually, he allowed you to feed yourself when able too. You didn’t find it humiliating at all, crouched on the floor, eating off a plate like a dog, unable to wipe your mouth or pick things out of your teeth. Entirely dependent on him when you ran into something as mundane as that. 

Just the way he liked it. You watched patiently, from your spot on the floor as he prepared the food, carefully cutting your hamburger up into bite size chunks. As he set it down, the sloppily stacked ingredients fell apart and toppled onto the plate. It was becoming less like a sandwich and more like some housewives weird casserole. 

You didn’t mind though, there wasn’t much you could do about it, and in the end, it would taste pretty much the same. Unceremoniously, Lawrence dumped the fries next to them, before covering them liberally in ketchup. 

“Here you go.” he said, his expression soft and welcoming, the same he had when he watered one of his plants. You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch as he patted your head, relishing in the affectionate touch as he set the plate on the floor with a soft clink. 

Lawrence wouldn’t mind if you just began eating right away, but you still liked to wait for him to settle down next to you. Lawrence didn’t really eat to enjoy things, rather, he ate to sustain his physical body. 

“Starving is a really painful way to die. So is thirst.” he had said once over a package of cup noodles. He did like spicy stuff though, and he was almost abusive with hot sauce and peppers. You glanced over at him as he sat next to you, holding his own food in his hand. You didn’t need to look though, just sitting near him you could smell the “Extra hot sauce, add Jalapeno”, ordered in a quiet, monotone voice. 

As it always was, eating was a messy affair. At first, you had felt gross, feeling sauce, grease and crumbs stick to your face. The embarrassment of sticking your tongue out, trying to lick it off. Bright red as Lawrence held your face and gently dabbed at it with a napkin. 

You no longer cared, you reasoned with yourself that there was no shame in having help if you couldn’t do something. You could feel Lawrence’s eyes on you as you ate, messily using your tongue to help pull food into your mouth as your lips pushed it away. 

Mealtime wasn’t really a period for bonding with Lawrence, as it might be for families or couples, so you finished eating as quickly as you could. You never finished before Lawrence though, having hands made eating so easy after all. 

You sat patiently as Lawrence began wiping off your face, using a familiar napkin that he had this time, gotten a little damp under the faucet. It was relaxing, like a little massage, and you found yourself getting a little drowsy from it, despite the chill of the water. 

“All done.” You gave a small squeak as Lawrence lifted you. No matter how many times he did it, it was always a shock. You had nothing to grip him with, no fingers to curl into his clothes, no limbs to wrap around him. You were completely at his mercy, he could so easily drop you. 

You evened your breathing though as he held you snugly against his chest, rubbing his cheek against yours, taking in your scent again. You could tell he was in a mood, one of his moods that would always end in the same thing. 

You wriggled in place as he sat down on the bed, the mattress sinking under your combined weight. You obediently moved your head as Lawrence moved down to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck and shoulder. His lips brushed against your pulse like a petal lost in the breeze, in contrast to his fingers, curled like the gnarled roots of an old tree gripping to the cliff it was perched on. Though in this case, that “cliff” was your hips. 

One of those hands eventually moved though, choosing to dance over the scarring of what was left of your legs. 

“Have you ever noticed…” He breathed quietly, tracing over the jagged uneven skin, “how when you’re injured… the surrounding area becomes so much more sensitive?” His tracing turned into slow strokes, and you found he was right. 

Each slight force of pressure sent tingles up your spine, and you bit down a moan as his hand warmed the area. 

“You’re hyper aware of any kind of sensation in the area…” He cupped the end of your thigh, circling his palm over it as if he were polishing it. You were so focused on his ministrations, how they sent hot flashes across your body, that you didn’t notice his spare hand sneaking down between your thighs. 

You let out a helpless mewl as he slid his hand over your underwear, pressing against your clit. 

“It feels similar, doesn’t it? The intensity of it.” He pressed, stroking over your folds at the same pace he did over the remainder of your leg. 

“Y-Yeah, it does…” You whispered, nodding. You could feel his erection, pressing through his sweats, against your back. Lawrence’s touch always got you aching for more so fast, you twisted around as best you could. 

“H-Hey, calm down, I’m sorry-” his apologies were cut off as you clumsily smashed your lips against his, writhing against him. You could feel yourself slipping off him, so your kissing became more fervent. Lawrence eventually came to his senses, shaking off the shock of your boldness, to grip your hips, pull you up his lap again, return your kisses. 

He wasn’t a very good kisser. He was nervous, never quite getting as into it as you would. He preferred his lips to be touching other parts of your body, such as your shoulders or stomach, rather than your lips. But he continued, and played along, because he knew you liked it. 

Distracted by kissing him, you barely noticed him grab your underwear, sliding them down with ease. You really wished you had hands, fingers, too curl into the waistband of his sweatpants, to pull his throbbing erection out with. To show him just how eager you were for him as well with your body language. 

Instead you were forced to let him lay you down on his bed, licking your lips as you stared up at him. Your arms instinctively moved to hug yourself as he pulled his sweatpants down, but the only thing that happened was the useless waving of your stumps. 

Stumps that before had the ability to hug someone, hold onto them, stroke their hair. Tears pricked at your eyes as you recalled again everything that you would never do again, what you would never be able to do for Lawrence. 

“Don’t cry…” Lawrence whispered, a hand reaching forward to stroke your face. He steadied your jerking movements with a hand on your thigh, spreading you open easily. 

Your eyes darted down to his cock, watching it twitch a little under your gaze. You figured what they said about tall men having bigger dicks had to be true, and even now, his size intimidated you. If you still had a forearm to use you’d insist on comparing the two. 

While his movements before were slow, meticulous, Lawrence always got impatient once he was finally out of his pants. He always felt more comfortable in less clothing, and him being more comfortable tended to lead to him being more frenzied. 

You bit your lip as he lined himself up, finding the right angle. He was panting softly, eyes squinted in concentration as he slid himself in. You were again reduced to small mewls, not wanting to startle him with a loud noise. Your eyebrows were furrowed as he pushed his way in, your walls flexing and pulsing around him. 

