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yeyinde · 9 months ago

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dangle on the leash | Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

The flimsy sarcophagus housing all his wants, his desires, cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant. Ghost cocks his head in consideration. Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger. But he's a rabid dog burning with the urge to bite. No one should really be surprised when he finally decides to sink his teeth into you. Unfortunately, that hail mary Price sent into the aether never reached you.

(your bird is too big for a cage— —but maybe a collar would do.)

this is a babytrapping fic lmao but please read the tags carefully. a companion piece to this (Price + babytrapping).

DEAD DOVE. SMUT. 18+

HARD WARNINGS—coercion. dependency. intentional alienation. unsafe, unprotected sex. this very much toes the line of noncon (that is still very dubcon even when consent is given) in many ways, notably: somnophilia, and condom/contraceptive tampering. intrusive, violent thoughts. mentions of violence. manipulation; slight gaslighting. implied kidnapping. references to past abuse (Ghost), brief mention of drugging/threats of drugging (ambiguous as to if it was ever followed through on or not, mostly just Ghost's internal monologue unfiltered). ADDITIONAL TAGS—smut. rough sex. unsafe sex. dom!Ghost. mean, obsessive, unhinged!Ghost. spit kink. dacryphilia.

he's feral, but he's yours. too bad for you, no one is really sure if that's a good thing or not.

One of the things Price often tells new recruits is to shove their old life into a box.

“There's home,” he huffs, fingers twitching as if he's subconsciously flexing around the hilt of a lit cigar. “And then there's work. Whatever box you decide to put this, or your family, your personal life, into is your choice. But for fuck’s sake. Keep them separate.”

Most of the new recruits are fresh off selection, shaded sickly chartreuse, and take his words as a literal gospel. Work, this; home, them. They don't start to unravel the second part of his gruff speech until much later. Until they can't wash the blood from their hands, and the scent of their mum’s eucalyptus hand soap is nauseating. Unfamiliar. When being in civvies feels like wearing skin that doesn't fit, and everyone around you is alien, foreign. They don't know. They'll never know.

It's only when they find themselves gazing at the clock on the wall of their family home, counting down the minutes until their mandatory leave is over do they realise that home is the barracks.

That's something Ghost has always understood. Maybe it was because his home life was already in ruins, tatters. Beer soaking into the knock-off Persian rug a cousin nicked from a flea market when he was nine. No fine china in the cupboards because it'll end up in shards on the floor. Plastic plates and forks and cups. Always. Howling in his head. Screaming from down the hall in his mum's room. His bedroom door creaking open at night. The anger, the curdling fear (shameful—be a man; punch him back, hit him before he hits you, you useless prick—), of not knowing whether or not it was his dad, high as hell and itching for a fight after busting their mum’s lip wide open, or Tommy sneaking into his bed at night because his is soaked in piss and he can’t sleep when they scream at each other like this.

(Funny that, he always found; neither of them could ever sleep when it was silent, either.)

Blood on the linoleum. Trying to eat burnt toast and overcooked beans with a busted lip and a twinge in his jaw—

(Fractured, they'll say later, years later, during his mandatory medical checkup when he's first recruited. Healed all wrong. Son, didn't anyone take you to hospital?)

He understands the separation between home and work—even if the former lost all relevancy nearly a decade ago. Back when he buried them all. Was buried himself—

What Ghost never really understood was the box.

Shove it into a box.

When he asks over cheap whisky somewhere in Siberia, Price tightens his fingers around his glass before bringing it up to his head. His index finger juts out. He knocks the tip of that bruised, scabbed knuckle against his temple. Once, thrice. Levels Simon with a pointed look he both can’t understand and somehow knows all too well.

“Up here."

“Paid nearly fifty quid for that,” he grouses, shaking his head. “Think I've been ripped-off, Price.”

Price scoffs, places the glass down with a hollow thud. “Don't be a fuckin’ muppet, Simon—” his real name makes his shoulders tense. Around the barracks, they know him only as the Ghost. “You put it away somewhere. Hide it. I don't fuckin’ know. But if it keeps you goin’, keeps you sane, and doesn't become a mess I gotta clean up, well—”

The implication is stark. Heavy.

Price was always good at chiselling through layers of accumulated indifference to get to the madness within, but considering Ghost’s past and his mile-long rap sheet, the warning digging into his words like a dull blade isn't unwarranted.

Old dogs, he'd called the pair of them when they first met. There was a sharp keenness in his eye when he lifted his hand, waved his cigar toward the tangled mess of scar tissue crisscrossing his face (made with a dull, rusted knife, one that gouged out deep pocks of skin, ugly fuck, looks like the badlands, don't he? like a postcard from the Grand Canyon, sweetheart. not so cute anymore, are ya, pretty boy—), and said, “well, you're fuckin’ rabid, ain't you? Better put a muzzle on that before it becomes a problem, mm.”

His problem, specifically.

And Ghost gets it. Thinks Price might understand that particular brand of madness—despite growing up on literal opposite sides of the track, his Manchester to the others Liverpool; poverty and prestige—if only just. Because Price seems to be able to curb those baser impulses in a way Ghost hadn't yet mastered (and won't for quite some time yet). He's put together. Sort of. Respected. Normal.

The men in the barracks don't look at him and flinch.

But he sees the way the man's eyes linger in the crowd, shrewd and careless, before falling on the pretty bartender in the back. The one with roses in her eyes and a smile full of dandelions. Soft, like butterscotch. It's here when they darken. When he reaches, almost angrily, for his whisky. Pats his chest with a heavy fist searching for his cigar.

She's a sweet thing, he reckons. All pretty and trusting. Birds like her make his head itch—

“Don't even think about it, Simon,” Price grumbles, and it feels like territorial posturing, a challenge he almost raises to meet with his chin, if only to make Price fluster, but it's hollow. Empty. He denies himself, too. The prick.

“How'd you do it?” He asks, and doesn't specify. Doesn't think he needs to.

When Price swallows, it looks like a grimace. “Years of practice.”

He considers the weight of it, his eyes straying back to the woman behind the bar. She's tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, wrist delicate like bone china, the kind they could never afford, and for a moment, the intrusive thoughts, the ones he gets sometimes about wanting to tear things to bloody pieces, rears—

It's stamped down in a swig of flat lager You stupid fuckin’ mutt, Price would say tomorrow morning, shaking his head. You always think with your prick?

Simon cranks his head sharply to the side instead. The resounding crack seems to echo through the empty pub.

Price just shakes his head. “Christ. No one ever house break you, yet?”

“Yeah, they did,” he rasps, staring at the bartender who gazes back at him now. Skittish, unsure. Not so sweet after all. She looks away, cowed. Her hands tremble. He leans back, and hums. “And now I piss outside, like a good ‘ol boy.” “Ain't nothin’ good about you, Simon. Fuckin' Christ—”

And he's not wrong.

The Ghost has a reputation of being a cold-hearted bastard. A Frankensteinian beast cobbled together with spare parts robbed from a jailhouse graveyard. Worst of the worst. An arm from a mass murder. The leg from a spree killer. Heart a patchwork mess of ichor and sulphur. Sutured together with barbed wire.

It's all sort of macabre. Rather trite, too.

The rumour mill in the barracks is insatiable.

But sometimes, he wakes up and he's still buried. Still dead. Dirt in his throat, lodged in his nose. He breathes in and feels pebbles scraping his lungs. Feels worms in his ears. Maggots in his head.

They crawl through his grey matter. Leeches burrowing into his thoughts, sucking the good in him dry.

Or, whatever's left of it, anyway.

He thinks with his teeth because it's easier that way. Cold, calculative instinct. Just barely boxed into a neat package slapped on the desk of Price's higher-ups.

A good man, they say, and turn him loose on the streets. One of the best we have, as he breaks jaws, and tears through jugulars. A force to be reckoned with.

They hand him a gun, a rifle, when the bloodied footprints leading back to camp become too much of a hassle to clean. Shoot from a distance. He takes to it like the bulk of metal was made for his scarred hands. Scythe to a Reaper.

It feels like bloodletting. Draining him of his anger, his fury, until a cold, gnarled indifference curls in the basin left behind. Icy, frigid. Down to the bone.

Sometimes, he doesn't remember what it felt like to be warm, even buried under a thick balaclava and layers of military fatigues.

Frankenstein’s monster. Patched together from the rotten remains of horrible men.

And as he stares in the mirror at the patchwork ruins of his face, his body, he wonders if there's some truth to it, after all. He's pretty sure if someone cracked his skull open—again—they’d find rot. Tumulus. Infested with maggots and worms. Cobwebs behind his eyes. In his nose. His brain perfectly preserved: a zombified tombstone. And oh, how it hungers.

Wants.

But in a box it goes. One shaped like a coffin. Placed pretty in the back of his broken head.

He stares in the mirror and thinks he sees something moving under his eye. Wriggling around. The temptation to claw it out rears, but the shredded tissue on his thighs reminds him of what happens when he listens to that insidious hiss in the back of his head (some amalgamation of his old man, and that bastard—) and goes searching for gold in bone marrow.

He huffs. Fingers curling around the porcelain. His head is rotten. Putrefied. He can feel the decomposing sludge press against his temples. It grows teeth sharp like a razor blade and hacks away at jaundiced bone. Ghost lifts his hand, digs his fingers into his temple. Down boy—

(Simon doesn't even want to consider what his heart must look like, then.)

Cold-hearted, sure—

But he likes sweet things.

The kind that will undoubtedly give him cavities. A spillover, perhaps, when candy bars were too expensive, and the only dessert he was given was a toffee by the neighbour when she wasn't moaning to his old man about all the shit he and Tommy got up to.

(Bruises came afterwards, the colour of liquorice. Sour cherries.)

Unfortunately for him, sweet things don't like him much—a shame, really. Simon has always had a sweet tooth.

His rough edges are too sharp for their liking, and Simon's—

Intense. Like a dog with a bone, he doesn't know when to let go. When to unhinge his jaw from the morsel between his teeth. He bites hard. Shakes his head. Tears into the things he wants until it's bloodied meat pinched in his incisors.

And so, they keep their distance. Like they can smell the rot on him. The funeral dirt. The stench of an unearthed sarcophagi.

Sometimes, though, the wiley ones will inch closer, looking to get messed up badly by a bad man, and it makes something inside his head howl when he turns them down. Following Price’s creed. Can't give in to the pretty ones, he'd said. Nothin’ but trouble.

Trouble, like a pair of shackles. A noose. Trouble, like gentle, clean hands and fragile bones. Fine china. Fine powder. The marshmallow soft kind of trouble that will melt in the acid that leaks from his pores. Aqua regia. Attacking anything that gets close.

(Breakable, is what Price means. Pretty chew toys that are beyond repair once he's finished with them.

He must think Ghost is some sort of psychopath—)

But still. He stays away. It's easier on base, in safe houses, too far out from the general public to have to worry about doe eyes and soft touches. He doesn't need it, anyway—

Then comes you.

And the forfeiture of his self-control.

You're trouble of a different kind.

Trouble, like the end of a sledgehammer. Trouble, like the grill of a car. The barrel of a gun.

In the shape of a battering ram, one strong enough to dislodge the madness in the back of his head. Where the corrosive acid should ruin you, eat you alive, it doesn't. Not with your tantalum skin.

But oh, do you pack a punch—

At first, you think he's homeless.

Some scruffed-up man sleeping on a park bench outside of your apartment.

In another life, he might have been. He isn't a stranger to bad habits, and had the military not been his only choice in life for some semblance of good (laughable, considering what he does for a living), he could see the threads of his life leading him here. Drugs. Manchester is good for it, this he knows all too well. Especially the shithole neighbourhood he's from.

He doesn't clue into this, though, until you glance at him, warily, and then shuffle into the cafè he’s holed outside of, the place where his current target gorges himself on steeped tea and crumpets.

(Price's dry text sits, open, on his burner phone: and don't fuck this up—)

It feels a bit like an omen. Made worse when you meet his gaze through the glass, and—

Well. Shit.

The impact is a collision. Hitting a pole at top speed. Metal bent around concrete.

His teeth ache (so, so bad—).

You emerge from the small building a few minutes later—the faded eggshell with chocolate trim is nauseatingly sweet against your pastel yellow raincoat—holding a takeaway bag, and balancing a tray of coffees in your hand.

He tenses. It's instinctual. There's nothing about you that's an immediate threat to his person—unless you plan on adding to his scars with the tip of your umbrella, the scalding coffee in your hand—but it's odd, isn’t it? No one approaches him. Not unless they have a reason to.

And no one, in his experience, ever has a good one.

“Hi,” you chirp, disarmingly sweet, as you come to stand in front of him. His jaw aches. Even sprawled across a bench, you're barely looking down at him. Sticky, cold fingers tap a strange rhythm down his spine. “I, um, hope this isn't weird, but I saw you sitting here, and—well. I got this—”

You wiggle the bag. He smells something greasy. A breakfast sandwich, he's sure.

It's an unusual assassination attempt. Price will be livid.

“What for?” He rumbles, sitting up in the seat. The shift of his bulk seems to make you nervous. You take a step back, and he fights the urge to follow. To back you into a corner. No escape.

You regain your footing, even if the smile on your face wobbles. Weakens under his flat stare. Some people can smell the rot on him.

He wonders if you can, too.

(Pity that. You're a pretty bird, ain't you?)

And the way you take him in lacks a distinct thrum of hesitation, fear that’s normally there. It occurs to him, then, that you see him as just another man. Just another person.

(“deader than a doorknob, this one. such a goddamn waste, boss. he was a fun one, wasn’t he? should we burn ‘em?”

nah. bury him out back—)

It's laughable, really. A joke. He has the urge to crack one—sick and awful enough to make that little smile on your face wilt. Wither away. Almost does, too, but it get tangled in his throat when he feels the weight of your stare on him.

The easy sweep of your eyes is barely discrete, but it's clinical. Pitying. But the softened edges of that empathy dissolve as your pretty head adds up all the numbers on him, coming to a standstill. Your eyes linger on his wrist. The gold of his wristwatch peeks out beneath the black sleeve of his hoodie. An intricate web of complex timekeeping that only he's privy to. A little luxury he picked up in Italy when the cash he'd been given was getting too tiresome to carry around.

Dead men, after all, don't need bank accounts.

And then—

You fluster. “Sorry, I just thought—”

It clicks, then. The pity. The soft words. The goddamn coffee—

His gums itch. He has the sudden urge to be mean about it. Pick you apart in this street until nothing but embarrassment and humiliation remains.

“That I was homeless? ‘nd you brought me, what? A coffee? ‘ow sweet of you. Some breakfast, too. Well, aren't you a lovely girl?”

You are embarrassed. It blisters across your expression. Has your hands trembling around the cardboard tray, spilling droplets of coffee down the side. Your head is bowed, cowed in shame. It reminds him of that bartender some years prior. Pulling away when the bad dog growls—

But there's a thin sheen of intrigue in your eyes, burrowing holes into the shoes in front of you; a tangled knot of want coiling in the heat of your embarrassment over this blunder. Over offending him.

Well—

That's new.

Some get off on it. On humiliation. Specifically, of the public variety. He didn't take you as the type. The way you twist, squirming in place, is odd, though. It doesn't fit as well as he originally thought. No. It's not the public shame, but—

Him.

Ah.

Sweet, sweet girl.

(So naïve.)

He reckons he could get you to do just about anything to make it up to him. You would, too. You're soft enough to be submissive, to bow your head in contrition, but there's a flicker of defiance in the jut of your chin when you lift your head.

This is a blunder and you're sweetly embarrassed, sure, but it isn't enough to break you.

And now Simon just wants to ruin you. Teach you a lesson about bad, vile men—

(Something you'd welcome with open arms, wouldn't you?)

“Didn’t know Manchester was so charitable,” he rasps. His throat is dry. Parched. He reaches for the coffee—black, with extra creamer and sugar on the side, tucked neatly in a little bag; fuckin’ hell. Ain't you just adorable—and places it on the spot beside him. “I’ll be takin’ this. Will need it for later.”

You look like you want to protest. Fight back. His hackles rise, ready for it—eager. Something anticipatory, dark, bleeds through the moulted mess of his head. Sickly. Terrible. He thinks about what you'd look like sprawled under him, shaking and begging for more, for him to stop—

Fuck. Birds usually make his head itch, but you make his fucking skin crawl.

In the end, you just huff. Roll your eyes. He wants to chew them out of your head. Pop them between his teeth. He bet you'd taste divine.

You walk away from him before he can. You don't look back once.

Pity, he thinks. Someone's gonna snatch you clean off the streets like that—

Hours later, he sends Price a text message with the coordinates for where to pick up the package Ghost left.

He considers it a blessing when the man sends him back, good job, now get a pint from me as a little reward. Can't say I don't treat my team well.

A reward, huh?

Well. With your stature in comparison to his own, Ghost easily can see you being considered a pint.

So, he follows you home, and tallies this one as being on Price.

It's easy. Too easy. He slips deftly behind you, tucked away from view, and masks his footsteps under the echo of yours until he's standing in the shadows outside of your house. This, too, feels like a blessing. It's a duplex. He waits for one of the lights to flicker on, and—

The window brightens. Room number two.