Getting used to his length always meant there was the first confusing, conflicting feelings of uncomfortable stretch, and how he’d rub against all your right spots. No matter how wet you were, it would always take a bit of time. 

Lawrence was fully hilted in you now, you could feel his pubic bone grind against your clit. He adored sinking himself all the way inside you and holding you in place, feeling your muscles twitch, the vibrations of your breathing and heart beating against his most intimate flesh. 

It always allowed you that precious time to get used to his length, shifting under him and moaning until- 

“L-Lawrence… p-please…” you began to beg for him to move. You never had to beg for long though, as much as you knew he enjoyed having power over you, you being dependent on him… You knew he’d always give in and give you what you wanted.

“Yes, of course.” he groaned, pulling himself out of your comfortable warm insides. He could never stay out for long though, snapping his hips forwards again to embed himself in again. 

You were at his mercy, no way to grab onto anything, as he quickly settled on his usual, fervent pace, pulling himself out nearly all the way before filling you up to the brim again. How his dick hit all the right places coming both in and out. 

Lawrence leaned against you, pinning your already mostly immobile body under him, moaning in your ear. 

“You’re so warm…” he groaned. “I can feel everything… the way your blood rushes through your veins and causes your flesh to swell, how soaking wet you are, all for me…” his words fell off into a groan as he gave a few harsher thrusts.

“You’re my own flower, I can unpeel your petals at anytime and make you bloom…” A hand dug into the back of your head and hair, pulling it up from the bed as you moaned. You were getting so close, wound up. 

“You’re such a tease, really… The way you coil up and contract… hiding yourself from me…” He was rambling now, something he usually did. And you were hooked onto his every word. 

“But I know you’re secrets… if I just… hit… the right… Spot…” You were shaking, panting, gasping for more. He was focused now, hitting your G-spot over and over again. Your stomach was tightening, a wave of emotions passing through you, thighs shaking, until-

“You’ll unfurl and show me your beauty…” he grunted, listening to you let out a cry of bliss, back arching to press against him while your head fell back against his grip, spreading yourself out for him. Lawrence managed a grin, his face soaked in sweat, before he hunched over, letting out a low moan. You felt his release spill inside you. 

You both stayed still for a moment, Lawrence liked staying inside as long as he could, feeling your walls contract around him as he grew soft. How he liked the feeling of pulling his limp cock out of your sensitive folds, how you always gave a small gasp as he came out with a small “pop”. 

“... I love you…” You mumbled softly, staring up at the ceiling as he buried his face back into your neck, planting those light kisses again. 

In your half awake state, you caught yourself thinking deeply again… Lawrence’s language equated you to a flower… You remember what he said once. 

Flowers are liars… They put on a colorful display to trick insects into helping them, either to reproduce or to eat. 

You were quickling nodding off, still feeling his lips on you, as they moved down to your collarbone. 

Was Lawrence letting himself be tricked by you? Or… was it more like a deer grazing in an open meadow. Your colorful display which helped you live, now letting the buck pick you out from the grass, devour you…

[we-ask-beforewe-bite]

Narrator: This is the truth you had forgotten: you were the favourite, the Chosen - Orin was your subordinate. You led the cultists of Bhaal and orchestrated the Absolute plot. It was your genius, your cruelty, your design. At your moment of greatest triumph - when all the pieces were in place - she betrayed you, infected you, and took your place.

[ Full transcript ⇩ ]

Orin: Do you remember now, blood kin? How you screamed as my knife slit your skull, your brain juices sticky and sweet. A little hole, big enough for the worm, your body a blood sack to feed it. The favourite of Bhaal turned meat puppet, strung up by the sinews and plucked by my hand. Narrator: This is the truth you had forgotten: you were the favourite, the Chosen - Orin was your subordinate. You led the cultists of Bhaal and orchestrated the Absolute plot. It was your genius, your cruelty, your design. At your moment of greatest triumph - when all the pieces were in place - she betrayed you, infected you, and took your place. Orin: Husk. Maggot. A Bhaalspawn, slip-sliding in filth with these pigs. You don't deserve the Murder Lord's blessing. Elijah: That's rich, coming from you. You're a child of a father and his daughter. Your mother was Sarevok's daughter. Orin: No no NO NO NO! He didn't... Filthy, pig-mouthed little LIAR! Grandfather loved me. He worshipped me. These petty smearings will not save you.

[lvckyspyral]

Drink the nectar and become that which is pure.

"Valery took care of himself poorly. He always had. For a man his size, he ate surprisingly little, and a grotesque creature in his food was hardly strange. He had eaten more maggots and grubs than he could count, the taste of them writhing in the flesh of rotten fruit was no different than that of stale bread or overcooked meat. The sensation of the mealworms wriggling on his tongue brought a familiar numbness, like sinking into an old, toxic habit. His jaw moved mechanically, almost obediently, grinding the insects between his teeth as his body accepted the sustenance.

Valery chewed as commanded, each bite more disconnected from his conscious mind, his body acting on autopilot. The centipede dangled just above his face, its legs twitching in the air, but it was Ulyana's eyes that he couldn't look away from. Milky, hollow, filled with something otherworldly that he couldn't quite comprehend; something that made his stomach churn and his heart race all the same. The air between them was thick with something more than lust or malice; it was a shared sickness, a bond neither of them could escape, and perhaps neither wanted to. He swallowed hard, the crushed remnants of the mealworms sliding down his throat, leaving behind a faintly metallic taste.

His eyes rolled back into his skull, yellowed scleras disappearing under his fluttering lids as the centipede’s slimy, segmented body hit his tongue with a sickening weight. His molars clamped down, grinding through the thick, brittle exoskeleton with a crack that resonated in his skull, the sensation both revolting and unavoidable. Each crush of his teeth caused the creature to rupture, its dark, venomous fluids flooding his mouth, an acrid tang burning the back of his throat. The noxious liquid coated his tongue like a viscous poison, bitter and sharp, sliding down his throat in slow, torturous waves with each mechanical, instinctive swallow.

The crunching of the centipede’s shell, like dry twigs snapping underfoot, and the slick, wet squelch of its ruptured insides became an unsettling, grotesque symphony. But even this soundtrack seemed distant, muffled, as though the reality of it was being played out in another realm, just beyond his full comprehension. His hands lay limp at his sides, fingers twitching occasionally like a dying insect. His eyes were bloodshot, bulged with veins strained from the effort of suppressing any reaction to the toxins slithering through his system. His throat, tight and raw, constricted against the venom that burned and spread with a dull ache, cramping his muscles, but still, Valery remained disturbingly still, eerily composed. His fingers, no longer under his own control, brushed against Ulyana’s legs where they rested draped across him, the soft fabric of their pants a stark contrast to the throbbing pain in his throat."

[xruiningth3sh0wx]

You’re a punk ass weasel,

Scared to say what you mean,

Turning silent like you were dying,

In person you’re afraid to cause a scene,

What’s that? Didn’t hear a word,

Bitch made to the core, you’re not a rebel,

Just following a well established herd,

Anything different got your scary ass feeling unsettled,

I’m real glad I make you feel perturbed,

And it’s your worthless life if in mine you try to meddle,

Gorgeous twink held the middle finger to a fraud,

Daddy got upset real bad and swore to uphold the law,

Insurrection was in our blood since the very dawn,

Baring who I am, full tilt and completely raw,

Talk shit, I’ll write shut your jaw,

Every straight laced sad sack of shit should be gone,

Don’t really care if it’s right or wrong,

Call us weak while you blindly sleepwalk behind these other bastards (are you really strong?),

Repeating the talking points of doctrines

That have ruled the world for centuries,

We represent beauty and freedom, that’s why you call us rotten,

Not gonna let some cowards be the end of me,

Fuck peace, fuck security,

Hell yes I’m waging war on your institutions,

Gutting them with a scalpel sharp and a wrist that’s equally ruthless,

Bullets to your fucking skulls; I say that shit earnestly…

 

You’re not an outlaw,

Been dominant since the day that stupid hippie staked his claim,

Companies and hollow gestures won’t ever make me tame,

Never will be well behaved,

Always and forever depraved,

Prejudiced motherfuckers get the grave,

Me and them are not the same,

Don’t put me on their level; to their standards I will not cave!

 

Fuck acceptance,

Me and mine will never get it,

But I won’t let this lack

Have me on my hands and knees so I can come crawling back,

Fear me, jeer me,

Jump your god with my homies; I will never revere thee,

My declaration of war is an AP round, fucking piercing,

When the world stops bearing more human children, I’ll be cheering,

Satan and I share the same bed; me and him might as well be fucking,

Demons are sexy; angels can come down our way and suck it,

I’m not looking for validation,

Won’t beg for praise or salutations,

Just trying to be chaos incarnate,

Crooked as fuck, bent out of shape Texas varmint,

Plug me from both ends with two pretty girls or boys,

Leashes around the necks of some gnc hotties while they

Moan for me to make them my toys,

The ultimate spook, an ancient curse,

Biggest bat in the belfry; I don’t believe in it, and by everyone’s standards, that makes me the worst,

Unidentifiable, not keen on playing that game; it makes them want to put me in a hearse…

 

Dead vacant stares

Of so many so precious,

Come out and play, cutie, don’t be scared,

These punks are just jealous,

Pick up a knife, get a gat, learn to kick and use your fists,

Hear them say some ugly shit? Turn their bitch ass into crimson mist,

Aim one at the dome piece of that bearded maggot,

Say it loud and proud, I’m a fucking faggot!

[rammtwo]

☕ Wholesome OC Fav C Ask Meme 🍂

Wrap up your OC blorbo in a blanket burrito and let’s answer some questions!

What is their go-to comfort food? EDIBLE AUTOPSY

Give them a warm drink of your choice, what would it be? Would their choice differ from yours? FROM SKIN TO LIQUID

What is something they really like about themselves and what is something you really like about them? DEATH WALKING TERROR

What is the thing they like the most about their friends and what is the thing their friends like the most about them? THEY DESERVE TO DIE

What is the song you most associate to them? DEMENTED AGGRESSION

What is their favorite music genre? If they don’t have one, what’s their favorite song? RELENTLESS BEATING

What is their favorite movie, or a movie they would really enjoy? UNNATURAL

What is a smell that makes them feel at home? THE CRYPTIC STENCH

How would they react if a person they love (friends and family included) gave them a flower bouquet unexpectedly? HEADS SHOVELLED OFF

What is their favorite thing in the world? RITUAL ANNIHILATION

What is an item of clothing/an accessory that completes them/makes them feel safe? A SKULL FULL OF MAGGOTS

What is their safe place? And what does “safe place” mean to them? FESTERING IN THE CRYPT

Quickly, let them give us some life advice!  SHATTER THEIR BONES

Now you give them some life advice. EVIDENCE IN THE FURNACE

What was the happiest moment of their life? ORGASM THROUGH TORTURE

What positives did they extrapolate from the worst moment(s) of their life? PURIFICATION THROUGH FIRE

What is their favorite hobby? FRANTIC DISEMBOWELMENT

What is something they excel at? MAKE THEM SUFFER

What is their hidden talent? MEAT HOOK SODOMY

Which new skills they would really like to learn? ICEPICK LOBOTOMY

If they had to pick up an instrument, what would they choose?  PITCHFORK IMPALEMENT

How do they relax? THE STRANGULATION CHAIR

If they had to prepare a conference, what would be the topic of discussion? KILL OR BECOME

What would be their ideal romance? STRIPPED, RAPED AND STRANGLED

What is their romance’s theme song? FUCKED WITH A KNIFE

What would they do if their favourite pet suddenly fell asleep on their lap? BARBARIC BLUGEONINGS

They have a chance to get a tattoo: what would it be?  GROTESQUE

What is their love language? BLUNT FORCE CASTRATION

What is their favourite color? And which colors do they like to wear the most? RED BEFORE BLACK

Do they have any guilty pleasures? ADDICTED TO VAGINAL SKIN

What is something they’re ashamed of but others find extremely cute?  POST MORTAL EJACULATION

What would they gift to their partner or their best friends to show their affection? ENTRAILS RIPPED FROM A VIRGIN’S CUNT

Give them your credit card for five minutes; what would they buy? A CAULDRON OF HATE

If they could go back in time, how would they reassure their child-self about the future? THE UNDEAD WILL FEAST

What is their celebrity crush? How would they react if noticed by said crush? FOLLOWED HOME THEN KILLED

If they were a bath bomb, what scents and colors would you use to describe their personality? HIGH VELOCITY IMPACT SPLATTER

Let them vent for a second, without the fear of being judged. What would they like to say? I CUM BLOOD

And what would you say to comfort them? DIVIDE, CONQUER, BURN AND DESTROY*

(*Okay, that last one was a Serpentine Dominion song but it's all Corpsegrinder)

I feel that this was a valuable and productive use of my time!!!