He hums, and palms his pockets for the pack of smokes he nicked off the man. Needing something to take the edge off. To quell the urge to bite.

It's even easier to engineer meetings. Random run-ins. All blamed on happenstance, chance. Of course. This towering mountain of a man with his thick manc twang—the sort of gallows humour that can only be found in the blue-collar streets of Salford from the nasty old men squatting on the corners—must have better things to do than stalk you. Surely. You're not special enough to be hunted, right?

Still. You're a touch wary of him. Distrustful. You keep your distance—six inches for Jesus Christ, aren’t you a peach?—and try to skirt the line between neutrally polite to the strange man loitering outside of the shops you frequent (your schedule burned to his memory, naturally) and that fascinating skittish intrigue from before. All simmering heat. Blunt want. The kind wrapped up in silk threads.

It's interesting to watch it play out when he steps closer and all those long-forgotten instincts in the back of your head flare up. The shaky step you take back. The inward frown of confusion when you're not sure why your body craves space, acting almost on its own. And then the sweet defiance that breaks over you. The intentional step closer. The feigned warmth in your tone as you talk to him.

It's easy to pocket the uglier aspects of his personality. The coldness. The indifference. The flat, droll insincerity that leaks into his tone. All of it shelved, locked away, and he's not sure if Price would be happy that he listened to what he said, followed his example, or furious that he's bastardising it to lure this pretty fish in.

)The latter, undoubtedly. But Simon gets a sick kick from it all.)

Especially when it brings you closer to him. Thaws you as you rationalise his reaction during the first meeting, gears spinning. Kicking up excuses.

Anyone would be angry, offended. It's natural. He's alright now—

It makes you look at him differently as you forcefully fight the urge to flee.

Silly bird.

Wary eyes rake over his massive bulk. Brows furrow at the series of black medical masks he wears in public. Always. That, in addition to the heavy black of his wardrobe—black jacket, black hoodie, black leather gloves—sometimes makes you glance at him with a touch of worry. Fear. Probably wondering if you brought home a delinquent.

But it changes when he rolls up his sleeves one day after you've been moaning about your broken beach cruiser (the, I don't know, chain—or something—keeps catching—), and crouches down to fix it.

There's a hitch in your breath. A distinct swallow. A guilty tinge of something shy, deliciously so, shading your eyes ruby-red when you look down at him.

And ah—

Sweet little treat snagged on the line. Ain't he a lucky lad?

It's all the better when you do the work for him. Reeling yourself in, practically throwing yourself in his cooler when you ask about his tattoos, carefully—considerately—nudging the topic away from his ugly scars.

He guts you clean as he tells you he's in the military. Top secret, pet. Don't ask because I'd hate to ‘ave to hurt a pretty face like yours—

You preen under it. Pet. Pretty. You don't even notice when he slides his knife over your scales, dices you up on his chopping board.

You're the picture of sweetness when he unkinks the chain in your bike, and sets it straight. All happiness. Smiles. Appreciative glances. You flutter your pretty eyes at him as you say—

“Thank you—”

You're waiting for a name. His belly rumbles. He could eat, he thinks, and licks his teeth.

“Simon. Simon Riley.”

The risk-reward ratio is balanced when you breathe it out between plump lips, chasing the end of it with your tongue. He wants to eat it out of your mouth. Swallow it down.

You touch his arm, hand warm, soft. “If there's anything I can do to pay you back—”

He takes you out for a kebab later on. Nudges you out of the way when you open your wallet to pay. Draft girl. Naïve, too, because he can feel the heat in your cheeks from where he stands, reaching over to snatch the bag from the man with a grunt.

You must think him quite the gentleman. So trusting.

Doesn't matter. He lets it take root. Especially when you shyly invite him back to yours to eat.

He makes a feast of it, and fucks you on your mint green chaisse after he's finished.

(Not on birth control, you say, and hand him a box of condoms, suddenly shy. It's unopened. He hums, and burns that to memory.)

He keeps his distance—an easy feat when he's halfway around the world, and you're stuck in the gloom of Manchester.

It's purposeful, of course. He made a promise to Price not to give him a reason to worry, but fuck—

You're proving hard to quit. He's never had anyone cuff him upside the head on his bullshit. Not anymore, anyway. Not as the Ghost. He likes the thrill of it, of this chase.

You don't let him steamroll you when he's in a mood to fight. You punch back, hitting him right in the mess of his guts, and fuck. Fuck. He's a little bit obsessed with it. With you. This wily little fish that acts so shy when he's got three fingers buried in your cunt, but rides him after like you're starving for it. Clawing at his chest. Scratching his arms. It's raw. Primal. He wants to break you—this fiery little kitten that bites his fingers until they bleed, and then purrs in his lap as he drives a pickaxe through your head, shredding logic into pieces. Rummaging around until he nicks the optic nerve that lets you see red.

You’re everywhere. In everything. In the back of his head, under the howling that hadn't stopped since you trailed your finger down the jagged topography of his bare chest, digging your nail into the crude x across his heart, and whispered, soft and sweet: you're all kinds of fucked up, aren't you?

A bludgeon to his self-control—

He resists. Has to. Is mean about it, too. Doesn't tell you where he's going (it's need to know), or what he's doing (would ‘ave to bash your pretty ‘ead in if I told you), but keeps you strung on the line (keep thinkin’ about that pretty cunt of yours; can't wait to come ‘ome and ‘ave you sit on my ugly mug—).

It's dangerous, this game of his. Thrilling for all the wrong reasons.

But he’s a good mutt. Good—

Until the text.

The one you send to him when you're out with friends. A picture. You're in a pub somewhere in Moss Side, a drink in hand. A gaggle of nobodies crowded around you. It makes sense, he supposes. There's that old idiom—you’ll trap more flies with honey—and he doesn't know anyone nearly as sweet as you.

His sweet girl.

(you fuckin’ mutt—)

Ghost stares at you for a moment, teeth aching. The little ensemble—a crop top and jeans—is a vision, he reckons. But it's spoiled when he catches more eyes on you than pointed at the camera. Practically spilling out of your top, aren't you?

He breathes heavily through his nose. Tastes guncotton in his throat.

Ghost commits every face to memory, and then calls you.

You're drunk. Too drunk to remember it tomorrow. Stuck in a pub on what's supposedly a bad part of town. Chatting away about going to your friend’s house. He gets the address, and something sour twits in his stomach. Shit council houses.

“That safe?” He asks, leaning back in his chair. He's already chubbed up in his slacks at the slur in your voice. “And dressed like that? Didn't take you for a slag—”

It makes you sputter on the line. “I'm—I’m not—”

You're so quick to placate him. So hasty to make him happy. Please don't be angry with me, Simon. I'm just having some fun—

The claws and fangs are tucked away when you're drunk. He shoves the information in the cache, eyes burning. Head aching. He's feverish. Hot under the collar.

Odd considering he's dead—

“Sounds like you will be.”

“It's not like that—”

“‘ow would you know? Might meet a nice fellow. Might take him home.”

“I don’t—I wouldn't—”

The sniffle makes him throb. Fuck. “Yeah? Well, ain't none of my business, I reckon—”

“It is.”

“Oh? How's tha’?”

“I—I like you, Simon—” he can taste your embarrassment through the phone. He didn't even need to bring you flowers and you're already boxing him into monogamy, confessing to him. So sweet. So tender. If he were a better man, he might have told you to sober up. To talk about this tomorrow.

Too bad for you, he isn't. And what’s worse is that he’s a loyal bastard, too.

But that's later, and right now—

He's halfway across the world, and you're vulnerable. In the den of hungry mutts.

It’s charr in his throat. Anger in his veins. “You like me? An’ you go out dressed like that?”

“There's nothing wrong with how I'm dressed—”

He sucks his teeth. “Dunno ‘bout tha’, pet. You look like you're achin’ to get fucked.”

You take a shuddering breath. “I just want you—”

“Yeah?” It's a growl. His cock spits prespend in his trousers. “Then be my good girl. Go home and wait for me.”

It's quiet on the line. He catches the hitch in your throat, the sharp exhale, like you can't really be sure if he's serious or not. He says nothing. Waits.

Where there would have been a fight—fists and teeth and snarling words—you quieten in the silence. Docile. Submissive. It's in you, he knows. He saw the glimpses back when you first met, when he'd bent down and fixed the bike he broke. All it needs is a little—

“Jus’ worried about my sweet girl, is all.”

And you relent.

Corrosive oil spills out of the necrosed holes in his head. It curls over his thoughts, liquid sin. He takes himself in his hand, blood pulsing in his veins, white-hot, damning, and bares his teeth at the urge to come to you, to push you down on the floor, and mount you like a snarling beast—

“Good girl,” he growls when you tell him you'll call a taxi, that you'll go home and have some wine with your friend instead.

Friend. Friends.

He'll have to do something about that.

(The thing about deprivation is that it bleeds into a vicious sense of possession when it's finally obtained. Greed. His wants have wants, have wants—

A perfect ouroboros. One you feed into almost destructively.)

Because the thing is—

Simon wants to tie you to his bed. Keep you locked up in the safe house he has in Manchester. Chained, shackled. A prisoner with him as your iron guard.

It isn't just fantasy, either.

The flies that congregate around you are an annoying, incessant buzzing in his ears. Remora clinging to the biggest fish.

But they're easy to scatter when he waves his hand.

(Waves off. Threatens with bodily harm, with physical aggression—

Same thing.)

The sting in his knuckles and the blood on his shoes are worth it in the end when your tantalum skin cracks. An aggregate of beautiful lines, pretty in their fragility, their brokenness. He wedges his fingers between the splints, widening the chasm to pet at the sticky-soft centre hiding beneath all that rough rock. Sweet girl. Hard candy enclosing taffy-softness.

His coos melt you to the consistency of mercury. Liquid silver pebbles along your lash line, spilling over in a dizzying display of raw vulnerability.

It makes every predatory instinct inside of him bristle. Locking onto the sweet lines of crystalline sadness that run down your cheeks. It has his heart racing. Eager, anticipatory. The thrill of the chase, of running you down into the ground until you're fine powder under him.

And it’s there, it's in his arms—the maw of a beast—where you seek comfort, lamenting the loss of your friends, your coworkers. No one wants to hang out with you anymore. They don't return your calls or answer your texts.

What did I do? You sniffle, throat bared. Belly turned up.

Flooded with tears. The lachrymal face that peers up at him makes his teeth ache. He rolls his head back, feels himself thicken in his pants.

Simon loves it when you cry.

“Fuck ‘em,” he rasps, words sticking to his dry throat. “If they can't see what a catch you are, then they don't even deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

It makes you cry harder, makes you mumble into his chest about how lucky you are to have someone like him. Someone who cares.

His breath hitches. Warm floods his veins, fever-hot.

“Thank you, Simon—”

And then you, smooth silver and wickedly sweet, cradle him in your palms as if you could hold all the broken pieces of him together.

He thinks it's cute.

Doesn't really have the heart to tell you it's a lost cause.

“Anytime, pet.”

And you're perfect, too.

You take this mangy mutt into your house, and let it eat your food, sleep in your bed. You let him fuck you stupid, and listen so prettily when he convinces you to let him spoil you. Let him pay your rent, your bills. Let Simon dote on you the only way he knows how—mercilessly possessive, and a touch cruel, mean—but you roll over, showing your belly. Submissive and sweet.

It's even better when you try to lash out at him with a collar in the shape of his teeth branding your neck, spitting and hissing like a feral cat who doesn't know yet that's claws have been clipped. Only to then curl up in his lap, purring as he strokes your fur, and carves out a place for himself in your life.

He wants to sink his teeth into you, and you think he's a big dog. Undomesticated. One who comes and goes as he pleases. A stray. A mutt.

It's said fondly. Full of love—

His mouth is full of cavities. His teeth ache. His gums bleed.

(do you know he's rabid? that the faded name on his dog tags once read cujo—)

Everything about you makes that sludge flood behind his eyes, pounding rotten fists against his temple. take, take, take; mine, mine—

The howling doesn't stop. It tells him to press you into the mattress and fuck you stupid. Tie you to the bedposts and never let you go—

He throws fists in the dark, trying to hit the madness in his head. Ends up with bloody knuckles and laughter in his ears.

(a voice of reason says, your bird is too big for a cage—)

He clings to it.

You're warm beside him. Burning hot. He syphons it from your veins when you're asleep, pulling you close just to feel something on his skin other than dirt. Other than blood.

It's easy to pretend he's fine with these little nips. Leaving teeth marks in your neck. Bloody rings snaking up your thighs.

He wraps one hand around both of your wrists, holds them high above your head, and tells himself it's enough. Shackled by him, under him, as he takes you apart, pulling at your sense of independence like the gnarled fingers of winter bringing defoliation to summer's bloom, but even with this, all of it, he still aches. Still wants. Needs—

Stupid fuckin’ mutt.

Then you bring his hands up to your throat, letting him wrap his bearish paws around your delicate neck, and he knows these little bites will never satiate the hunger in his guts.

He wakes up the next morning feeling warm. Full. Edges softened, if only just, by the sticky sweetness of your breath ghosting over his chest.

Simon curls his arm around you, holding tight. He won't let go. Won't—

Hide it. Put it away.

Ghost does neither of those things. He buries it, instead.

But in doing so, you find cracks in the foundation. Ones that are just big enough for your willfulness to slip through. To hand him back the cash he gave with a scoff, and a, i work, too, you know? i don't need your money, Simon. that's not why i’m with you—

(All he hears is, I don't need you.)

And then you send him a text. I'm going out with friends from work tonight. We're going drinking. I'll talk to you tomorrow!

In the zombified remains of his head, a new howling starts. The hisses tell him you're pulling away, running from him—

It's a big world out there. It'll eat you whole—

Like Tommy.

The thing about want is that sometimes it grows teeth, hands. Claws. Without a body of its own, it tends to mould itself after its maker because that's all it knows how to do: devour, consume. Yearn.

He shouldn't be too surprised to find that this need of his has dug itself out of the grave he buried it in.

(he did, too—)

The flimsy sarcophagus cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant.

The howling in the back of his head stops abruptly. The pulsing ache in his temple abates. It's heavy, this weight. This absolute, utter emptiness—

No. It's not hollow. The chasm isn't drained, it's—

(In the silence, something growls. Feral. Possessed.)

—full. Perfect equilibrium. All of the patchwork parts of himself, the ones that don't quite fit, suddenly find synergy.

Communion.

Ghost cocks his head in consideration.

(your bird is too big for a cage—

—but maybe a collar would do.)

—after all, could you ever leave him with his name etched into your womb—

In leaving the key under the mat for him to come and go as he pleases, you've left yourself vulnerable. But—

Not anymore.

He has a safehouse he'll take you to. You'll let him, too, because it'll be the best choice for you. The three of you.

He's never entertained any ideas of family, not when the closest approximation he has is drenched in gun oil and smells of smoke from artillery fire, but the howling in his head quietens at the idea of it. He can't shackle you to the bed—stupid fucking mutt—but he can tie you down all the same. Make you his. Wholly. Always.

And the thing is—despite a pickaxe making figure-eights out of his grey matter; lead poisoning and rust giving him these sour, awful thoughts about locking you up in his house, leaving you a needy mess, dependent only on him—Simon supposes he knows right from wrong.

Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger.

But in carving himself a place in your life, he failed to realise that the walls behind him closed in. No way out. And so, his only option is to go forward. To keep moving.

He'll be crucified for this, but that's fine.

He doesn't intend for you to find out, anyway. It'll be an accident. He came home early, and found you drunk. Drank with you. Your drunken idiocy merged, creating a terrible, noxious cocktail of awful, bad choices. Permanent ones. Irreversible.

(You're so sweet, so docile when you're drunk—)

It'll be easy to convince you. To play the part of a stoic man suddenly in turmoil. You'll offer to get rid of it, a suggestion that he'll flinch at—a cornered dog, a hand raising in the air. You'll whimper. Shake in his arms as you tentatively smooth over the wrinkles in his brow, murmuring out your options in a stilted breath.

You'll be a Riley before the end of your term. It's only proper, he'll mutter, stiff and uncomfortable, and you'll melt. Liquid tantalum in his palm. The fruits of his labour laid bare, seeping from the corners of his mouth. Tucked tight between his teeth. Mercury he can swallow down, keep in the bracket of his rotten ribs. Safekeeping from this world that just takes. Devours.

But not if he eats you first.

The mere notion alone serves as an anchor, locking him to the seafloor. The tumult in his head calmed at the promise of owning. Biting to claim. To have. Greedy for it. For you, and the strange sense of quiet your proximity brings him. The warmth, too.

He's a rabid dog. This he knows—has known—for quite some time. Indisputable. It pools in his mouth. Liquid sin. Makes him ache for just a sip. Unquenchable, though, because he's wary of water. Hydrophobia, but only for how it washes his efforts away. Cleanses.

The urge inside of him to bite, to infect, quietens when he gets closer to you.

(a rabid mutt licking at the window you're on the opposite side of, dreaming of just a taste—)

A byproduct of that maddening virus in his veins, the one he must have picked up six feet in the ground. Bite, bitebite—

—and give you a collar in the shape of his teeth.

He finds you in bed. A bottle of wine on the end table beside you, courtesy of your friend. The one lingering remora he couldn't snap at—one who sends you messages about how you are being manipulated. Taken advantage of. Fuck that loser, the latest one says when he picks up your phone, scrolling through the dwindling conversations housed within. Just him now, and them.

It preaches about empowerment. About how you shouldn't let a man pay your bills (textbook manipulation. he's putting you in a position of dependency. making you feel obligated to stay. it's all on Google, babes. like, fucking get a clue!!!!), or how it's moving so quickly (maybe you should come stay with me in Durham for a bit, hun. get away for a weekend. i worry about ya, is all). He hums, thumbing through the old chats.

You told her to fuck off about the manipulation, but it came after a lot of, oh, yeah. well, he's just. you know. he's different, and you haven't declined the invitation. i’ll think about it, is what you write.

It simmers under his skin. That independence he plans on stomping out under his heel. With his kin.

(sick, sick sick, wrong—)

It's desperation, this. Clawing at the walls—the dirt—until his nails are torn off his fingers. Until his skin splits, peels. Broken under rock and rubble. That animalistic need for air. To breathe. Basic training tells him not to save the person drowning unless he's sure they won't kill him in their struggle to live. But what's he supposed to do when that person is his rotting body, sinking down to unfathomable depths? When all he has is you to cling to—

Damnation built by his own hands.

You'll die together, he reckons, and tosses your phone on the hamper in the corner of the room.

Ghost can't remember the last time someone made him feel anything at all other than impartiality. Indifference. Casual apathy.

Price is the exception to this on the grounds of being consanguineous to him.

And you—

An outlier.

One he intends on sinking as deep as he can with. Anchored, maybe, by this little plan that beats and pulses in the back of his head. That clogs his throat with a want so thick, he can already taste the brine from the ocean. Water in his nose. Down his esophagus—

Better than dirt, he supposes. And it spurns him forward.

You're malleable like this. Tensile. He bends you easily with just a touch until you're flat on your back, a pillow shoved beneath your tailbone, and stripped. The loose shirt you wear to sleep is hiked up under your neck. Panties are pulled off until your sweet, bare cunt is revealed to him. All pretty and soft, and his. Untouched, he notes, and gives an appreciative stroke over your clit with his thumb.

It was something you were whining about the other day, panting in his ear as if he wasn't a continent away. Pleading with him on the phone to please, please let you come.

Simon likes the way you cling to him when it's been a while since something has wrecked you as thoroughly as his cock. When your spoiled pussy was neglected for a few days, weeks, and starved for attention. You were so sweet to him then, cooing in his ear how good you've been, how much you want him and only him, need him. Begging so prettily for it.

He's almost sad to spoil himself in your cunt when you can't weep for it. Can't bully him closer. Try to claw his eyes out. That delicious push-pull where you hiss at him for pulling away, but whine when he gets too close.

Sad, but—

Not enough to stop himself.

You're not wet enough for him to slide inside unprepared—his cock too big, something that makes his bones tremble—and he rectifies it by leaning down, letting saliva pool between his teeth and lips. He holds it there for a moment as he spreads your folds apart with his thumb and forefinger.

And then he spits on your bare cunt.

It hits your clit, the thick glob siding down your slit. He reaches between your thighs, pawing at you. Slides his fingers through the slick mess he made, teases around your tight rim.

Simon usually likes to take his time with you. Lapping at your pussy for hours until you're a weeping, snot-nosed mess whining in the sheets. Spoiled rotten. Begging him to fuck you already, Simon, you can't take it anymore—

He's mean. Cruel. Edges you for hours until your legs shake, trembling around his ears. He never lets you reach that peak—doesn’t let you come until he's buried inside of you.

Coming on his tongue, his fingers, is rarely a privilege you ever earn. Too much of a spitfire, a spiteful little kitten, to give in and do what he demands. So he keeps you on the precipice until he's ready to fuck you, ignoring your bribes, your bargains. Simon doesn't give in even when you beg, when you relent and tell him you'll finally be good.

You never are.

Spoiled, he always huffs. Down to the fuckin’ bone.

Like now. Pulling away from him. Him, the only person in your life who stuck around. A little bullying (bones breaking, splintering under his fists; the wet, hot smear of blood on his hands, skulls smacking against the pavement—an’ if you tell anyone, he cracks his battered fists and it sounds like a snarl, a gunshot, your parents will be cryin’ over an empty grave—) shooed the gnats away. He took a more clandestine approach to others. Birds that kept circling you tight. Protective, shrill. They made his head ache, but—

(don't want to start nothin’, but i don't want to be alone wit’ ‘er. tried to kiss me, is all. ain't like that, pet—)

It was a test. And they all failed. All but him.

Yet—

come to Durham.

i’ll think about it.

Ungrateful. It's his fault, though. Simon doted on you too much, cosseted by his affection, when he should have clipped your wings from the beginning.

Ah, well—

Lesson learned.

You're wet enough now. He pushes in two fingers, scissoring them apart. You'd be yowling at him, kicking up a fuss if you'd been awake. But you're not. It thrums through him. Thick, heady. He likes you like this—probably more than he should. The heat simmering in his veins bubbles. Pops. Sap on charring wood. It clogs his throat with his smoke until it burns, a dry forest fire.

He needs you. Needs to be in you. He's tired of waiting. Impatience burrows into him like a maelstrom.

Simon adjusts his hold on your leg, fingers curling behind your kneecap. Steadying himself. His fingers slip out of your cunt with a sloppy squelch that ghosts across his spine. Anticipatory. A touch anxious. He wants you. Wants you bad—

He takes himself in his hand, and slides the weeping tip over your slit. Taps it once, thrice on your clit. And then guides it to your centre. Your warmth bleeds into him. Eager, he shuffles forward. Feeds you his cock. Eyes drilling into the place where his head slips in, swallowed by your sloppy, wet hole. The glands make you stretch around him. Rim pulled taut.

The sight alone must have been crafted by some Luciferian dream, dangled before him in the shade of nirvana.

take a bite, it urges. and then take more—

Like this, passed out with your legs hitched over his shoulders, drooling into the pillow unawares, you're just a doll.

Made for him, and—

“Fuckin’ hell—” He presses into you—cock splitting tight, warm heat—and tries not to lose himself to the sensation of being bare, raw, inside of you.

—“A perfect fit.”

It's always been condoms. You're not on birth control. Ink blots in his eyes. He goes a little feral with it. Instincts unleashed. Unfettered.

Simon bullies his fat cock into you until his hips tap the back of your thighs, buried as deep as he can go. It's molten heat cocooning him—a warm embrace. For the first time, ever, he thinks he understands the meaning of home. Sliding home, in particular.

(Welcome home. Home. Home. He'll make a house out of your body. Sleep inside the brackets of your thighs, head pillowed on your chest—)

As good as you feel around him—slick, wet, and tight—and as much as he wants to saviour the sight of you, passed out on the pillow, cunt split by his cock, he has a goal, a mission, to see through.

His hand falls, slick and tacky, to your lower belly. Palm pressing against the subtle bulge in your abdomen, the outline of his cock. You always whine and hiss that he's too big for you. That you can't take him to the root.

Hurts, you complain, hand against your naval. Fingers knotting over the place that aches.

He presses his fingers there instead, feeling himself under your skin. Changing your anatomy to make room for him to fit—

It lights him in fire. Spurns him on. He bucks into you, pace sloppy, clumsy. Selfish. He's unrelenting as he splits you apart, drilling the full length of himself into your supine body, supple flesh relaxed under him, practically melting into the sheets.

The thread keeping his resolve, his self-control, sprung up tight begins to quiver. Each piston into you has delicate fingers drumming across the strings of a harpsichord. It reverberates through him, echoing in the stifling, suffocating, silence of the bedroom, overtaking it. Clouding it with the musk of his desire, his devotion to you, to this dream blooming in the prison of his mind.

Everything narrows into a needlepoint.

There's just your burning flesh beneath him, softer than it's ever been; pillowy. Welcoming. And the sounds of him fucking into you—lewd squelches, slick and wet; the sound of his cock finding home in the basin of your spread thighs; his heavy breaths, his groans and growls that seem to rattle the bed. The noise breaks, an incomplete requiem of sin in his head, and he loses himself in the lulling notes, dragged under in the bestial beat of taking what his—

A sudden noise shatters through the room. Beneath him, you stir, gasping wetly. The sound mangled in your throat.

There's confusion in your sleepy, hazy gaze when you peer up at him, lashes clumping together. You moan, whimpering, as you struggle to latch on to the threads of cognisance that he's content to fuck out of you. Your hand lifts, falls to his wrist still pressed against your lower belly. The grip is lax, loose. You’re not pushing him away, but clinging to him. Centring yourself.

It makes his blood thicken. Has him burning red-hot.

“Wha’s a’matter, pet?” He taunts, grinding his cock into you hard enough to make your dazed eyes water. Your hand tightens around him, holding steady. “Don't like it? Not fuckin’ you hard enough?”

“Simon—”

His name tapers off into a keen when he angles hips, and starts pistoning into you with a mean, merciless fury. The desperate noises that spill, unhindered, from your slack mouth is the perfect accompaniment to the lewd sound of him fucking your sopping cunt; the piece he was missing when this started. His requiem, complete.

It's a serrated blade to his self-control, already frayed and threadbare as it is. The pressure makes it snap.

“C'mon, sweet thing. Thought you wanted this?”

There's a place in hell just for him. It's sealed when you blink your tired, sleepy eyes up at him, mind a slurry of lingering somnolence and the heady alcohol on your breath, and offer a shuddering whimper. Always so soft for him, so agreeable when you’re drunk.

“So’ry, Simon—”

You can barely string words together. Poor, pitiful you—vulnerable under him. Breakable. Malleable. Anyone else could have tricked you into this same position when he was away. Got you beneath them like this, compliant and unawares, and took what belongs to him.

(The only thing in this destitute existence he claims for himself—)

Not anymore. Not ever again.

It's almost callous when he grinds into you. Hateful. Brutish. Furious. And dazed as you are, you barely even flinch at the snarls that spill, unfettered, from the back of his throat. The low groans of him making promises with devils unknown; constructing shackles from brass, iron.

Entrenching his future in motion, cupped protectively between the parentheses your thighs make around his hips. It's almost a vicious sort of poetry, one laid bare in the odious ruins of that broken thing he calls a heart. Etched into his rotten pericardium. Necrosed devotion. He'll see it through—however noxious, and putrid, you might find the miasmal stench of it spun tight in his web.

It's for your own good.

And as if you agree, you answer him in perfect euphony, moaning sweetly as you tilt your hips up for more.

Ghost groans low in his throat, bestial and spinning rapidly out of his control. He feels everything spinning, slipping; the trudge to the finish line narrows into a pinprink. He needs something to cling to, to hold on to with broken hands—

The only purchase he finds is in your demise.

His hand lifts, shaking yours loose. He reaches up, fingers dig into your chin, forcing your pouty mouth open. You blink at him, sluggish, but he catches the thin gossamer of awareness spooling thin cobwebs over darkened crevasses, covering the canyons in your eyes with cognisance. It makes him leer.

“Stick your tongue out, pretty girl,” he rasps, words sticking together, muffled under the mask. Crushed aggregate stone under the weight of his own desire. “Tha’s it. Open up nice and wide—”

He lets spit gather again, pooling on his tongue. It's degrading, you always say. Gross. But you swallow it down like a good girl, anyway. Always. You come at him with fangs and claws, but somehow, you always merge in a perfectly dizzying polyphony.

Ghost spits on your tongue. Lets it land right in the middle of fleshy pink. A sick, twisted pleasure thrums in his veins at the sight.

There's checking the boxes of an established kink, and this. Horrifically proprietary. Ownership that ignites a fire in his marrow, setting him alight from the inside out. Turns bone into blackened char, cinder. He can almost taste it on his tongue.

It's made worse, turned frenzied, when you—sweet, perfect, you—bracket it protectively in the curve of your tongue. Completely dazed, head filled with a heady slurry of somnolence and alcohol, but still aware enough to know, even if only through muscle memory, what you're meant to do when he spits in your mouth.

If anything, you're more obedient like this. Little doll. Coddling it lovingly, this little piece of him that he gives you.

And it might be the madness speaking—these fraying thoughts take on a vitriolic edge, corrosive aqua regia pooling in his throat—but Christ. He's been stabbed in the guts, repeatedly, and it somehow packed less of a punch than this.

He wants, wants—

Family never crossed his mind, was never even on the table or something to be considered, but with you it brims. Blooms in rot. Roots in tenebrous.

He has this insatiable urge to devour you whole so you'll always be with him. The waves of his desire are monstrous. The waters below are rapacious. A gaping maw eager to eat you up—

Pity it’s not an option.

But he’ll make do. Buy a ring tomorrow. Something pretty that matches your eyes. The curve of your smile. Sanctioned ownership. A collar in gemstones and gold, glimmering and shining bright enough that should any light fade from your gaze, it’ll illuminate in the gloom; twilight made in sorrow. The prettiest blues—

Said eyes water. Ghost’s hold on your face relaxes when you give a muffled keen, cheeks bubbling up against the pressure. Tongue still stuck out even as he takes his pleasure from your supine flesh. Suspended in motion, stasis. Such a good girl for him—

He swallows. Tastes poison, rot, on his tongue. “Swallow.”

You're a little sluggish, a little slow, but you follow his command all the same. He knows, then, that it could only ever be you.

No one gets under his skin like this. No one makes him itch, want, crave, as much as you do—

You make a face, twisted up in some amalgamation of pleasure and confusion. It nudges the ruins of his chest and feels almost like a heartbeat when it pulses in his flesh.

“Simon, Simon—”

His name is all you can say, and he's not sure if you're begging for mercy, or muttering it out into the scant air between your heaving breaths like an obsecration, an orison, but he eats it all the same. Bites down on your pleas, your cries, your prayers, and chews them up between fangled teeth. Takes them down into the swirling pits of his belly where they're eaten alive by what grows in the decay.

(belly full of dirt:

he heaves, and heaves, but nothing comes out even though he can taste humus in his throat, feel worms using his organs like a playground—)

“Somethin’ you want, pet?” He taunts, and shifts his hips back just enough to drag a few inches of his cock out of your drenched cunt. A tease—cruel and mean. He’d get lobbed upside the head for this had you been in your right mind. A tap to his temple, shaking the cobwebs loose. He would have bent down, and sunk broken teeth into your jugular. Merging violence with love until bloody knuckles feel like a kiss. “All you ‘ave to do is ask. Use your words, pretty thing—”

You whine, low and drawn out. A lazy whimper in the back of your throat. “Pl’se—”

You can barely speak. Tongue too thick. Sleep too heavy in your veins. Alcohol, too. A lesson, perhaps, for his willful little pet come the morning when you struggle to measure just how deep into his gullet you’ve let yourself fall.

He can’t help rubbing salt into the shallow cuts, if only because he likes the way you pout.

“C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better’n that.”

And damn him—damn you—you do. Your hand curls over his wrist, pulling it close to your mouth where you place a kiss against his palm. Tender. Chaste. Midnight blooms in your eyes, casts shadows under pale moonlight. His breath stutters in his chest when you lean your head back, letting his hand fall to your bared neck.

Your heavy, lidded eyes gaze back at him, cutting through the shade of night that sews the air like satin. Etched in the file silk is threads of trust in stark white. The kind that bleeds for him; hungers. One that aches, always tender like a bruise. The throb of it echoes between mouldering ribs. Booms between his ears.

Ghost doesn’t fall into pieces. Doesn’t shatter. No. Something in the splintered remains shifts. Settles. He wraps his fingers around the thick of your throat, thumb notched tight against your pulse, and he feels complete. Whole. Remade from the ruins.

Your breath hitches. The sound is a gunshot in his ears. He squeezes down, a gentle press. Just enough to make the air spill out of your lungs, to let your eyes water. Lachrymose, eager. It does something to him when you cry. He feels tipped upside down, torn inside out. Left all askew, asunder. He wants to drown in the pebbling river growing against your lashline. Wants to drink it down until it quenches his neverending thirst. Wants, wants—

He feels his name spill from your lips. Brassy and broken, trembling against his palm. A plea—

More.

And he gives it to you.

Simon hitches your ankle on his shoulder. Adjusts the grip he has on your throat. He settles over your body, blanketing you under his bulk. Stygian beast devouring the maiden whole. The thought amuses him even as it knocks the air from his lungs.

He anchors himself into the mattress with his knees, steadying himself, curls his other hand around the iron ring of the headboard. All the while, you look up at him—glossy eyes burning coals in the dark, in the gloom. Wanting, hungry. Mouth held open as if you’re waiting for his scraps—

And then he bucks into you, the leverage giving his thrust a savage edge.

The whines are snuffed out under his palm. Your eyes widen, tears now spilling down your temple, soaking the pillow below your head.