[credince--writes]

Payphone

JITTERSVERSE

AO3

"And the maggots that eat my flesh will eat yours too! But they won't eat until I'm good and fucking ready- because I can't even say I'm good anymore!"

Things can go to shit a lot easier than they can get better.

John knew that.

He also knew that women were an angry type of creatures.

He remembered being a boy, his Dad angering his Ma, and than the groveling that would take place for the next week just for him to be able to sleep in the same bed as her again.

“Remember Johnny. The worst thing you can ever do.” She said, tugging his Dad’s head down by his ear. “Is to make a woman mad.”

Seem’s like it would pale in comparison to some of the things he’d done in his life- shit, some of the things he’d been doing now.

He’d split from the group, leading a small team of men toward a building to clear it out.

It’s why they called him Soap, after all.

They’d cleared the building, the eerie quiet drifting through the air save for the sounds of their boots creaking against the floors of buildings they weren’t welcome in.

“Building three clear.” He spoke into his radio.

“Copy.”

Ghost.

They’d have their ups and downs. This was just one of them. At least, that is how he would defend it in his mind, they just weren’t getting along as smoothly as they normally would-

Was that why he sent them off in a separate group?

No, 

This was tactical Johnny.

No need to be getting stupid out in the field.

The entirety of this shit show had them all on edge, ready to fall off the counter on edge. Maybe it was because they were back in Mexico, or maybe it was other things.

“Who else could it be? This is going to be Graves all over again.”

“Just thought you wouldn’t want to talk to ‘Graves all over again’.”

He was conflicted.

He saw the hurt that flashed in her eyes.

The look of fear as she sat at that table with the laptop propped up, all eyes on her. 

He knew how that felt.

He could remember sitting in the disciplinary office of the school, the looming figures of adults hoving over him. Disappointed glances boring into his skull to the point it felt like his lungs were full of glass- that the back of his throat was on fire and he couldn’t breathe through his nose anymore.

What had it even been about, all of those years ago?

A broken window, he thinks.

The kid next to him- what was his name again?

Samuel Trablet.

Little bastard.

He’d broken the window with a rock- the sound of the shattering glass had caused all of the kids to scramble. Maybe it was the initial shock- a lack of understanding of the severity of what had happened. But a teacher zeroed in on him, grabbing hold of his arm and dragging him straight to that dreadful office.

He hadn’t done anything, he’d claim.

Their looks didn’t change.

The evidence was stacked against him- even if it was obvious he hadn’t done it with the children running away behind him.

It was the lack of trust.

His Ma didn’t believe him, and oh did he pay for it when he got home.

His Ma didn’t believe him.

That distinct look of disappointment graced her features during the car ride home. “I’m very angry with you Johnny. Just wait until your Father hears about this.”

His body moved through the building, lifting the rifle up and clearing each part of the room, piece by piece. Second nature to him now, it was easy. His brain didn’t have to work while he did this, it was therapeutic, in a way. The potential action sending adrenaline flowing through his veins.

Is that why he was still in the service?

The promise of adrenaline?

It’s an intoxicating high.

Seemed like he was always chasing after something of the sort in that respect.

But why?

Why did he stop?

"Get the fuck up, Johnny." Ghost yells, setting Jitters down on her bed and checking her pulse.

He groaned, lifted his head, and looked at Ghost, a dazed look in his eyes. His hair was disheveled, pushed off to the side. "The hell are you doing here?" He slurred.

"Get up MacTavish. That's an order."

As he stood, Ghost grabbed boxers off the floor and threw them at him.

"The fuck are you doing in my room Simon- can't you see I'm busy?" He yells back, the woman below him sturring.

"You need to sober up, and fast. You're running my patience."

Soap stumbled out of bed, pulling his boxers back onto his legs before he grumbled, rubbing his eyes and reaching out for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand.

Ghost lunged forward, slapping the bottle sending it clattering to the floor, and spilling all over the carpet.

"What the fuck, Simon?" He asks loudly, slurr appearing in his speech.

"What's going on?" The woman opened her eyes now, looking up at the commotion.

"Get the fuck out." Ghost hissed.

"What?" She stared, mouth agape.

"You heard him." Soap hissed. "Get outta my room."

She made a sound of distress, before rolling out of the bed, finding her outfit, and pulling her shirt on over her head. "I thought you'd be different John. But I guess I was wrong- all you do is make promises and lie." The woman hissed.

"I don't even know ya' fuckin name you slag." He threw back, tossing her shoe at her.

"Fuck you!" She yelled, giving him the finger and storming out the door.

He turned, looking up at Ghost, "God, they are so annoying. Can't get the fucking hint-"

Ghosts hand reached up, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him into the bathroom, throwing his body forward and pushing him into the shower.

Soap fought back, of course, but in his drunken state, he was quickly pushed down into the bathtub where Ghost turned the shower on, on cold to blast down on his face.

"What the fuck!" He yelled.

"You need to sober, up, and real quick Johnny." Ghost hissed.

"For what? We're off!" He wails back, bringing his hands up to fight off the spray of cold water assaulting his face.

"And we'd still be off if you hadn't of gone and brought in another one of your cheap fucks." He dully replies.

Soap was spinning, the shock of water brought him out of a few levels of the pool of drunken confusion he'd been swimming in. The cold water set his senses ablaze, finally fighting Ghost off and turning the water and standing in his boxers.

"What the fuck is going on?" Soap asks.

"You broke your promise." Ghost replies, his voice normally void of emotion cracked with anger.

Betrayal.

The sound of his voice was enough to sober him up immediately.

It was the sound of hurt, and he'd only heard it a few times before.

"What's happening?" He asks again.