He groans, head rolling back. “Fuckin’ hell—ain’t you a pretty sight?”

Tucked under him, throat swallowed by his palm. Split on his cock, slick and wet. The tears streaming down your face makes him feel wicked, foul; but the spit running down your slackened jaw quells any doubt. The hand on his wrist holds him tight, tighter still, to your flesh.

You want this. His spoiled rotten bird.

So, he gives it to you.

Simon’s almost ruthless when he snaps his hips into yours, cooing viciously into your ear about how you feel, how you look, how you sound—so pretty wrapped around him, under him; his little doll—

“S’where you belong, pet—” guttural words spill, flintlike and savage, from his mangled throat. Reinforced with the hateful way he blugeons his cock into you. Times it perfectly with the firm squeezes against your jugular, never letting you catch your breath. Your eyes roll back, legs trembling. Shaking. But you don’t move, don’t struggle. The hand on his wrist is a shackle, and it makes him smirk, scars pulling up in a gnarled mess of mirth; ugly and mean. “Right where you belong. Ain’t tha’ right?”

He leans down, babbles nonsense into your temple. Promises you the heads of gods, the ichor they bleed. Swears he’ll build a shrine for you in Durham.

But for as mocking as these words he murmurs into your ear are, they’re tremulous. Raw. A current roars beneath; a steady stream, a plea, all full of need: stay, stay staystay—

(please)

He buries his nose into your hairline to stem the ravening ache in his guts, breathes in the heady scent of you—of sex, and wine, and sweat. Drags it into his lungs in harsh, angry gasps to stain his skin with the smell of you. Of him.

It goes right to his head in a heavy rush until he’s dizzy, almost sick, with the swell of it flooding in. An animal, he thinks, drunk on merging pheromones that make him mindless. Unfettered.

It’s as if he’s driven on instinct alone; his frenzied pace ebbs, grows sloppy. The air around him feels thick. Syrupy. Stifling. The balmy breath in his chest is nearly as unbearable as it is addicting. Sickeningly sweet. Still—

His chest expands, taking as much of the potent miasma into his lungs as he can, filling them up, up, until he feels the edges threaten to brust. It’s only then, when ink moults across his vision, that he lifts his head just enough to shove his mouth against yours, a broken snarl ripping free from his throat as he forces the infectious air into your mouth, down to your lungs. Polluting you with the same sickness. The same rot.

Little hiccups tumble past your lips as you swallow it down, taking everything he gives you, and he catches them on his tongue. Plays with them between his teeth, basking in the salty tang of you—brine, loam; peatsalt. Ashes, guncotton. Molasses. He’s not sure if he wants to drown you in him, or crawl into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth that pulses around his tongue like a heartbeat.

Both, maybe. Everything. All of it.

Always—

But he’s chasing pleasure on fumes. Trying to run with broken legs. There’s nothing refined about this. About the way he cudgels the head of his cock into the places that make your mouth twist away from his greedy lips in a silent scream. His weight is crushing you, he’s sure, but you cling to him harder, holding him tighter. Almost afraid to let go. And fuck—the notion alone is a kick to the chest, harsh and heavy. He nearly gags on the litany of broken moans spiling out of his mouth, landing on your tongue.

Driven mad, maybe (or pussy-drunk, and high off of his own poison); but in that madness, he discovers this:

Nirvana exists between your thighs.

Home, too.

(well—

not yet.)

Pleasure fissions down his spine. The paroxysm taking him deeper into the battle-worn depths of his demise until the walls narrow, closing in. Crushing. No escape. But—

He won’t climb out of his hole he dug. Not until he makes a bed from your flesh; shelter out of your bones. He wants to ingrain himself as deep within you as he can, arsenic subsumed down to your marrow. Poisoned with the fill of him, too sick to let go.

(Bone nausea.

A death sentence.)

It metastasises inside of him, filling the barren spaces up until it leaks from his pores.

He wants it: this dream so tantalisingly close.

Simon lifts his hand from your throat, and reaches out, grasps at it with a shaking paw—

All it takes is a few crass, careless swipes of his calloused thumb across your clit, cock angled toward that spot that makes you rake your broken nails down his back, yowling in his ear for more, there, please, Simon, please—

You clench like a vice around him. A pretty bow tied up at the base of his cock. He bows over you, grunts spilling from his chest as he sinks his teeth into your nape, splitting skin btween his teeth. The warm, ozonous tang of your blood flooding his tongue is euphoric, eclipsing his mind in a haze of pleasure that crackles and burns at the base of his spine, spitting smoke up his body and into his skull.

The harsh whine you let out—all prey, all animal; wounded, stuck under his muzzle—has some part of him, basal and inborn, rearing up. Roaring in his ears, ripping talons across the jagged remains of his head.

(mine, mine, mine—)

He answers your scream with a growl, one caught in the smoke clogging his throat. It sounds inhuman when its wrenched out of his mouth—more animal than man: the devastating howl of a forest on fire—but the feel of it vibrating between his teeth is connatural. Innate. It belongs between his incisors; fits like a puzzle piece in his broken muzzle. Unleashed now. Finally free from this ill-fitting cage he housed it, this goddamn box—

Cobbled together from palm ash and brimstone, ichor and salt. Sewed up with copper sutures in the shape of a man for a perfect fit.

Every cell in his body screams that he was made for this. To be over you, in you. Maw filled with your blood. Pussy stuffed full of his cock.

He might not have clawed out of the dirt for you, but this mossy, gnarled lump in his chest beats now only for you. Apodictic. Ironclad. His teeth in your jugular, your life pulsing wetly on his tongue.

It’s his apotheosis. His end.

His hips stutter. White noise in his head. It drowns out the shrill screams, the hisses. Everything is just—static. Pleasure of a silent kind, humming, buzzing, and molten. Ghost buries himself inside of you as deep as he can, until his cock is fit snug against the plug of your womb, and lays his claim by branding it with the potency of his name.

Tidally locked, you’re dragged down the summit with him, tumbling to your demise. Too dazed, too wound tight in his arms, his embrace, to see the jagged rock at the bottom of the hungry chasm thirsting for your blood, you just cling to him. Refusing to let go.

(silly girl—

His pretty little perigee.)

His body aches in ways that cruelly remind him of his age. Joints stiff, stomach quivering. His knuckles sting when he unfurls it from the headboard, skin pink and raw from the tight hold he had around the metal.

It’s made worse when he heaves a harsh breath, and pulls away from you with a long, drawn out groan. He settles back on his haunches, eyes searing into the space between your thighs. Messy with his spend. It dribbles down your slit, your ass, pools on the sheets below.

Your chest shudders, legs splayed out how he left you. He thinks, viciously, of gazelles, and wonders if the blood he feels drying on his mouth looks anything like the muddied mane of a lion after eating its fill.

“Fuckin’ hell—”

He should clean you up, hide his crime, but he burns the image of you into his head (another tattoo over scar tissue), and drops to a heap beside you. The moment his back hits the mattress and all thoughts of moving are erased in silk, in smoke and clover.

Chest heaving, slick with sweat, he feels the thrum of his victory in his veins. The high of the chase abates, and he nearly purrs with contentment. Hangs his pride on a pedestal, and doesn’t think about the absence of any guilt. Doesn’t even entertain the thought, not when victory dries between your thighs. When you roll over with a huff, reaching out for him.

It's as if you're trying to bury yourself inside of him, crawl into the safety of his ribs.

Ghost grunts, feels his sensitive, spent cock give a feeble twitch on his sticky thigh. The idea of you, blissfully unaware, seeking comfort from the man who writ your body with his virile spend, irrevocably changing your life and entwining it so deeply and so messily with his own that to severe either of you from each other is nearly impossible, floods him with satisfaction so deep, euphorically heady, that his chest seems to shudder. Resounding with some amalgamation of a purr, a grow, so utterly primal, that he sounds more beast than man.

His roots run deep within you, now, and every misaligned piece of his patchwork body seems to sag and shiver in an almost perfect parallelism. Congruence ascertained with the cupping of you between its mismatched maw. Shackled in a baleen prison. Nestled, safe and sound, between white teeth.

Ghost pulls you close, holding tight, and hums. As you drool on his shoulder, dripping with his spend, he knows he'll keep you there forever, until you're nothing but bones.

There's a cloud of confusion hanging over you the next morning, a twinge of uncertainty gnarling across the gaps in your memory. The pieces of a puzzle that belong to a different set. He watches you scramble through them, filling in blanks. Oscillating so deliciously between wariness and discontent.

“‘morning,” he greets, as if his spend hasn’t dried on your thigh last night. Tucked up nice and tight against your fertile, unprotected womb. As if he couldn't taste brimstone in the back of his throat when you wince as you walk, achy and battle-worn from the weight of his desire crushing you all night.

“Morning,” it's a sticky rasp in your throat. He wonders if you taste him on your tongue. “When did you get in?”

“Las’ night.”

You nod, but it's absent. Flickering through the timeline of events that aren’t drenched in black, shaded over like a heavy bruise. Your expression is fractured. Raw. Pensive. Something untouchable, unchartable, and yet he reads you as plainly as the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.

You don’t remember. Don’t know what to make of this chasm, this fissure, that looms, icy and deep, before you. There’s no anger, though. You don’t demand recompense for what he stole, what he took. The lashings he deserves are tucked quietly between your teeth. Hidden under layers of normalcy to prevent yourself from seeing him as is: a beast.

“Well, um. Some homecoming, huh?” You joke, but it's hollow. Flat. Fragile like fine glass. You're digging for more. Rooting around to connect these vague, absent dots that linger, lost in the vacancy of your memory.

He almost purrs.

He wants to chew you up. Spit you in the palm of his hand. Maybe tuck you in his breast pocket, nestled against the lump in his chest—the one those silly enough to dream might call a heart. Keep you there forever. Hidden in the barrel of his loaded gun.

“Bit rowdy.”

It’s horrifically vague, but you cling to the prevacation he proffers to you; a lifeline in the turbulent sea, letting it overwrite the absence, the itching in your skull that must be clanging on the walls, begging for you to run.

“Sorry,” it's sheepish. He knows the ferality in which you sometimes come at him when he's buried deep inside you is something that makes you twinge with embarrassment. Little kitten clawing at the old dog trying to get it to play. Rolling over immediately when it growls. Docile, sickeningly sweet.

But even naive kittens know to watch out for the frothing, foaming maw.

“Did you use a—?”

He dips his chin. “I might ‘ave.”

And you take it as gospel. As truth. Why would Simon have any reason to lie to you about this?

Relief shudders over your shoulders. You relax, inching toward the seat across from him. Gazelle making a home for itself in the lion’s den.

The spell of unease is broken, now, and you quickly fill the chasm with chatter about your day. Your plans. Asking him how he’s been.

You shove at the warning signs until they’re hidden away, and ignore the bones of your brethren scattered around you. All because you trust him.

He aches with the urge to crush it between his teeth.

And he will one day soon, he’s sure, because it’s just as easy to enact his plan as it was to get you to open the door.

It starts with him convincing you to drink with him after dinner. Jus’ a glass. Got this fancy bottle. Reckon we should ‘ave some.

But—

Can’t drink forever—no matter what his dogshit dad thought.

So, he pokes holes in the condoms you hide in the bedside table, a little wary now. A touch fretful about your contraceptives in a way that makes him preen. You have good instincts, but rarely do you listen to them. Your head must be filled with sirens, but it's futile, he supposes. He's already stuffed cotton into your ears.

It only feeds into that gaping chasm that bellows up from the depths that this world is not good for you. That it will tear you into pieces, into shreds. You need him. Need the Ghost to protect you.

Case in point:

You’re needy beneath him, panting and mewling into the sheets as he teases your clit with his thumb. So wet, it almost feels like hot oil on his skin. Syrupy thick.

In your desperation, you cling to him, throat bared. Fragile fine china. Belly up. Vulnerable.

You barely notice when he pulls off the condom, crumpling it up into a ball and shoving it in the pocket of his slacks.. Don’t even react when he shoves his bare, raw cock into you.

You don't even notice.

(or when he slurs in your ear about how badly he wants to knock you up—breed his pretty girl until she’s stuffed full of him, making life with what he offers. salvation in the form of creation. ain’ tha’ a thought? he huffs into your ear, humid mirth curling over your skin. a stain. and the way it unfetters you—tightening around him, gushing slick—he finds his answer, one reinforced in the rolling of your eyes as your common sense, independence, trickle out of your ears and down your slackened jaw—)

And when that fails, he just slips you a sleeping pill. There's always an easier way to the finish line, he finds.

(stupid fuckin’ mutt—)

Nothing bleeds from the cracks he wrought, or slinks from the shadows cast by his machinations until weeks later.

Life just goes back to what it once was—Simon coming and going, letting himself into your home with the door you leave unlocked. You go to work, and chatter aimlessly about this vision you have about a home in the countryside, near the ocean. Saving up—uselessly—for sheep and goats, and the sought-after Highland cows. Chickens and ducks first, you say, and barely notice when his gaze drops, drilling holes into your stomach. Watchful. Leering.

He can almost scent the change on you. Nose pressed to your skin; bloodhound sniffing the ground.

Ghost keeps time in the slow, susurrus drawl of your voice sifting through the cotton in his ears, waiting for those precious decibels to catch on, to tilt up at the end as your eyes skim the calendar he keeps scratching x’s across in red, almost delicate, innocent even though it's from his sanguinary hand. A countdown to something you haven’t yet caught on to.

And it’s all so sweet.

—the waiting game, the subtle changes, the desperate way you cling to normalcy—

Sweet, like the way you carve this life out for yourself, filled with stuffed animals full of idealism. So much so, that it's almost bitter. Acrid. He watches the light glow in your eyes as your plans take shape, moulding putty between your hands, and like a pit viper, he coils in on himself. Frenzied. Fearful—

But only just.

The excitation has run its course. He’s drifting, languid, into his scheme. Content. The notion of you slipping from his fingers is a thought that rarely crosses his mind these days, especially when that house on the prairie grows from an occupant of one to two—

“And, you know… when you're not out saving the world—” your eye roll and air quotes make his lips twitch, tugging at the scar tissue, the acid burns, splashed across his mouth. An ugly fucking Pollock. “—maybe you can come visit.”

“Never fancied myself a rancher,” he drawls, just to watch you squirm. Brow furrowing into a deep ravine as you struggle to make your intentions known without actually giving them sound. Skirting around the issue of wanting him there, of planning a home with him.

(Too much, maybe? Or too soon—?

if only you knew—)

He finds it charming, really.

Still—

“It's just a thought,” you mutter, downcast. He wants to choke on your misery. Your sadness. Drown himself in your anger. Float in your happiness.

Fuckin' Christ—

All this playing daddy in his head has thrown him off his rocker. Made him soft. Sentimental. It's probably why he yields to you. Offers a lazy shrug and another smarmy twitch of his lips.

“Sounds like a plan,” and the way you brighten is a dagger to his chest.

And the thing is. It does. It sounds like a dream, a perfect vision. Just—

Maybe not in the way you'd want.

He's been looking into places unmarred by human hands. Ghost towns, uncharted territories. His home here isn't perfect for it, not like the vast geography of Mexico. The uninhabited wilderness of Canada, places so remote that it's almost untethered to modern civilisation. Islands of forest, mountains, all on their own.

Vast corners and crevasses where someone can disappear and never be found.

But those won't work in tandem with his flighty lifestyle. While he plans on keeping you barefoot and pregnant (common sense in the back of his head screams that he's foul, vile, monstrous—), he will continue to work. Has to, really, to avoid suspicion.

So—

Home it is.

But he gets inspiration from the Highland cows you coo on about and purchases a plot of land in the Western Isles. Gives this whim of his—yours, really—a concrete foundation made of the abstract. The filament provided by his newly christened Sergeant—an overeager mutt that bleeds warning signs from his pores.

(don’t get close, reactive dog. will bite—

the little mutt is a great pyrenees, ain’t he?)

But bless Johnny’s bleedin’ heart, he thought as the man prattled on about this cabin he owns. A place of solitude. Could fire a gun and no one would even peek out the curtains. Beautiful, the way all of Scotland is. The highlands, he breathes in that shade of catholic madness only the dutiful soldiers of god's right-handed wrath can be, is where he keeps his home. A place chiselled from stone, surrounded by wilderness that eats tourists alive.

(he didn’t ask at the time why Johnny was so keen on finding these places scattered around Scotland, ones with little traffic and a nearly negligible amount of souls within the vicinity, but he finds its best not to get too close to mutts crossbred with wolves.)

But Simon is nothing if not devoted, and so.

You’ll get your fantasy ranch in the middle of nowhere. Your highland cows, your billy goats, your chicken, sheep, and ducks. A baby in your arms, too. One that shows its hand the next morning, dashing all your carefully laid plans. These paths of independence of yours run parallel to his whims but never converge. There’s the potential in this for these fraying threads to split, and diverge. Separate.

(But it’s all put to rest at the sound of you heaving in the adjoining washroom. His path eats yours until it’s overtaken. Consumed.

The evasive, unfettered little bird trammelled, caught. Wing-clipped, and all his.)

Any misgivings the part of his gyri not buried under the frothing mess of his polluted grey matter might have is vitiated by the unwavering certitude that, despite his own gains in this, it really is in your best interest.

And maybe it's something that should have come earlier in your relationship—however threadbare that word is in conjunction with the unhinged desire blooming in the pit of his chest; madness masquerading as love or some obsessive, desperate facsimile of it. Maybe a proper man, a better one, might have dug down and fully laid out the reality of intertwining your life with the living dead. That the idea of danger, death, and revenge are all everpresent threats scratching at the walls of this sickeningly sweet fantasy you wrap around yourself.

He’s a dangerous man. A creature of devastation—manmade, bent into, or congenital is yet to be unearthed—which, in itself, brings about a certain lifestyle. One with fewer people around, and always shrouded in secrecy. Friends, family—none of that matters when death curdles gnarled fingers around his jugular.

You’ll get used to it. Eventually. The only other choice is to let you, his now flightless bird, go. Released back into the wild vulnerable and reeking of his stench.

You’ll be devoured before daylight, ripped into pieces—only if they’re feeling generous, that is.

Simon has his own twisted remora. Ones with claws and fangs and a hunger that runs deep. Insatiable. Any scraps that fall from his mouth are devoured before they can touch the sea floor. They’ll crush you in their maw and dangle your mangled body from the gaps between their teeth.

You’re not made for the wild. Not anymore. You’re meant to be protected. You—this fragile, delicate thing. He’ll hold you close, keep you secure and safe in a mausoleum of your own making.

This little glass jar domicile.

A billet in the mountains.

He’ll fill it with the finest things—silk linens, fine china; mahogany and teak, pink ivory; a bed of soft, downy feathers, sherpa, Egyptian cotton; (sticks and stones and grass and moss). Buy you whatever you need. Chickens and ducks. Sheep and goats.

They’ll keep you company when he’s away.

(and if that fails, he can always plan playdates for you with whatever dirty secret Johnny’s been keeping tucked away in the woods.)

He draws an x in the empty, white box of the calendar, the tip of his red marker gliding silkily across the glossy surface. Something unfurls in his guts. Blossoms in his bones. There’s an almost indescribable sense of satisfaction—primal and animalistic—that grows from the upturned dirt in his head. Life composted from rot.

Ghost hums to himself when he turns, the sound nearly a purr—bestial as it is, suffocated under sulphur. It reverberates through his chest, trembling across the brackets of his ribs that expand with his deep, heavy inhale—breathing in the sight that greets him like a lover’s kiss

The kebab he ordered lays untouched on the table across from the television—some trashy reality show playing in the background while you tried to eat; a dating show, you’d said when he merely shrugged, having other things on his mind over what to watch while you ate. It all seems to be preserved in time. Frozen in on the exact moment when you’d sniffed the döner kebab he got for you—the same thing you order each time—and then promptly wrenched yourself back, gagging. The sandwich was flung back in the takeaway box before you slapped your hand over your mouth, rushing into the washroom.

If his phone wasn’t in the other room, he might have taken a picture. A little memento to remember this moment. Framed it in iron and perched it on the desk they gave him back in Hereford, the one just down the hall from Price.

(ah, speaking of—he’ll have to send that caustic bastard a fruit basket, or something, won’t he? maybe some pretty flowers for his lady.)

His reverie is shaken when the door to the washroom creaks open slowly, and you emerge through the gap with sweat on your brow, knots across your forehead, and a shaking hand resting over your churning stomach.

Shame, he thinks. He really should have brought his phone—

You lean against the wall, taking in deep, shuddering breaths to steady yourself, confusion and worry knitting over you like a thundercloud. It tastes of ozone when he inhales. An approaching storm. In the blue gloom of the living room, illuminated only by the light flooding out from the washroom behind you and the static glow of the television, you look etiolated. A wilting flower.

His budding rose.

He coos. “You alright?”

You glance sideways at the kebab on the table, mouth pinching into a grimace as if to stem the nausea still rippling through you. You stare at it for a long moment, seemingly trying to make sense of the reality sitting in front of you on scratched, old pine; confusion runs laps over the dawn cresting in your eyes. This puzzle is too unfathomable for you to piece together; the keys and slots all askew.

The air around him grows still. Silent. Anticipatory. A tiger crouched low in the tussock. A little fawn roaming too close.

There’s a heaviness in your eyes when they flicker back to the wall where he stands, drilling holes into the x. Something implacable frissons over your threadbare expression, fracturing across sallow cheeks.

The air is electric. It pulses across his bare flesh, irritating scar tissue, acid burns, and scorch marks. His skin prickles at its whisper.

“Feelin’ sick, pet?” He ponders, playing pretend. He’s viciously, deeply amused at the desperate denial splashing across your cheeks. The thin shade of askance that unfurls like the leaves of a flytrap when you look at him. “Mus’t’a been the kebab. Bad meat, I reckon?”

You offer a weak nod in response, pinching your lips tight together. The matter seemingly concluded, brushed aside. Pocketed for later.

And you say nothing else for the rest of the night—gaze unseeing, turned inward; pensive—but he purrs in contentment as if everything was alright, sprawled across the couch with his head pillowed against your churning stomach as if he could hear the whisper of another heartbeat from within.

In the saturated blue light, he catches your eyes listing toward the calendar every so often. Wary. Nervous. He thinks you might say something, might ask, but you don’t. It’s caught on a stilted breath. A harsh swallow.

All you do is bring your hand to his shorn head, and raze the stumps of your clipped claws against his scalp. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soothe the madness from within. Scratching that itch deep inside until it goes away. Gentle hands play pretend and dress up as a panacea. Affection to scrape the illness away.

He thinks you should know better than that, even as he leans into it with a soft exhale, more relaxed than he'd ever been his entire life. Content. Unassailable in his conquest.

Simon has always been more scar tissue than man, and no place is damaged more than the upturned tumulus inside his head.

But oh. How you try—

His sweet, sweet girl.

The look you give him the next evening is, in parts, brumous.

A polynya of dread, worry, guilt, fear that frissons across the deep valleys in your eyes, shaded in plumes of darkness, filled in deliciously with the weight of your beleaguered uncertainty. It yawns out before him, this heavy gloom.

So close he catch the embers in his hand.

“Simon… We should—talk. I, uh—”

You hold up a little rectangle, dismay, misery, etched in the blue tinge spreading across your face. It seems to steal the words from your throat, turn them into ash. What else are you meant to say, he supposes, when you look out at the world now from the gape in his maw?

But there’s a veil of wonderment that hides below the tidal wave; this precious, deadly, undercurrent that rents the air, splits his chest in two.

The happiness, however meagre, thin, it is right now (just a sunken boat on the seafloor), is there. Ripe for salvage, and he sees that it’s handled with care. Cupped between his palms, nurtured by his own conviction to do what’s right, an’—fuck, pet—know this ain’t what we planned, but—

but:

The howling quiets, turns to a low growl, and then a susurrus hum, when you shakily utter the words he was waiting for.

“Yes, Simon—”

You shudder when his fist closes over your wrist, pulling you into his purring chest. Shaking like a prey animal in the jowls of a beast, bested and ensnared. It has a profound, almost predatory, sense of satisfaction curling over his bones. He knows this was the right choice, and is sure, in time, you'll come to realise that, too. You’re in the early stages, he knows. Prodromal. You need to be handled with care to curb the lacrimation, the hyperesthesia.

And there’s no one better than him to guide you through the throes of it. To lead you to the unequivocal end.

He leans down, and whispers in your crown—

“Good girl—”

—and the sound of his voice is gravel encased in sticky, sweet honey. Dark, smokey molasses. The very same cadence as a key sliding inside of a lock; metal grazing metal. Turning—

“If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Tommy.”

Click.

(he gives you that ring he promised when he takes you to the mountains. you smile wide, and tell him it fits like a gyve.)

Simon stops shovelling his want under the cold dirt and starts burying it inside you instead. Makes a domicile from your flesh; a place where he can rest his aching head every night until the howling scraping down fractured bone stops— (paralytic)

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #goddd this is foul #and was supposed to be up hours agooo but Nahanni closed at 5 today oops #cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #cod smut #simon riley smut #simon riley cod #ghost call of duty x reader #ghost cod x reader #in many ways this is a psa on the symptoms of rabies

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luveline · 1 year ago

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Hi Jadey!!! I was wondering if I could request Miguel and our spider girl saying I love you for the first time❤️

of course!! hope this is ok<3

You've asked Miguel if you can sit in his lap a hundred times when he's at the workbench, and every time he's said no.

You decide you won't ask.

Not bothering with hello, you wrap your arms around him from behind, tucking your face into the warm crook of his neck. He actually lets you, better, he covers your wrists with a hand where they cross on his chest.

Encouraged, you ease around his chair to the side. Using his shoulder for solid leverage, you climb into his lap, his wide thighs like sturdy logs under your weight.

Before he can say, Hey, do me a favour? Get the fuck off me, or even just lift you up and deposit you into your own chair, you nuzzle into his chest and stay there, uncharacteristically quiet. The hair at the back of his head tickles your fingers as you hug him loosely.

"Is everything okay?" he asks.

"Worried about me?" you tease.

"Where do I start?"

You laugh into his collar breathlessly. He's always been funny, even if he's a bitch about it. He's pedantic and childish at times. A chronic overreacter, but usually right, Miguel sets a new precedent on how stubborn human beings can be. And you love him.

You're spoiled when he puts down his things and hugs you back. His embrace is relaxed for once, a docile quiet lingering between you as he starts to rub your back. It feels shamefully nice. You slouch into him like jello, totally boneless and uncaring about how you might appear to anyone else, eyes closed and face flat to his chest.

You breathe in his smell.

"I wanted to tell you something."

He actually laughs like a normal person, without sarcastic derision, his sincerity like a kiss as he asks, "What sort of something?"

"Something stupid, probably. I want to tell you, but I'm thinking it might gross you out."

You can practically hear his startled blink. "Really?"

You hum. Miguel's hand slides down the side of you that isn't pressed against his ribs to your thighs where you've thrown them over his.

"I'm sure it's not that gross," he mumbles, like he can't quite hide his own doubt.

There, right there, you hear a hint of Miguel before. You can't know that, obviously, but his voice lacks even a hint of bitterness, the insecurity of a normal guy being presented with the unseen. It's sweet. He's reassuring you, though he probably thinks you're about to tell him you have a less than attractive ailment.

You've tricked him in a way. Maybe he'll react better to your real confession now.

"I love you, Miguel." Your hand toying with the soft neck of an old t-shirt, you murmur, "I know you know. I've been sweet on you since the first day I met you, everyone knows that, but I love you. You don't have to love me back or anything, but I wanted to say it."

"I do love you," Miguel says. He doesn't miss a beat.

You breathe in huge and hard and he must feel it. He's charitable enough to ignore it.

"Wait," he says, "was that the gross thing, or was that padding to make the gross thing less gross? Ay, coño, did you get fleas from Sandwich?"

"Peter's dog, Sandwich?" you ask.

"I told that imbecile to stop bringing his dog to work."

"I don't have fleas," you say, sitting back to give him a super judgemental look. "You love me and you think I have fleas?"

"I'm kidding," he says, smiling at you, lips parted so you can see his teeth. He takes your face into his hand roughly but not without love, smoothing it over your ear. "I don't think you have fleas."

"You're ruining a nice moment. We were having a really nice heart to heart type moment and you ruined it with a joke about fleas. How could you?"

"How could I?" he asks, voice softening to a murmur as he ducks in. "I don't know. Is it really ruined?"

"What do you think?" you ask, lips an inch from his, your noses touching.

He kisses you. It's almost like a bite. Quick and firm and pulling you forward as he retreats. "I think we'll recover."

You laugh and tip your head back to allow him better access, your heart like a hummingbird in your chest. Miguel smiles into your lips, maybe the happiest smile he's ever given to you as he kisses you again.

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brokenpieces-72 · 9 months ago

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Stray Fluff

This is part 2. Part 1 is here. If you have any ideas or want to be included in the Taglist, leave a comment or send me a request. In this fic you are a dog, 100% canine, not a human. Enjoy.

“Pffah!” Johnny spat as he fruitlessly held out his arms for cover, and turned his head away while you shook your fur once again. The soap went everywhere including Johnny’s face, getting a bit in his mouth. Kyle shielded himself as well, as you wagged your tail unaware of their displeasure.

“Maybe we should call you trouble.” Kyle suggested, looking right at you. You just panted happily. Kyle couldn't stay mad at that face.

“Don’t name it Gaz ya’ll just get attached.” Johnny said, grumpily.

“The dog isn’t going much of anywhere mate. They’re staying here until we get a transfer sorted for them.” Gaz reminded him.

“Alright get over here mutt.” Soap commands. You obey, but not how he wanted. You walked over to him for another round of shampoo, and jumped up to lick his face, getting him even more soaked and drenched than before. Kyle was sympathetic enough to pull you off of Johnny who was getting fed up with your antics.

Price was still on video call with Laswell trying to figure out what can be done about the poor dog. Meanwhile Laswell was still trying to figure out how to deal with a dog and getting it safely off the base.

“And it stole a ration?” She asked.

“A potato yes. Soap was very adamant.” Price said, with a hint of sarcasm behind his statement.

“Hmm…” Laswell said before starting to mutter over the video call.

“You’re breaking up watcher.” Price commented.

"The dog is from an animal testing facility. Beauty products most likely." Kate exclaimed.

"Dog doesn't show any signs of testing, at least none that I've noticed." Price pointed out.

“There’s a stamp on the collar with a few numbers and a small logo but I can't make out what the logo is. This is very strange, John."

“Tell that to my sergeants currently giving the mutt a flea bath." Price commented. There was a small chuckle from Laswell.

“You’ll be the first to know if anything else comes up. Call it a fixation, but I'm going to do more digging, for now the dog will have to stay with on base.” Laswell said.

"Ghost is already out getting some extra supplies." Price said, guessing this would happen.

"I'll let you know what I find. Watcher out." Laswell said before signing off. Price sat back in his seat sighing. The Dog would stay until they figured out where it came from or a shelter could take it.

Price stood up and headed outside. As soon as he opened the door though, you slipped in, covered in shampoo and water. Price got out of the just in time to keep Johnny and Kyle from running into him. You’re around the corner of the hall in mere seconds with the two sergeants hot on your tail. Price just stood there and shaking his head in disbelief. Simon was standing next to him in a couple of minutes seeing the captain’s wet leg from you rubbing against him, and the remaining trail of puddles. He looked at his captain.

“What do we do with the dog?” He asked. Price looked back at his lieutenant and down the hall again, with neither you nor the sergeants in sight.

Each of the 141 came up with their own ideas. Or sometimes you were the one who came up with the idea.

Kyle would use his off time to give you attention. Didn't take long for it to become a bit of a routine and one you picked up on, finding him somewhere on base just finishing up, poking your head in and wagging your tail. It became a highlight of his day, and yours, as you got plenty of scratches and even belly rubs. Kyle enjoyed it for the chance to be active in a more positive sense. Work could be tiring for him, and he wouldn’t always go outside and throw something for you, but he welcomed snuggles on his bunk. Sometimes you would help with his work, actually listening to his instructions when you're ordered to drop it.

At one point Kyle decided to teach you some basic commands and even had a K9 unit and trainer join to help you learn as well. Yeah uh... you kept getting him tangled in the leash, and more than once you fell off whatever makeshift ramps and platforms they made. You did learn how to sit, stay, and go with leash tugs and spoken word. The K9 trainer would look after you whenever Kyle and the rest of the 141 had to leave to go on missions. You would often spend your days waiting on Kyle's bed for him to return. Anytime you overheard a chopper or jeep you would spring off the bed, barking excitedly until you got outside, standing and waiting to see if they had returned safely.

For the most part, you followed Johnny around while he was working out or doing other stuff on base. He found you a bit of a nuisance. If he didn't give you attention even when you were being so well-behaved, you would nip at his hand or leg. This led to him giving you attention, but it was usually just to chase you off. At one point though while he was working out he started doing sit-ups. You went over to him and sat at his feet before putting your paws on his knees. Your happy face stopped him before he got his first sit making him chuckle. After you helped him with sit-ups you made his push-ups more of a challenge, laying on his back. Johnny was able to distract you with a ball, but you two become more comfortable with each other. Eventually, he’s taking you with him to go running, using a leash to keep you from running too far ahead. You’re still a kind-hearted menace though, taking any food he leaves in reach of your mouth.

Simon found you very helpful. You’re a dog, and he could talk to you when he needed it. On occasion, he finds you sleeping in his bed, sometimes on his chest. You are not unwelcomed. Often you are discovered after he wakes up, sometimes from nightmares. You wake with him, and with you on top of him, you ground him.

“Good dog.” He muttered one night in a cold sweat. You stared at him in the dark and then felt his rough calloused hands massaging your ears. He found you soothing, even when you’re just hiding under the table waiting for something to drop. Simon doesn’t bother sneaking food, he straight up slips it to under the table.