"You." Ghost snaps, stepping forward and getting in his face.

Soap pushed back, raising his voice. "Where do you get off blaming random shit on me, eh? Don't stand there all high and fuckin' mighty with that mask on your face. If you're mad and ya' wanna talk, take it off and talk to me like a man!"

Ghost stopped, staring him down. His gaze was colder than ice, but it burned on his skin just the same as a red-hot iron.

He reached his hand up, grabbed the bottom of his mask, and pulled it off his face. Throwing the mask at him and pushing him up against the wall.

"Tell me then." He spat. "Tell me why I had to pull Jitters out of a fuckin' Russian operatives room, bash his skull in and make her puke the spike he gave her out in the toilet, huh? You got an answer to that?" He waits a moment, not letting him respond. "You don't. Cause you were too busy being the selfish bastard you've become since your mother fuckin died. I was fine with it when you could keep your self-depreciation to yourself. But now?" He stops, pushing his hands and his chest and walking away.

"You've put your team at risk Johnny."

"Simon-"

"No. No more empty apologies and promises. Get your shit together, we're leaving."

A Promise.

He remembers.

He can still feel the same bubbling up in his chest at that moment. The fog of alcohol clogged up his senses as he racked his mind, trying as hard as he could to understand what the fuck was happening.

It was like when he saw her, out in that field.

"God damn it." Soap comments, "Hey, look at me. Keep your eyes open."

"I thought I was gonna die." She whispered.

Soap looked at her, eyes tracing over her features. She looked like hell. Blood, dirt, scratches, the works- but the one thing that didn't match the hardened look of a soldier was the look in her eyes.

Fear.

It was the look of inexperience.

"You did what you had to do." He responded, keeping his voice law and calm.

"You know how there's fight or flight?" She asked.

"yea."

"That's the first time I ever fought." She whispered again, words catching in her throat.

Soap knew what that meant.

God, why was he thinking about this now?

Was it some kind of guilt?

He wasn’t guilty, was he? Oh, but he was guilty.

And it made him angry.

He hated feeling guilty.

The last time he’d felt so guilty, well, that was when…

He didn’t want to think about it.

Now wasn’t the time to be thinking, or worrying about these things.

"Ok so-" Jitters turned around moving her hands to scoop something off of the floor.

"What?" Gaz asked.

"I have a cricket in my hands." She cupper her hands together.

"No you don't." Soap replied.

"Yea, look he's going to jump three times see." She nodded her head up.

"One, two, three." She glanced at Soap and grinned, moving one hand to pinch the hair and she held out her hand to him.

"So Soap, you need to take his hat."

Soap reached his hand out, and she placed the hat in his hand. He held his hand out, and she continued.

"And he's gonna jump again." She explained, nodding along as she counted. "One, two, three." She moved her hand again. "And Gaz, you gotta take his jacket too."

"Why's a cricket have a jacket?" Soap asked.

"Shhh." Gaz whispered at him.

Gaz held his hand out and she places his jacket in his hand.

"Ok, and it's gonna do three more." She grinned. "One, two three..."

"So guys, you agree that there is a cricket in my hand?" She asked, dropping her hands and turning around to face them.

"No, there's no cricket-" Soap started.

"Then why are you holdin' his fuckin' clothes?"

How could there be any type of intent? It’s not like she inserted herself into their team, how in God’s name could she- in reality- be a rat? It made no sense. 

It was at that moment things came to a head, two and two clicking together and the feeling of dread settled into his gut.

"You'll stay with Price."

The look of relief washed over her features when Laswell spoke. He should’ve recognized it then, fuck, why was he ever worried about it at all? 

Because he was angry.

And when he is angry he does stupid things.

And when he does stupid things he is to prideful to back down.

So he continues to hold the shovel, and keep digging.

He should apologize, really.

Would she accept it?

 “We’re leaving you with Gaz again tonight, seems like you two can get along.”

She hesitated for a moment as he grabbed the bag he was holding and tugged it over his shoulder, starting to make his way toward the door.

“What do you mean? Where are you going?” She starts, standing up and trying to follow him out of the door.

“It doesn’t concern you.”

“Remember Johnny. The worst thing you can ever do.” She said, tugging his Dad’s head down by his ear. “Is to make a woman mad.”

“Soap.”

“Soap!” A hand on his shoulder shook him from his thoughts as he sat in the passenger seat of the humvee driving back to the base.

“Sorry Cap, having a proper space.” He replied, glancing over at him.

“I could tell.” He replied.

Ghosts team was staying out, continuing on the watch to see if there were any movements. 

Soap wasn’t going to press when he saw that look in his eyes when he said he’d volunteer to stay out.

He wanted to be alone.

Ghost did that a lot, self-isolate. It took Soap quite a while to understand- and it led to a lot of hurt feelings, confusion, and anger between the two. 

He found out later why, 

Simple really.

He was afraid to get too close.

And when he got too close he’d need a while, to just take a step back and assess everything. Feeling like everything around you is moving too fast is overwhelming- but trying to keep control of the situation by forcing everything to a stop so you can collect your thoughts and convince yourself you have no attachments?

Well, that’s Ghost’s standard operations.

“Friends aren’t in the field manual.”

“It’s confusing, now I know.” Price said, not glancing over at him and keeping his hand on the wheel.

“Thinking I’ve made a proper arse of myself.” Soap replied.

“Little bit.”

“Can you blame me? Really?”

“No, I can’t. It’s hard to think of something like that of someone we trust. But as you know just as well as I do.” He said.

It was as if Price didn’t want to say it.

The possibility of him saying it could potentially will it into being.

He’d showered, enjoying the quiet in a way. Jitters must’ve dragged Gaz out to that old man’s room, at least that’s what Price summed it up to. He was walking back to the sleeping quarters, spying Price laid out on the cot with his arm covering his eyes.

“Catching some beauty sleep, aye?” He asked, setting down and grabbing his bag, searching for his pocket knife. While yea, he wanted to apologize, he was glad she was gone, it gave him more time to think. Also, she’d screech every time one of them would pull out a pocket knife and clean the grime out from under their fingernails. 

Apparently, that got under her skin more than his ‘loud chewing’.

“Have to look pretty for the girls.” Price grumbled.

“You seen my pocket knife?” “You lose another knife, Sargeant?” Amusement danced in his voice.

“Don’t know how the hell-”

“Must’ve walked off like the last one.”

Soap got down onto his knees, peering under the bed and scanning his eyes across the floor.

There it was, 

On the floor.

Across the room?

“Huh. Why’s it over there?” He half thought half asked out loud, standing and making his way over to Jitter’s cot. He knelt down, picked the knife up, and scanned his eyes over the more disheveled than normal assortment of her things.

Something didn’t feel right. 

“You get ahold of Gaz?” Soap asked.

“No.” Price removed his arm, sitting up feeling the worry in his voice. “What’s wrong?” He started making his way over to Soap.

“Call me paranoid. But I don’t think that’s normal.” He glanced down, staring at the pillow.

The cut-open stitches and a small bit of the lackluster stuffing puffed out of one of the corners.

Price picked up the pillow, inspecting the cut and the hole in the case.

She was hiding something? “Go find Gaz. Now.” Price said.

That’s when he broke off into a sprint.

The first room he checked was the small kitchen- then into their little makeshift armory.

“Price!” He yelled, looking at the rifled bags and various pieces of clothing tossed to the ground. He stuck his hand into Gaz’s back reaching for where he kept his gun to find nothing. Price rounded the corner, meeting him. His chest was exhaling roughly, the look on his face unreadable.

“His gun’s missing.” Soap said, dropping the bag.

Price nodded, turning and the two continued to search around the base. Closets, offices, radioing out to hear that Momia was asleep, in his private quarters. No one was in the cardroom.

Where had they gone?

It was when Soap stumbled out into the garage area, calling out Gaz’s name did he hear the sound of someone pounding on the metal walls of the container.

 “Price!” Soap yelled, running up to the contained and swinging the door open. 

Gaz stumbled out, grabbing hold of Soap’s collar ready to send him to the ground when Price caught hold of him and held him up.

“What happened? Why’re you in a stinkin box?”

“She locked me in there.” He heaved out, glancing around frantically. “Looked at me, said ‘Sorry Gaz’, locked me in- don’t know where she went. Didn’t have my radio on me-”

“Fuck!” Soap yelled, kicking over a little metal stand that had various tools set on it. By the time he had turned around Price was already radioing Alejandro, pushing the base into lockdown. 

It felt like the world was turning itself inside out.

Was he right? Was she a rat?

What was happening? Was everything fake?

Twenty minutes later, Alejandro had called them out to a bit a fence towards the outskirt of the base. 

A pair of red-handled bolt cutters leaned up against the cut chain link.

It’s where she escaped.

And they followed the tracks of the bike, through the rain until the found the clearing, guns were drawn as they crept forward seeing the headlights of that little dinky truck piercing through the darkness with its hot halogen lights. Only to find a corpse in the mud, shot twice.

They followed the tracks, losing them on a road that led into the nearby town.

Everyone was on high alert.

They didn’t get a wink of sleep that night.

Or really, the next either.

They’d all been sitting on edge, Jitters was missing, Laswell was nowhere to be heard of.

Their air was thick hanging with an air of betrayal, hurt. 

Anger.

It was two days of silence when the next bad news came. Crackling in through the radio, the last thing they were able to hear from Ghost was.

“Loc---- Compromised. Rep--- Locatio---- ----mised. Mass Casua----” The sound of heavy gunfire, static, and then silence.

Along with that, the need for an emergency tech to be sent in to fill the void Jitters had left was brought in. Who he wasn’t expecting to step out of that helicopter that fateful day was Miles, in the flesh. Walking up to him, and slapping him on the shoulder as if they were friends. 

As if he liked him.

Yea, it had not been the best welcoming party to a new ‘member’ of the team, not that they’d ever consider him to be a true member. It was glum, to see him taking her place. As if it solidified the fact that she was gone, that she had betrayed him, and that she had betrayed them.

John Mactavish was angry.

He felt betrayed.

Dare he say, scared? That wasn’t something he would see himself admitting.

A soldier wasn’t supposed to be scared.

A Man wasn’t supposed to be scared.

But he was scared.

Scare of what was coming next.

They say bad things come in threes.

Ghost had gone radio silent before, he knew that. He needed to trust the abilities of his Luitenant. He knew from first hand experience how he could deal with a mission going tits up, this was nothing new to their line of work. It was just a game of waiting until he broke radio silence, saying yea, he was fine, maybe a new hole or two in him, but he’d be back soon.

Soap needed to find Ghost, to make sure he was ok.

And with a blessing from Price, he headed out that night, comm in ear connected to Miles, rifle hanging from his side.

John didn’t know if he wanted him to come back yet.

Out of all of them? Ghost had the closest relationship with Jitters.

They definitely spent the most time together, at first he could’ve even said he was a little jealous.

But, he had a home to go back to. Family to go back to.

They didn’t.

And suppose they bonded over it.

"You can't go in there." Soap reaffirmed.

"Does Price know you're here?" She asked, crossing her arms.

"Oh, you're gonna pull the Price card?" He sneers, laughing a little bit. "Firey today aren't ya'."

She sighs. "Sorry."

"Tis fine. Didn't know you had it in ya."

Soap cracked the door open, calling for Ghost.

It took a moment, but he popped out of the door, made eye contact with Jitters, and spoke nearly immediately. "No."

"I didn't even ask-"

"No."

Jitters looked to Soap for some kind of backup, to which is shrugged.

"Sorry. I agree with him on this one."

"So I help capture the dude, and you guys still treat me like a baby?" She asks tone slightly turning to one of anger and annoyance.

"Yea." Soap nods, agreeing.

Ghost doesn't say anything.

"Of course." She mutters, laughing slightly.

Ghost had that look. That look of restraint, the one where he was battling his conscious. Ghost- maybe not Ghost, but maybe Simon didn’t want Jitters to see what he’d done. Soap knew that they’d come across some things, pushed through, and survived.

But this wasn’t for survival.

That was inflicting hurt, just to inflict hurt.

"You're being cocky." Ghost says. His voice was smooth, and even. It was the tone he used when he was getting ready to bite off someone's head.

Soap knew that tone.