Price didn't know what to make of you for the first week or so. You’re not like most stray dogs that tend to be frightened of humans. You’re curious and you openly show that curiosity. Price is often writing reports and doing paperwork so you’ll try to distract him, by getting a ball or stick. You get a ball and start begging for him to play with you. He has to focus on his work and he expresses this to you multiple times. Then you would see if you could get him to see the toy. He would scold you, and wrestle with you to get off his lap or desk.

Price sighed as one such wrestle led to the ball falling and bouncing away for you to chase. Then he noticed the time. Thinking for a moment he did need to take a break.

“Outside?” He asked you. You looked at him with the ball in your mouth, tilting your head. He asked again. “Outside?”

You wagged your tail as he got up, stretching and feeling his back crack before he took you outside. He was able to track down a large pillow, which was left by his desk for you to relax on so you could nap while you waited for him to finish. After that, if he ever has to step out of his office for drills or anything you’re walking right next to him, toy in mouth. You sit anytime he addresses the soldiers, at attention with the toy still in your mouth. If you couldn't be found on Kyle's bunk when the 141 were away, you could be found waiting on the pillow.

One day Laswell and Nikolai come by. Laswell was there to talk to Price and go over some intel, Nikolai came along as her ride (and to meet you). Kyle had you on a leash and you sat patiently. Laswell was somewhat impressed, seeing as your first story involved you getting into trouble.

“Captain.” Laswell said, shaking the captain’s hand, and then Kyle’s. “Sergeant.”

You gave a soft and polite woof, shifting your two front paws. Laswell couldn’t help but offer a hand for you to sniff. You sniffed it and then offered your own paw to shake which she accepts. None of them had seen you do that before. Nikolai is chuckling.

“Good dog. Knows manners better than most.” Nikolai commented.

“Take it no one has any ideas where the dog came from?” Kyle asked. Laswell shook her head. They all walked bavk inside and you retrived a ball as soon as Kyle got you off the leash. Johnny was close by, along with Simon intent to listen to Laswell’s intel. You took your toy to Laswell and basically sat on her feet staring up with puppy dog eyes. Johnny is snickering while Nikolai is laughing. Laswell looked back down at you while you wait for her to take the toy.

“John could you call them off?” Laswell asked the captain. Then she saw the grin on his face.

“‘fraid there’s only one way for that Laswell.” Johnny exclaimed. Laswell gave him a look that had him avoiding eye contact. You continued wagging your tail waiting for her to accept your gift. Laswell gave in and took the toy. She held it up for you to see before tossing it. You sprung after it quickly and picked it up again, this time bringing it to Nikolai. Nik wasted no time, playing with you, and even doing fake throws. Every time you returned it to him, he gave you plenty of praise and pets. This goes on for a short bit before Laswell can convince the rest of the team to go into a room to start the briefing. You follow the team inside where you're kept occupied by Nikolai.

While Laswell went over the meeting Johnny noticed you out of the corner of your eye and bites his tongue. To his surprise, you sat politely and listened to Laswell as she went over the intel she had brought with her.

Then Laswell brought you up in her intel, making you tilt your head. “Your canine may not be a simple stray.”

Laswell tapped the tablet and the view of the map moved and highlighted a specific location. A factory of some kind. “As suspected they were being used for animal testing. What they were testing was a serum. One that has yet to work without killing the subject.”

“They want to use this on humans?” Simon questioned, thinking this was starting to sound like a plot to a cheesy action movie. If Laswell brought up “super soldiers” he would’ve walked out or called bluff.

“No.” Laswell said. “They’re using it on animals.”

@yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @H0n3y_L3m0n @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444

#john soap mactavish #task force 141 x reader #simon ghost riley #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #cod nikolai #kate laswell #doggo #dog reader #nonhuman #dog bath #how is this a thing #I’m not mad it’s a thing #just shocked #didn’t think this would be request to have a part 2 #call of duty modern warfare

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axoluxy · 1 year ago

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Hi! 👋 Is there anything you don't write or something you enjoy writing about the most? If you're alright with that, could you write something about jd and a reader who loves animals and is always feeding stray cats and dogs? Maybe has exotic pets as well? Id love for it to be something with a masc reader or gender neutral. HC, oneshot, whatever you feel like

"This Again?" J.D. x GN!Reader

summary; see asked ^ notes; GUYS IK I HAVEN'T POSTED ANYTHING AND I'M TRYING TO WORK BACKWARDS WITH REQUESTS, PLEASE GIVE ME MORE SO IT WILL HELP ME GET MORE OUT. ALSO FIRST ONESHOT PLEASE BE NICE!! warnings; intended lowercase, swearing, j.d.'s shit™️ word count; 999 words

second person pov;

it was a slow saturday and you had decided to pay your boyfriend, j.d. a little visit. you had been with him for a little over 5 months and you loved him to pieces. albeit, he was a little frustrating at times, especially with nagging. no matter, you two were hopelessly in love, high school sweethearts who were still in high school.

on your way to his house, however, you heard a grey tabby kitten meowing from across the road. it looked to be hungry and very skinny. you could tell it hadn't had food in days.

'poor thing..' you thought, while simultaneously crossing the street to take care of it. when you went to go up to the small animal, it back away frightened. with a small frown you pulled out a few cat treat's from your side bag that would have gone to your cat, but let's be honest, he was spoiled enough.

you crouched down to the kittens level and held your hand out for it to inspect. the kitten curiously walked towards your hand and sniffed it. it flinched and then went back to sniffing it. after about 45 seconds of the kitten making sure you weren't gonna hurt it, it hesitantly ate the treats out of your hand. you smiled softly at it and went along with your journey to your boyfriend's house.

after a few minutes you noticed the cat was following behind you, seemingly wanting more out of you. you sigh and you melted at the cute animal, how could you not want to keep such a cute thing? you carefully picked it up, inspecting it for fleas and tics. it meowed a few times and you laughed every time it did. sometimes you would meow back at it, it was a habit honestly. once finding out it was parasite free, and finding out that it was a girl. you cradled her in your arms.

"i think i'm gonna name you millie." you smiled down at your new companion, occasionally petting her soft fur. for a stray with no collar and looked starved, she was oddly well-kept. millie softly purred at the new-found affection and stayed snuggled in your arms.

the walk to your boyfriend's house went by relatively quickly with millie to keep you company. every so often, you coo about how she was going to love all your other animals at home.

once arriving to the beautiful house, you knocked at the door. after not receiving an answer you groaned and tried again. eventually, your boyfriend did answer the door and looked at you, and then your arms.

"what's that?" he asked snidely. you just rolled your eyes and let yourself in, since you were used to his bullshit.

"what happened to hello and how are you?" you replied sarcastically. he sighed and went to the kitchen to pour you a glass of water, you followed suit.

your arms were going a little numb from carrying your little girl. he smiled at you looking down at the new cat and gave her a few pets. he was always gentle with animals. he kissed your forehead and carried the glasses of water to the living room with you.

"hello, darling. it's nice to see you."

"that's more like it." you nodded and sat at his couch. you placed millie in your lap and she comfortably curled up and closed her eyes, taking a nap on your lap.

j.d. sat down next to you, your legs touching and guided your head to rest on his shoulder. you smiled and closed your eyes while subconsciously petting millie.

"it's like you pluck every animal off the street and take them to live with you." he chuckles, making you open your eyes. you sighed once more, knowing he was somewhat right. that wouldn't stop you from protesting.

"you're just mad you don't find little guys like this on the street." you whispered, for you were a little tired. he saw this and patted your cheek, making your head jolt up. he laughed at you, not in a teasing way, he just thought you were cute.

"it's cute, i'll admit that much. is it a girl or boy?" he gave the kitten another little pet before his hand trailed down to your thigh. you clicked your tongue and laughed softly, you moved his hand back into his own lap. as much as you enjoyed the affection, now was not the time to be hot and heavy.

"she's a girl. i named her millie." you smiled down at her, she looked so peaceful as she slept in your lap. j.d. laughed at your softness with the animal.

"no, i know you aren't laughing. you love every single animal i take in!" you whisper-yell as to not wake the cat.

"i know, i know, i'm just teasing darling... hey, isn't millie the name you were gonna name that rat?" he simpered at you reusing the name. you feigned shock and betrayal but sigh with a small chuckle.

"yeah, but i just feel like bathtub was a better name." you sighed, knowing j.d.'s going to make another snide comment.

"no, you need to throw that fucker into a bathtub because i swear to god..." he trailed off. you playfully smacked him on the arm and he let's out a small 'ow.'

"rat's are actually very clean animals, plus i know you love him." you correct him. he mimicked you and you rolled your eyes with a small smile.

"don't be like that."

"i don't like that rat, it bites at my shoes." he complained with a exaggerated sad tone

"oh your poor shoes, he only does that because you kicked him."

"by accident!" he exclaimed. you laughed and the mix of the two loud sounds wakes millie up. she meows at the two of you. both your eyes were now directed at her. you and jason both looked back at each other and laughed. maybe you were an outward animal lover, but deep down, you knew j.d. was one too.

after another meow, you meow back at her.

"what? are you a cat too now?" j.d. grins and pulls you closer with a hand on your waist. you gave a small chuckle and shake your head.

"it's habit, my love." you respond. he nods in understanding and kisses your temple, watching you play with millie's paws.

he admired you playing with your new friend and eventually got up to get the new addition to the family a bowl of water.

GUYS IDK HOW I LIKE THIS.

#heathers the movie #heathers the musical #jason dean #heathers 1988 #jd #jd x reader #jason dean x reader #oneshot #jason dean x gn!reader #guys i love him so much i GRAH #like honestly though he's such a cutie #i love animals too though like #they're so agfhagfk #THANK YOU FOR READING I LOVE YOUUUUUU

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edgessunflower · 1 year ago

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Hey there, darling! I'm working on your request! In the meantime, hope you don't mind if I give you one more idea for a Rhea Ripley x reader x Dominik Mysterio: reader is coming home from grocery shopping by themselves and Rhea and Dom are concerned by the fact she bought cat food... Turns out reader saw a little stray kitten out of the grocery shop and they hid it in their hoodie frontal pocket because they didn't want to leave it alone out there? 🥺 My heart needs more healing.

Yesss

I couldn't leave her alone

Pairing: Rhea Ripley x Fem reader x Dominik Mysterio

Description: After finding a bag of cat food in the kitchen, your partners find out why when they ask you

You smile when you see the little white kitten hidden behind a basket as you walk in the grocery store to do monthly shopping for you and your two partners. You unlock your car and slowly walk to the kitten while your groceries are being put in your trunk by an employee, smiling when it lets you pick it up learning it was a girl before putting it in your front hoodie pocket thanking the employee and leaving smiling when you see her asleep in your pocket at a red light before finishing the drive and pulling in the driveway, you unload and put up all the groceries before filling two small bowls full of water and cat food taking them upstairs and making a small litter box near the back door before gently placing her on the bed before changing your clothes and having her explore, eat, and drink giving her a bath and drying her off when you see a text from Dom saying he and Rhea were on the way home from training and a team match as Judgement Day. You put a flea collar on her before having her use the litter box and laying in bed with her asleep on you as you watch tv until you fall asleep two hours later, rhea and dom walk inside and smile at the sweet note you left on the microwave as they eat and watch tv downstairs confused as to why you weren't hugging and kissing them as you normally would but rhea stops in confusion at the small bag of cat food in the corner of the kitchen turning and slowly walking upstairs as dom finds it and follows opening the door to find you asleep on your side smiling when they see you sleeping peacefully until as they closer they notice the small bowls on the ground before dom's eyes light up seeing the small, sleeping, and purring bundle in the crook of your neck gently petting her while you both slept. He puts his finger over his mouth before pointing at the kitten making rhea walk around and see the kitten making her quietly groan as you wake up and smile at the two "Babes!" you whisper yell and share a sweet kiss with them as you gently sit up with the kitten in your lap while dom pets her with his fingers as you look at rhea who despite being confused smiles sweetly "She's been hiding outside of the grocery store for a month and I couldn't leave her alone again...I had to" dom shakes his head before kissing you cheek as the kitten wakes up and climbs into dom's lap while purring making him smile bigger as you both look at rhea with puppy dog eyes "Okay okay you win" you both giggle in victory as she sits beside you slowly leaning her face in front of the kitten who only purrs happily and licks her nose which makes you all laugh as you all spend the rest of the evening and night watching movies naming the kitten Vanilla after she ended up eating vanilla ice cream from your bowl before her face was covered in it.

#rhea ripley x reader x dominik mysterio #wwe #dominik mysterio x reader #rhea ripley #wwe x reader #dominik mysterio #rhea ripley x reader #dominik mysterio x reader x rhea ripley

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powderblueblood · 5 months ago

Text

a cat is only itself

eddie helps lacy process the death of a friend he didn't know she had. a/n: this ficlet is completely self-indulgent and an effort in processing grief. last night, i lost my young cat in a cruel and tragic accident. she would have turned 3 this week. i wanted to write something that would help me process all that happened that night and anchor my love for her. i do not know what to do with all the love i have for her, so i put some of it in here. this is for fran. i love you forever. cw: dead dove, extreme TW for pet death, animal suffering, description of animals in pain, strong language and implied driving under intoxication i guess, classic edlacy banter, angst, yearning. this takes place in that nebulous just friends part of the hellfire & ice timeline. but who knows. this is kind of flung out of time and space. no one is under any obligation to read this as i know the subject matter is heavy. it was heavy to write it. thank you if you do though. wc: 5.7k part of the hellfire & ice universe

The day she came began as unremarkably as the day she went.

Lacy’s boots were biting her–as in, chomping at her toes, due to them being both a touch too tight (doesn’t matter, too gorgeous to leave them behind in the thrift store) and her tights being a touch too thin. An unseasonal frost was creeping in and she’d elected to walk home and not get a backache in the library chairs while she waited for Eddie and Ronnie to finish up with another bottomless Hellfire session.

Rounding her part of the trailer park, she spied movement up by the raggedy chainlink fence. It seemed as if the equally raggedy Mayfield mutt was being bothered by something. A flash of iridescent eyes in her direction and Lacy saw that it was a little black kitten, no bigger than a cantaloupe, swiping at the dog’s nose. Her little eyes locked on Lacy’s little eyes, Lacy huffing out a steamy puff of laughter. That thing was so small, yet it was putting more anxiety on that Mayfield dog than SAT prep put on Nancy Wheeler.

A flash–the cat darted straight to her, circling and dodging around her ankles. Lacy tried to pick her head up, ignore the little bother, but, y’know. Kittens. There’s no saying no to them, especially if they’re uncharacteristically insistent.

Cats usually have a decent sense of boundaries, which is why Lacy was shocked that this little thing dashed into her trailer ahead of her. Tail up, making a beeline straight to her bedroom.

She hopped upon Lacy’s dinky excuse for a double bed, making a seat for herself on a cozy tartan scarf Lacy had earlier discarded when dressing for school.

“Hey… hey. You can’t be in here!” Lacy tried her best to shoo the cat out her open window, but there’s no moving her at all.

They spent the rest of the night just staring warily at one another, a Marianne Faithfull record spinning lowly in the background.

The next day, Lacy found flea shampoo in Melvald’s and washed the kitten in the bathroom sink in the dead of night. The little thing squirmed, a living sudball, biting but not harsh enough to break skin.

“Cat, don’t be a difficult child!” Lacy hissed to her, rinsing out the bubbles so her fur was clean and flea-free, “We’ll wake up Gloriana de Vil, and then she’ll have you for a coin purse. You wouldn’t like that, huh? No?" Her voice slid into babyfied territory, her usual reserve no match for this tiny creature. "No, my little thing?”

The cat, gleefully ruffled through a towel, woke up fresh and shiny the next morning in the crook behind Lacy’s knees.

And that same day, Lacy passed the junk shop on the way to the Bookstore. In the window, she spotted a little leather band with a diamante heart. Just about big enough for a collar.

Every night, the cat scratched on Lacy’s window, seemingly knowing when Gloriana’s Valium would hit and she’d be safe to snuggle in beside her new companion. In the morning, she would sit on Lacy’s dressing table to watch her get ready for school, or for work, or once, a matinee engagement at the Hawk with one Eddie Munson. They were showing Excalibur, and Eddie fucking begged.

Lacy had picked out these dangly earrings that the cat was fascinated by, jumping on her shoulder to bite at the swinging creatures. Lacy had been so preoccupied with humoring the cat that she hadn’t even noticed Eddie watching them through her open bedroom window– but the cat did. She scarpered out upon seeing him, diving into the hollow space under the Doevski trailer’s tiny porch.

She watched Eddie with shining green eyes, all that could be seen under the clapboard.

“Who’s the familiar?” Eddie asked, propping the van door open for Lacy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the coy reply. “Come on, we’ll miss the previews.”

It’s not that Lacy kept the cat a secret on purpose. It’s just that… she loved what they shared. Just the two of them. She'd had so much dirty laundry aired, it was good to have something just her own.

—

The day she went begins as unremarkable as the day she came.

It’s a Saturday evening, a thick, hot greyness hanging over the sky. Lacy’s languishing in her bedroom on a rare day of doing next to nothing, because it’s too humid to even attempt. She has her window open, half expecting company but half not. Her fountain pen trails idly on the paper stock of her journal. Nothing much worth writing down when the air feels this sluggish.

Bang, bang, bang!

Someone’s door is getting a hammering.

Bang, bang!

Must be the Munson’s.

Little close, though.

She heaves herself off the carpet to go check it out, opening the door to a breathless young redhead. Max Mayfield, Hargrove’s stepsister.

“Can I–”

“That– that little black cat, with the collar? The heart collar? She’s yours, right?”

Oh, here we go. Lacy crosses her arms, bracing for the whole, your bitch cat scratched my dog bit. “Why?”

“She just… someone hit her with a car. Up the lot.” Max breathes hard through her nose. She’d run here. That strikes lacy, the pink bloom under her freckled cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Lacy’s neck suddenly feels very stiff. “Wh–what do you mean?”

“Come on. Come with me. Will you just come with me?”

Max’s sweaty hand links with Lacy’s paper dry palm and she drags her up the lot. This is the way I go to Ronnie’s place, Lacy idly thinks as her legs struggle to keep up with Max’s. Standing around with the bound arms of grown-ups raptured by impotence are Max Mayfield’s mother, that lady Nita who does Ronnie’s hair and Carl, the grizzled trailer park manager.

In the middle of the loose gravel and sprouting grass is the little black cat. She is on the ground, and she is gasping. Wheezing. Skinned at the side of her tiny face, teeth missing. The diamante heart she wears glitters against the loose gravel. The blood glitters against the diamante.

“Oh. Oh. Cat.” Lacy’s voice sounds as if it’s folded up in her throat. It feels that way. She doesn’t know what to do with her limbs. She doesn’t know where to step.

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” the Mayfield mom says.

“Some asshole just came roaring out of here, didn’t even… didn’t even stop,” Carl nods gravely.

“Nita’s cousin is a veterinary nurse. She’s on the way,” Max tells Lacy, level-headed and soberly. She is still holding her hand. Lacy notices the rough grey dog sitting close by. She stares at him, hazy-eyed, and he whines. His head drops to his two front paws and Lacy feels lightheaded.

“He tried to help,” Max says.

She feels her knees bend but does not register her brain telling her body to get on the ground. Cat is wheezing, wheezing, a high whine in her little cat throat that nearly makes Lacy echo it. She shouldn’t be out here. Who hit her? She shouldn’t be out here, she’s probably cold. She’s probably uncomfortable.

“Can I please take her home, please?” Lacy asks in about as level a voice as she can muster, which is not very.

“It’s best not to move her, hon. She’s very hurt.” Nita, in her bright shell suit, kneels beside her on the ground. A little speck of blood gets on the fluorescent lilac of her pant leg and Lacy’s breath shortens.

“She is… she’s very hurt,” she whispers, half-reaching for the little feline, half-recoiling, “Oh, Jesus. You’re very hurt. You’re very hurt, Cat. Poor Cat.”

Nita hugs her, which she doesn’t know how to respond to, except to stiffly thank her and vaguely gesture to her stained knee.

Nita’s cousin arrives in a shiny blue Sedan, and they help her safely move Cat back to Lacy’s trailer. She is nestled in a towel with a faded print of Minnie Mouse on it, and they put her up on the Formica table where Lacy and her mother never meet for a meal. A quick flash of fear that her blood might stain the tabletop is soon killed by the sound that poor Cat makes.

On the left side of her face, her beautiful green eye is reddened.

A hard tangy smell wedges itself deep in Lacy’s nose and she doesn’t blink for a long, long time.

Nita’s cousin, the veterinary nurse, a woman with a terrifically soothing voice who she thinks is called Stacie, checks the cat’s vitals. It’s very quickly assessed– too much damage. Spinal. Abdominal. That’s where all that blood is coming from. Paw crushed. She’s still making that terrible wheezing noise.

Rage against the dying of the light comes to mind and Lacy wants to hit herself. Not this. Not sentiment. Not now.

Cat hangs on til the bitter end.

“How old is she?” Max asks, her voice either very quiet or very far away. Lacy cannot tell.

“I don’t– I don’t know. I don’t know.” Lacy looks to the lovely, warm-voiced woman who could be called Stacie. “How old is she?”

“She's very little. Can’t even say she’s reached her first birthday, hon.”

Lacy feels sick, and sicker, and sicker. Tunnel vision shows her nothing but the cat, once with the highest trilling meow, sputtering.

Cat reaches her paw out to Lacy a final time, and she lets go.

Lacy tearfully exhales a noise she’s never heard herself make before, and asks everyone to please, please wait. Please.

They wrap Cat in the tartan scarf.

Max hovers near Lacy, her arms bound tight around her chest, as if shielding herself from the sadness seeping from the walls.

“Do you want me t–”

“Did you see who hit her?” Lacy asks Max. A clear and loaded question; she’s asking if it was Billy. Billy and that fucking weapon of mass compensation he calls a car.

For a split second, Max looks angry at the flash accusation, even though she knows the kind of putrid her stepbrother is. But she tamps it down; she’s a better woman than Lacy is, for a middle schooler.

“I didn’t recognize the car. Just… some fucking asshole,” Max swallows. “If I see him again, I’m putting sugar in his gas tank.”

Lacy just nods and makes some vague-mouthed attempt at a thanks for everything, Max, Stacie, Nita. Nita is hesitant to leave her alone, as is Max, but Stacie ushers them out. Leaves her number, just in case Lacy should need anything.

Lacy spends what feels like an eternity staring at the yellowed plastic of the phone nailed to the kitchen wall. She realizes she’s got no contact for the one person she wants to call. Her hand hovers over the scarf-wrapped cat like she’s trying to cast some kind of impotent spell, and she reaches for the open smokes on the table behind her. Lacy spends what feels like eternity under the awning-covered picnic table, chain smoking and sniffing sulfur from clouds that refuse to break.

—

The van’s lights finally flood the ground at her feet. Eddie emerges, slinging himself out of the van in that loose-limbed metal marionette way that he has. His Hellfire shirt cuts a stinging image in the dark.

He spots her immediately, in that way that makes her sometimes think he enters spaces accidentally looking for her.

Sometimes she does the same.

“Well, what have we got here? A little dark night of the soul with the Marlboro Ma–... Lace?”

Some sliver of moonlight cuts through the tear streaks in her makeup and stops him up short.

“Eddie,” Lacy croaks. Her throat is ashen, her eyes are ashen, her head is pounding.

“Hey, hey…” His voice tunes right down into an immediate soothe, arms hovering around her like they aren’t quite sure how to ring around her yet. “Oh, hey, hey, what the shit? What’s the matter?”

Her throat thickens. “Oh, this is stupid.”

That makes him put a firm grasp around her shoulders. He smells like excitable sweat and Mountain Dew– the Hellfire Club special. “What’s happened, sweetheart?”

A rough sound comes out of her nose. “You know that… you know that stupid cat that’s been coming around my trailer–”

“The cat you’ve been pretending not to have?” She should abhor how perceptive he is.

“Y… yes. She, w– well, someone hit her. With a car. It’s s– she didn’t make it–’

“Oh, holy shit.” Eddie wraps her up in his arms, her head pressing hard into the joint of his shoulder. Lacy’s eyes screw up harder, as if she could push them to the back of her skull.

“They just hit her, Eddie, and they kept going–”

“Holy shit.��

“And I didn’t– and, but, Max Mayfield, she came to get me and– it was just, I didn’t hear the door in time–”

“Come on. No, no. Come on, baby, inside. Up, up, atta girl.” Eddie about props her up, steering her right into his trailer. Lacy’s preset Wayne alarm goes off–is he here, doesn’t he hate me, I don’t want to die tonight too–but Eddie’s quick on the buzzer.

“Night shift, sweetheart. You’re safe. Siddown.”

“It’s so stupid.” She drops in slow motion onto the Munson’s sagging couch. It aches to move.

Eddie sinks in right beside her, leaving no room for a draught between them. He’s running warm, no doubt hopped up on caffeine and campaign mischief.

“Hey. Not stupid. Not stupid.” His voice is featherlight. He tucks the tiniest lock of hair behind her ear.

“I loved that little thing.”

“I know you did. Well–I didn’t have the privilege of knowing you did, really, but you… obviously did, Lace. Shit.”

“Fucking little bitch,” Lacy says, voice a roux of incredulity and betrayal. “I loved her.”

Eddie snorts and pulls her right close. She crumples up and sobs good, like the sounds she makes can’t quite fill the cavern this has created in her. Lacy sobs until her head can’t take it anymore, a wet spot and a streak of mascara left on Eddie’s Hellfire shirt.

But Eddie is sweet and patient, and strokes her hair and doesn’t comment on how ugly she probably sounds. Not at all.

After a little bit, he asks, “Lace. Where’d you find her?”

“Uh. She must be– must’ve been just a stray, you know, from around. I found her giving shit to the Mayfields’ dog.”

“Huh?” Eddie’s brow leaps.

“Yeah,” Lacy breathes, lowly and mirthfully.

“But how did you two…”

“I don’t know. She just locked eyes on me and ran right around my ankles. Right into the trailer before I could stop her and headed straight to my room. I flipped, of course, because of Gloriana but then she hopped up on my bed and did that kneading thing they do? With their nails?”

“The–” Eddie imitates it on her shoulder, his thicker fingers with his blunt nails no match for Cat’s talons. Lacy’s inclined to tell him to keep doing it, though.

“Yeah. Sniffing around. And I just watched her in the doorway. I didn't know what to do, so I tried to shoo her. But she didn’t give a shit. She just curled up in my– my tartan scarf and fell asleep. Like it was her place all along.”

The corners of his mouth press downward, an expression that makes her heart lurch.

“She didn’t wanna leave, huh? She wanted to stay with you.”

“She did. She did. Shit.”

—

“Times of strife call for special privileges.”

“Oh, Christ, the fine china.”

The Garfield mug filled with two thumbs of Bev’s finest fell-off-the-truck well whiskey and three cigarettes later, a slack-limbed Lacy rubs her face against Eddie’s shoulder.

Any other day, any other planet, that’d be cause for some considerable pants action but… it’s difficult. To see her like this. All shocked and scraped out.

“You want to hear a stupid conclusion I came to the other day?” Lacy says steewpid with empty-stomach drinking vitriol. “Just the other day.”

“You know I love stupid,” Eddie polishes off the last of his drink from his I Heart Nabraska (real spelling error) mug and pours them both another. “Hit me. Just not in the groin.”

“I didn’t understand what unconditional love meant before this goddamn cat.”

It checks out, Eddie thinks. Her parents and their affection with strings attached. Her old friends, worshiping a facade. No one really saw Lace at her worst and loved her anyway. At least, not until–

“No shit?” He blames his roughed up voice on the liquor.

“Mm. I expected nothing of her. Every time she left I thought, well, that’ll be it. I expected nothing. And I loved her all the same. Unconditional. No strings, no compromise.”

“No pretending.”

“No bullshit. Ride or die.”

“‘til the bloody end,” he raises his mug to cheers her, and Lacy winces. Eddie’s face crumples, apologetic. “Yeowch. Okay. I’m sorry.’

“No, it’s– I'm just pissed her little face got messed up so bad,” she sniffs. He gazes down at her and wants to poke the pudge of cheek that’s wedged against his shoulder. “I was gonna taxidermy her one day.”

“Really?” Eddie's voice comes out a little pitchy.

Lacy hops immediately on the defensive. “Yeah.”

There’s a lot of bizarro stuff Eddie can get down with, but the whole uncanny valley of the animals thing always weirded him out. “You were gonna stuff the cat? Give it, like marble eyes and shit?”

Lacy, on the other hand, sits up straight.

“Abso-fucking-lutely. We were going to grow old together, and either I was going to taxidermy her or she was going to eat my body when I died.”

The glassy eyes and indignation are additions to a long list of things that make Eddie feel a gold rush of serious affection for this girl. “Oh, honeybear, you are so creepy.”

“Well, everyone says that about cats!” Lacy yelps, wedging another cigarette between her lips. She rubs at her eyes too, the red rims looking stingy and painful now. “That if they’re left alone with a corpse, it’s like an all-you-can-eat, seconds at the breakfast bar type of deal. And everyone gets so goddamn squeamish about it too, I mean, come on, I'd rather she eat me than starve.”

“Warped. Digressive,” Eddie says, his mouth curling up.

“Spare me your five-cent words, I'm pragmatic.”

“You’d let your cat treat you like a church cookout and you’re calling that pragmatism?”

“Of course I would. She's my girl.” She flinches, head shaking. “Was.”

“Is,” Eddie insists. “You know, whole cat-eating-your-face thing… That’s basically a sacrifice to Bastet. Totally transcends mortality.”

She sinks back into the couch and instinctive motion has him throwing his arm up so she can tuck underneath it.

“Know what I called her?”

“This’ll be good.”

“Cat.”

“This’ll be bad.”

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s, you fucking neophyte. ‘If I could find a real life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s, I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name’. Holly Golightly in that bare apartment.”

“I spy a parallel being drawn here, sweetheart.”

“Well, good fucking eye. No… um, I think I finally got what she meant when I moved into…” She gestures, hard, with her cigarette toward the door. Toward her own trailer across the way from the Munson’s abode.

“Mm.” Eddie shifts in his seat. It kind of bugs him sometimes, the idea that she might still look down her nose at the trailer park despite having adapted to it pretty fucking fluidly. Comes with being a chameleon, he guesses, but he wonders if there’s not part of her that’s still wrinkling her nose. “Not exactly the picture of refinement, yeah, yeah.”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles. She’s as close to undone as he’s ever seen her, her mascara caked and flaking under her eyes and her hair all a rumpled mess. Only time he’s ever seen her as close to the edge before this was the last night she’d stormed this trailer. “I don’t know if I've really found my Tiffany's. Maybe this is it.’

“Double-wide with a busted water heater? Should we also check for a gas leak, Doevski? You’re mental.”

“You’re being obtuse,” she says, suddenly pointed like a dart. A flash of his regular serving of Lace. “The Tiffany’s in question isn’t honest-to-god Tiffany’s–she says it's the quiet, the proud look about it. That’s what calms her down when she’s got the mean reds. And I…”

Eddie can feel that he’s wearing that infuriatingly bemused expression he tends to slide on when Lacy is mid-reveal of a profound thought. He can tell by the way she’s starting to glare at him.

“Shut up. Listen. I– I think about it like this. It's 6AM. The sun’s just cracking the sky. It’s quiet, you can barely hear the birds. There’s a hundred identical units across this lot, each one of them housing different lives. Carl in the management shack. Nita in the home hair salon. Granny Ecker and Ron. Everyone interconnected. Everyone… everyone looking out for each other, a little.”

Right. She’d mentioned how Nita and Max and them had rallied around her and poor Cat.

Still, Eddie can’t help a bad thing. He flips his hand in a flourish, gesturing to himself.

“Presenting the great exception.” For all this inter-connectedness she spoke, of, wasn’t nobody looking out for little old–

“Shut up, Eddie. You know half this park has your back by writ of being related to Wayne, you’re just too much of a contrarian woe-is-me to see it. And you’re a pain in the ass on top of that.”

He stifles an argument she would win with a pinched lemon sour face. “Noted. Go on.”

“Anyway,” she exasperatedly huffs, passing him the remaining half of her cigarette, “I sit… on my porch and I have my coffee. And I have my little cat. And I know you’re across the way, probably asleep. It's quiet. And there’s pride in that quiet. In that quiet, I've felt more at peace than I have my whole stupid flimsy life. I can't explain why. I'm a cynic, we know this. But it might be fucking… Tiffany's.”

Eddie’s fingers drum against the crown of Lacy’s head as he considers this. Framing this as some kind of surprise utopia. This skidmark on the outer edge of town. Except, she’d said it in a fashion that made him want to set an alarm for six in the morning.

“Buy some furniture and give the cat a name. Shit.”

“Shit.”

He finishes the last of the cigarette she’d passed to him and takes another sip of shitty, awful, rotgut whiskey.

“... we can find another cat, y’know,” he mutters tentatively, resting his chin on her head. “I’m kind of a–” Don’t you fucking say pussy magnet. Eddie. Don’t. “--a feline whisperer.”

But he’s got grounds, unfortunately. The feral cats around the lot take to following him around like he’s a bigger, hairier feral cat. This might have something to do with him carrying loose salami in his pockets as a younger man. That reputation never really goes away among the feral cat colonies.

“Those mean and scary strays,” Lacy mumbles into his chest.

“Not so mean and scary. Just used to having their boundaries up, is all. Can relate.”

“Can relate.”

“I could unscary one for you. There’s this one little dude, one eye, three and a half legs, I call him Snake Plissken and he–”

“Oh, Eddie,” she sighs; it makes his heart ka-chunk, “There is no other cat. There’s just Cat. She was perfect.”

“Well, she had hefty goddamn standards to meet if she made this much of an impression on you.” Eddie’s mouth twinges. “I’m real, real sorry, Lace.”