She was getting on his nerves.

"No. I'm not being cocky. You, yourself told me to do something about it and this is me doing something about it." She throws her hands up in the air. "You drag me out to bumfuck, act like I'm your Soap surrogate but when we get back you act like none of it happened." She seethes out.

"You were a liability." Ghost says again, the words leaving his mouth drawled out slowly.

"Yea?" Jitters voice cracks a little bit.

"This isn't some fun game you just get to run around with now." Ghost started.

"This isn't a fucking game, and I earned my spot here. I've earned it multiple times and I've proven that-."

"You haven't proved anything. You are not a soldier. You are a fake. We are not your community service project or your parole officers. I don't need your falsified pity, or courage for that matter." He spits.

Jitters visibly falters for a moment.

Soap finds himself trapped captive in an engagement he doesn't think he should be there for.

"You. Are a scared, weak little girl."

Her eyes narrow. "Yea, scared and weak like Beth?" She spits it out.

Soap has never seen Ghost ever react in a way to words. He kept his composure calm, and collected. A scary coldness was his forte.

Ghost's hands snapped out, grabbing Jitters by the cheeks and pushing her up against the wall.

"Choose your next words carefully." Ghost replies.

Someone could call it funny, in a way.

He’d just seen the man inflicting hurt to cause hurt.

She’d done just the same.

It wasn’t physical though, it was with words.

And even if Ghost would act as if it were water off a ducks back, he knew deep down whoever that was cut deep.

Who the hell was Beth? 

How did she know?

And where, where had Jitters gone?

…

Jitters pushed herself up against a dirty stucco wall in an alleyway, hand cautiously rubbing against her bruised ribs.

It hadn’t been a good night, in reality.

Gringo in the city when they no habla isn’t a good combination.

“I want to talk to Laswell.”

“You do that, and they’ll have your location and send a team out to execute you by morning.”

How could she of been so stupid?

But who was she supposed to trust in this situation?

Surely, they would believe the General, the high-ranking official before they trusted her words.

Fuck, she was hyperventilating again.

She was hurt.

She was cold.

She was hungry.

The safe house provided a dank little couch she was horrified to sit on at first, and not much stocked up in the sense of food.

She’d found an old can of what she thought was beans? Without a can opener, she had used Ghost’s knife to pry it open and eat out the contents of expired, cold refried beans on the floor of a safehouse in the dark. Terrified that if she turned the light on, a fleet of Mexican special forces would burst through the door and gun her down.

What else was there truly to do other than to see what exactly was on that drone?

She’d spent a good while securing her connection, making sure there was no way for the General to back door his way into the data she was uploading and reviewing.

Above my clearance, my ass.

The data was more garbled than anything, out of order, and dates mixed together. Everything from order logs to delivery announcements, receipts, and contact lists.

Oh.

Oh….

They say blackmail is a very useful tool of warfare.

She’d agree.

It was the General, sitting in what she assumed to be a backyard.

Children, little toe-headed blondes running around him.

The sour bastard actually looked happy, arms outstretched picking the children up, lifting and spinning them around.

A woman behind him- young, maybe his daughter?

They had photos of his children, and information too. Grandchildren, addresses, names, schools, fuck, even banking information. All teetering it over his head like bait tied to a fishing line.

It made a little bit more sense then.

The secrecy.

It was out of the protection of his family.

But why not tell Laswell?

A photo of his daughter, holding his granddaughter.

A photo of them sitting at a table eating dinner through a window.

A photo of Ghost, skull mask adorned as Lopez was pushed into a transfer vehicle.

A photo of her, out on a jog.

A photo of a landing site, marked out with details she couldn’t make out.

A photo of her, tied to a chair, tape wrapped around her mouth, and blood seeping from her nose.

A photo of an overturned truck, the bodies of two guards stretched out on the sandy dirt.

The terror in her eyes.

A photo, of her, lifeless.

This is what he was trying to stop.

He wanted to stop it before it got to all of them.

But along with it, there was information.

The General had been sending them bits of information- she could tell because a lot of them were low enough level clearance that the data would be considered expendable- maybe not to a cartel.

But then it got to the passport information.

Why would a cartel be bartering with a General to have mass amounts of Russian passports cleared?

She exited out of the folder, clicking onto a screen. Tapping away feverishly, she was met with something she couldn’t fucking believe.

Miles had logged onto her gear. Her computer- his codes were running active from the Vaqueros base.

Miles.

They had already replaced her?

She was expendable, she realized then.

She couldn’t go back, could she?

Why did she have to go out like that? 

Why couldn’t she of just listened to the orders?

She was angry, she was confused, she was conflicted were all reasonings that popped up in her mind at that moment.

“When am I meeting back up with my team?” She asked.

“You aren’t.” He replied. “You’ve abandoned your team, at this point, you’re a traitor and if you go back you will be detained and arrested.”

“You’ll have to wait a while for the situation to be explained to them, so until then- enjoy yourself. Lay low.” He replied.

“I’m not a traitor.”

"Then do something about it."

Ghost’s words rattled around in her head as she pushed herself off of the wall, and headed forwards- in the safehouse there was a drawer filled with assorted amounts of small currencies, coins, bills, some of them not even pesos. She’d gathered the coins and made her way out.

That’s right about the same time she got mugged, or at least sort of mugged.

Someone had snuck up behind her, shoving her to the ground and kicking her in the ribs while she was down. Her eyes flashed open, looking up at the man reaching for her pockets to pull the only money she had off of her. His hands stretched up to grab for her pockets, her hand reaching toward her waistband.

He didn’t seem as interested in the prospect of money when he was greeted with the site of the barrel of Gaz’s handgun pushed up to his forehead.

He’d scrambled, back and ran off.

Which left her here, trudging back on down the street looking for a pay phone.

All she would have to do, is get to a phone, get ahold of Laswell, Price, anyone, and explain everything, it would make it all better.

Wouldn’t it?

It was like being a kid again, after memorizing your mother’s phone number- maybe even writing it down on your forearm before you go out on your own the first time. Your first day at school, so that you aren't standing there dumbfounded when the woman at the desk asks, ‘what’s your mother’s phone number?’

Opening the door to the dingy little shack that housed the payphone, she hesitantly slid coins into the slot, lifting the phone and typing in the number.

The phone rung.

And rung.

“Hello?”

Laswell.

She wanted to cry, and she did, sobbing directly into the phone.

“Jitters?” She asked.

“I don’t have a lot of time.” She replied quietly.

“Jitters where are you?” Laswell questioned.

She wasn’t stupid, she knew that the second she heard her voice she was having the call tracked directly to where she stood. They’d find connections to the safehouse- assuming that she’d dug the information up on her own and they’d dispatch looking for her.

“The General is being blackmailed. Whoever broke Lopez out is affiliated with Russians and he is compromising mission data.”

“Jitters- are you alright? Why don’t you come back?”

“He’s put a shoot-on-sight order on me Laswell-” She choked. “I didn’t give him what he wanted- they think im a traitor- a rat- I can’t go back they’ll kill me.”

There was silence.

“You need to come back.”

There it was, that negotiator's voice.

She thought she was a rat too.

“He sent me to a drone, in a tree. A data drop- it has all of the data, he’s gonna burn me. I’m a loose end-”

“You’re not a loose end, you need to come back so we can sort this out.”

“Why so they can kill me?” She seethed. “I’m not a traitor, Laswell. And I’m sick of being treated like one.”

She slammed the phone back down on the receiver. Then lifted it, bashing it into the machine again and again until her arms hurt.

Until the receiver was bent.

Until the hot angry tears stopped flowing from her face.

She stopped, taking a shudder inhale into her lungs.

They’d betrayed her.

Left her.

Isolated her.

But they were going to die.

They were going to be sent on a suicide mission if she didn’t do something.

They were her family.

“Only the good die young.”

"Give it the juice!" Jitters yelled, they had swapped spots a while ago, and Soap revved the bike, charging forward and letting out a cackle.

Well, he did give it the juice.

And he also gave it the brakes, way to hard.

Throwing the bike up onto its front wheel, and throwing Soap clear off of his seat and onto the pavement.

The road rash bloomed on his skin while the bike flopped over, sputtering.

"Sargeant!" Jitters called out, running up to him.

"The bike- put it upright" He wheezed out.

She turned quickly, struggling to force the bike upwards, pulling out the kickstand and turning it off. Then rushing over to Soap who was rolling to his side and inspecting his raw forearms.

"This is why you wear protective gear." He jokes, wincing at the feeling of blood weep through his skin.

"Sergeant-"

"Soap."

"Huh?"

"Call me Soap, kid. You're making me feel old." He groaned, laying flat on his back.

"Ghost." She asked.

He stopped, and turned to look at her.

"Could you..." She grasped at the sleeve of her shirt. "Could you eat with me?" She asks him, shooting him a near-desperate glance.

He didn't respond at first. Almost mulling it over.

"I... I don't wanna eat alone." She explains.

"Do you ever miss it?" She asks.

He looks at her and nods a bit before flicking the ash off of the end of his cigarette.

"Sometimes." He finally responds.

"Would you ever go back to it?"

"There's nothing left to go back to." He says.

Home.

"I guess that's something we have in common." She mumbles.

"Can you hear me?" He asks, his voice lighter than his usual interactions.

"Yea." Jitters responded.

"Are you hurt?"

"Push the needle through with the pliers- or needle driver. Don't let the medics catch you saying, pliers. Chaps their ass it does."

"My hands are shaking. I don't think I can do this." She sighs, holding her hands out afraid to push the needle through his skin.

"Then tell em' to stop shaking."

"I wish it was that simple."

"Normally is. Just say stop shaking."

"That's not how that works, Price."

"I don't hear you sayin' it."

"That's so dumb."

"You're the one that's shaking, not me."

She groans, slumping her shoulder forward before mumbling. "Stop Shaking."

She waits a moment, staring at her hands.

"It didn't help, Price."

"Of course it did, just keep talking while you do it."

"I don't want to hurt him."

"He's in la la land. And I'm sure you can't do any worse than Soap."

"Bringing a PMC into the team in this proximity makes some of them cautious from past bad experiences."

"But why?"

"Betrayal always hurts more when it's from someone you trust." He replies.

Her eyes look up, a strand of hope dangled in front of her, looking back and forth from Price to Gulch.

"You tell me exactly how you ended up here, and you promise you'll keep my teams back like you did for us last time."

She stared at him in a dumbfounded awe.

"And I'll watch you back." Price concluded.

"What is so funny?" He asks, flabbergasted at the display. His foot- boot, sock, and all stomped into the water, soaking his skin with the cold water.

"You're such a shitty liar." She cackles out.

"What?"

"I'm not your friend," She mocks, trying to mimic his accent and deep voice. "If you didn't like me, you would've left me in the fuckin' water and not rushed to fish me out."

He stares at her, eyes narrowing. Dropping her by her shirt and letting her fall back into the water.

She surfaces, cackling just as hard as the second he ripped her from the water.

"I got my damn boot wet, are you happy?" He growls, looking down at his boot- water soaked up to his calf on his pant leg.

"You're just pissed cause you got caught." She teases, climbing out of the fountain.

"And the maggots that eat my flesh will eat yours too! But they won't eat until I'm good and fucking ready- because I can't even say I'm good anymore!"

"You're the primary suspect."

"Apologies don't count when you make a habit of it." He simply said to her.

"Sorry." She sighed, looking at her shoes. "So, do you always work out. Every day?" She asks.

"When I am not injured or on a mission, yes." He said bluntly, continuing to do pullups on a bar.

"You ever get bored?"

"No."

"I'd get bored."

"Hm."

"It ever get hard to breathe in that thing?" She asked.

"No."

"Am I testing your patience?"

"How'd you know?" He sighed out, dropping from the bar and turning to her. "Are you bored?" He asked.

"Incredibly." Jittered sighed, shrugging her shoulders. "Nothing interesting is coming through the comms."

"I am not your babysitter." He said plainly.

"Never said you were." She shot back.

"Bit defensive are we?" He questions, moving across the room to put away a weight he had been using earlier.

She grumbled a little, crossing her arms. "I didn't mean to. I just am starting to dislike being regarded as a baby."

He turned, looking at her. "Then do something about it."