“I need to bury her.” The finality with which Lacy breathes it out makes them both sag further into the couch.

But Eddie doesn’t show a lick of hesitation.

“So let’s bury her. You got a spot?”

—

They pull up at Lover’s Lake.

Cat lies in Lacy’s lap, slowly stiffening and losing warmth. Lacy’s fingers stay crooked in the little space under her chin that she would tilt up, up, up for her to tickle. It makes her queasy to think about it too much, and to think about it too little makes her cry. She straddles the line between sick and sad and Eddie plays the radio real low in the truck. Some sad sack station. ‘Don’t Forget Me’, Harry Nilsson. Pathetic fallacy eeks out of the speakers, not used to playing anything this low and slow.

Lacy directs Eddie into the underbrush as they edge off Holland.

“Right over here.”

“This is a nice spot. Not too public.”

“The water. She’d like to see it.”

“The water… for your cat.”

“You know they can swim? Cats can swim. Everybody thinks they hate water, but they can swim.”

She notices that he doesn’t quite swallow that scoff in time and mutters, “Yeah, and they probably hate every second of swimming.”

“But they can do it.” She's driving a point home. It’s about subverting expectations. Stupid.

“Yeah! Yeah, they can swim,” Eddie says, half-way humoring her as he helps her out of the van with Cat, “and if you ask them, they hate every second of it."

“Stop being pedantic.”

“Stop trying to have something to say about everything!”

They both blink at the slight blow of Eddie’s exasperation. Everything feels a little weird and wired and raw right now. He pulls a shovel out of the back of the van, huffing through his nose.

“You’ll rue the day I don’t have something to say about everything,” Lacy winds up, indignant and stepping to him with that poor little thing cradled against her. Her eyes narrow and his index finger floats in her face. She can’t quite place where this is bubbling from, and nor can he.

“You’re staying overnight with me, okay?!” Eddie snaps. He means business. He’s got the finger out.

“Huh?” It comes out her mouth a garbled little protest.

“You’re not going home alone. There. Not tonight.” All he’s missing is a patented and that’s final! Flashes of a night spent curled against him attack Lacy’s frontal lobe.

Yes, is her immediate reaction. She wants that. That warmth he’s thrusting toward her, that security. That comfort. But, one problem.

“Wayne.”

“Wayne’s not back ‘til morning and also, who gives a good goddamn shit?” Eddie froths. “I don’t. My room, my mildew, my rules. Okay?”

She feels shaky in this, his insistence to tug the safety blanket around her. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

His shoulders sag. He nudges his sneaker against the hilt of the shovel. It’s very quiet out here, save for the crickets and the sounds of their heartbeats in their ears.

“Look at us,” Eddie smirks, his mouth twisting for facetiousness, “Fuckin’... Shitkicker Gothic out here. Let’s get this cat burial on the road.”

Lacy nods with a heavy head and starts into the underbrush. Eddie matches her step for step. They end up in a secluded spot deeper into the wooded area. Nature’s bay window looks out onto glittering Lover’s Lake. And if you look right up, the trees open up to a tiny patch of sky. Smattering of stars. Just enough for Cat.

“I don’t mean to be disgusting, Lace, but I really hope you’re not burying Cat at a hotspot for fingerbanging.”

Ambiance shattered. Almost. Lacy glares at him.

“No. People begin to exhibit signs of wigging-outery the closer they get to that weird house on the bank, so they never get past second base here. This is… a perfect boundary for her.”

“Ah,” Eddie nods, his chin resting on the shovel handle. “One paw in the world of lakeside makeouts and the other in the land of the working class criminal.” At Lacy’s puzzled head shake, he gestures to that dilapidated looking house across the way. “S’uh, Reefer Rick’s place. Really clean marker of the social divide you got here.”

“A fault line,” Lacy says. Yeah. That feels good.

“With a lovely view.” Eddie jerks his head toward the flat rocks at the water’s edge and sinks the shovel into the soft soil. “Go sit with her.”

Lacy does. Cat wrapped in her stiffness, her head hidden in the tartan shroud. Lacy’s heart aches, that she’ll never get to run her pinkie finger down the perfect slant of her tiny nose again. Not without feeling blood matted against the fur. It’s not fair. None of it. It was so close to real, this thing they had.

What's wrong with her that the bottom keeps falling out of good things like this?

“Is this your first?” Eddie gently calls over the soft shoveling of soil.

“Cat?”

“Death.”

Lacy doesn’t have to think on it. Any relatives other than her mom’s estranged sister were dead before she was cognizant of what it all meant. Her father didn't have any family to speak of. Not even a foster sibling or two he was still in contact with.

“Yes.” A beat. “Is this your first?”

“Death?” Eddie grimly parrots.

“Grave.”

“Why, yes.”

“Hopefully your last." She's arch.

“Ah, with your blessed presence in my life, Miss Doevski,” he says, “something tells me it won’t be.”

She smiles into her shoulder, down at Cat, across the water.

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”

There is no being ready. There is no way to easily unplug from the faux-reality of holding something once soft now rigid, the netherealm of not knowing whether your beloved is coming or going. Up, down, left, right. sideways. Maybe Lacy ought to toss Cat in the water and see if she’ll swim.

She joins Eddie at the neat little grave he’s dug and is hesitant.

Throat closing. Head pounding. Stomach tightening.

Shit. Fuck.

Nerves or bile or both rise and she can feel every nerve ending in her hands.

A clear of a throat that isn’t hers.

“May I?” Eddie’s holding his hands out. He takes Cat. Lacy watches his ringed fingers gently taper through the tuft of her furry side. Glistening blue-black in the moonlight. He might’ve mouthed the words, ‘Aw, soft,’ but she can’t be sure.

“Well, Cat,” and she can tell a classic Munson missive is about to kick off. Lacy knits her fingers together as if in prayer and looks down at her feet. Tries not to look at Eddie, with his insistent arms and undefeatable presence, cradling Cat. “It sucks that I never got to know you, but I understand you had some kind of third-wave, kill-all-men feminism thing going on which, practically I'm shit-scared of and conceptually I guess I respect.” He clears his throat again. “But I know that you were… loved, even if your presence wasn’t a whole to-do. I mean, damn.”

Eddie bends his head nearer Cat’s, affecting a stage whisper that makes Lacy roll her eyes. Affection. Affection. Affection.

“You lucked out, Cat. You picked a really good one here. I know it. She likes to play the shit that matters, the nice shit she does, close to the vest instead of showing off about it, but… ‘Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised’. Aragorn. By the way.”

“Nerd.”

“Please shut up, I am not finished, you are being rude,” Eddie pokes in this clipped tone Lacy knows is supposed to be an impression of her. He drops it as soon as picks it up, everything about him softening. “She was lucky to have you, but you were luckier having had her.”

Oh. The breath shakes in her lungs. Oh.

A moment or two passes before Lacy realizes she’s been frozen. It’s time.

“You wanna–” Eddie softly suggests, “Or should I–”

“Oh, wait!” Her collar. Lacy’s nails unpick the leather strap, sliding it away from Cat’s throat. Eddie catches the shimmer of the diamante heart and shakes his head.

“Farewell, the fanciest cat Forest Hills has ever seen.”

With gentle and careful hands, Eddie lowers Cat into the dirt. Lacy might choke if she tries to speak, but then he catches her trembling, nerve-raw hand in hers.

“'I don’t like love as a command. As a search,'” it slips out of Lacy in a murmur, “'It must come to you, like a hungry cat at the door.'”

Eddie’s brow furrows, waiting for her to cite…

“Bukowski. By the way.”

“Nerd.”

Lacy sprinkles the first fistful of dirt over Cat’s prone, resting body. It really seems like that, in the dark bed of soil. Cool, restful. And in the heavy swathe of this night too.

Eddie only lets her hand go to cover the rest of the grave.

Once he’s done, he twists the shovel in the dirt. “You wanna mark it or anything? So you can come back?”

“I don’t know,” Lacy says. Is there a way to address the gap she feels between her and the resting place? Probably not yet. “Don’t know that it’ll really do anything for me.’

“You’ll know where to find her, though. If you need.”

“Oh, yeah. you don’t forget a spot like this.”

Eddie slings his arm over her hunched and shivering shoulders, shaking against a chill that doesn’t exist. He leans into the crown of her head–not quite a kiss, but an utterance.

“Gracefully done, Lace. She’d be proud.”

God, she hopes so.

Silly little cat.

They follow their track back to Eddie's van, arm in arm, the two-person funeral match plus one shovel. From up the embankment, a light flickers on. Some heavily obscured figure seems to wobble in silhouette, like it’s waving.

Eddie slides off a two-finger salute to the spectre.

“Friend of yours?” Lacy squints.

“That’s Rick. If you’re lucky, I’ll never have to introduce the two of you.”

Eddie helps Lacy into the passenger seat. She sits there, arms feeling weighted and empty.

“Eddie.” His name crackles in her mouth.

“No, no. Don’t mention i–”

“You were the only person I wanted to see. After it happened. You were the only one. I couldn’t call you at Hellfire or anything. I wouldn’t have wanted you to leave, but you… I just wanted to see you.”

Something about that statement makes her feel incredibly lonesome.

Until he takes her hand. Swallows hard and kisses it gentle.

“That is… an honor I don’t rightly deserve, Lace.”

“Bullshit.”

“Let’s not make, like, a whole thing of it.” Eddie inches out this pained smile that Lacy needs desperately to wipe off his face, somehow. To replace it with something that doesn’t look like it’s pinching him. He has to know. “I’m glad I could be here. For you. For Cat.”

“Me too, Eddie.”

#published by powder #hai brainrot #l. doevski by powder #e. munson by powder #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson fic #edlacy

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fountainpenguin · 2 months ago

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Been bingeing T.U.F.F. Puppy and Bunsen Is a Beast while I've been sick. Here's a liveblog of highlights I enjoyed:

Every line of dialogue in these shows is fantastic...

- "You don't need to breathe- You just need to obey my every command." - "In the interest of our friendship, which is way more important to me than anything in the world... I'm taking the speedboat. Think about it- You don't want the hassle of owning a speedboat!" - "I've been nice this year. And by 'Nice,' I mean I've kept my more sinister acts on the downlow through deception, deceit, and occasionally framing others." - "This is the greatest moment of my brief life!" - "Anywho, Santa... You're looking buff! Have you been hitting the gym~?" / "Are we seriously doing this?" - "To protect my standing on the nice list, can you please refer to me as Marsha during this particular evil mission?" - "You guys have to save Christmas! ... I would, but I'm in a box and I'm 5." - "You don't need to know the laws when you're a criminal. Or a baby! Just a little fun fact I thought I'd throw out there." - "I know you are lying to me... Your status says I'm lying to The Chameleon." - "You voluntarily touched me in an affectionate way!" - "I love our new crib! It was an impulse buy. (Gasp)- We should steal a baby to put in it!" - "If I'm so dumb, how come I've been getting away with slowly poisoning you?" - "You're going down for armed robbery!" / "They're not armed." / "Are you kidding me? Have you seen this man's guns?" - "Let me leave! I'm not even helpful!" / "I'm never helpful and I'm still here." - Okay... Such good animatic redraw material.

- So many silly characters, many of whom look like cinnamon rolls but would actually kill you. I love them. I should finish my 'fic WIPs. Dudley's later flanderization-characterization still makes me sad... He cared so much about working in Season 1 that he couldn't settle down on vacation. He'd explore, he'd volunteer for things, he obsessed about paperwork... That's who he is... He was good at his job. I miss him.

- Who do you think has the higher kill count: Chameleon eating [confirmed sentient] bugs his whole life, or Keswick wiping out his home dimension? ... I guess it would HAVE to be Keswick because he would've killed the bugs too, huh?

- I really love the worldbuilding vibe of "You're allowed to kill other creatures, but if the ambulance is called, everyone is treated equally." Yeah, we sell flea collars and body spray. Yes, the Chief got incredibly sick when Dudley wore a flea collar into work; that is a thing that happened.

- Making one of the main characters a flea was pretty fantastic in itself, let's be honest. How many anthro shows have a bug main character (unless the show is all about bugs), and how many of them have a special mobility aid thing that magnifies their appearance, keeps them off the floor, gives them extra strength, etc... It's great.

- I love the Chief's monitor cart:

Why does it sit in chairs? How can he use the hands? Outrageous.

- It's heavily implied that even the creatures that look and act feral are actually sentient, which just makes Kitty bringing the Chief dead mice as a form of affection so much darker...

[cnt'd]

- How on earth did The Chameleon get invited to career day to speak to little kids about being a super villain? Whose idea was that?

- I love "Guard Dog"- It's probably my favorite episode. So many good quotes, such a goofy set-up, you get to travel outside Petropolis, it delves into some of the in-universe witness protection lore... It's great.

- I love Chameleon snuggling with Dudley because they're handcuffed together and he's cold-blooded. I like the end when Kitty is handcuffed to 5 people at once, but Dudley leaving her that way feels justified because she left him for the entire ride to Petsburg.

- I particularly enjoy Kitty only having 4 limbs, so Larry and Francesco are both chained to the same leg. I feel like they could very easily rip that off, especially with how often Francesco tries to eat stuff.

- I wanna talk about Chameleon's side hustle of going on dates with people who ask him to shapeshift into their dream person.

- Wannabee was forced out of the auditorium halfway through his evil scheme so the students could have play rehearsal.

- I will never be over Wannabee gushing over how cool he thinks it is that he can make honey and that he will outright tell you he makes it mouth to mouth. They could've given us bees passing the honey by hand, but no... No, we get to see them do it mouth to mouth and Wannabee brags about it. Hilarious.

- My adoration for Birdbrain is also growing. What do you mean he's lonely and cloning himself to save his species? What do you mean he can just walk into T.U.F.F. headquarters and shred their files for his nest material because he's endangered and they can't hurt him? That's hilarious.

- I think I said this years ago, but I really like how there's no romance between Birdbrain and Zippy. He hates her equally to all his other henchmen. Everyone he works with is useless, so he leaves them in the car with the window cracked instead of bringing them to heists. Man wants a partner and kids so bad, he puts up with the most annoying people you've ever seen... He hates them so much...

I can't stop thinking about the B-plot in "Pup In the Air" of Birdbrain trying to keep his deposit on the house he rented, but his henchmen just keep making terrible choices-

- Every time I think about how Owl's name is Terry, it just cracks me up. I don't think Birdbrain knows Owl and Bat have first names because the only two things they ever say are "Who?" and "Where?" so they can't communicate who they are as people.

- Also, shout-out to the commitment to Bat being blind. Unclear if he uses echolocation... He just kinda runs around. Why on earth does he have a gun?

Bonus screenshot to highlight Bat's gorgeous wing design:

- Why don't Owl and Birdbrain get feathered wings? DO they have feathered wings? I assume they don't, because Owl flies like this:

And we know Birdbrain can't fly, but his arms don't become wings either:

- Obsessed with Snaptrap having the power to erase minds and the only time he uses it is when wiping the minds of critics who were mean to his dancing clone.

- Some of these hero-villain relationships are so good... Dudley broke The Chameleon out of the holding cell so they can enter a two-person contest. Dudley pretends he's been poisoned and The Chameleon just goes along with it because it makes him look like a cool villain. Kitty gets dance lessons from Snaptrap... Dudley and Snaptrap were roommates... Snaptrap dated Dudley's mom... Dudley dated Birdbrain... They are so goofy.

- Speaking of Dudley dating Birdbrain, that episode cracks me up for many reasons, but one of them is definitely "Dudley getting in the way and being a pain even when he's trying to do his best job being sweet and helpful." "I'm blowing kisses~ And now they're hitting you~" /starts jabbing his fingers all over Birdbrain while Birdbrain's driving

- Can't stop thinking about how much I love Larry. Him and the evil crew he pulled by being a silly brother-in-law <3 I wish they would've delved into the Larry & Snaptrap are brothers-in-law thing in-show (It was only confirmed in outside trivia iirc), but... them.

He sit:

This would make a great "Draw the squad" meme, actually.

Oh, I just looked it up to see if I could find a source (because it was years ago that I read this fact and I suddenly worried it wasn't real). No direct source link, but here's what I found on the Wiki:

I've always assumed that means he's married to Pat since she's the only confirmed sister Snaptrap has-

But like, I think about this all the time... The Snaptraps are canonically a crime family, so did Larry know what he was getting into? Are they on good terms? They're not divorced. Is it a forbidden love? I still want a huge rivalry between the rats and the shrews... It would be so funny...

We know Snaptrap and Francesco share a bunk bed (or at minimum, a room with bunkbeds in it). I assume Larry goes home to see his wife, right? We know she's an actual successful criminal who thinks her brother is a failure, so, like... why does she let her husband hang out there where he's being tormented daily?

I watched the episode where Snaptrap gripes that Larry's face scares off girls, but like... that's so funny. Is it because he's married? Some of the other members of D.O.O.M. - like Ollie - are sad that girls don't talk to them, but Larry doesn't, like... ever discuss that. I wish he would've bragged about being married. I think it would drive Snaptrap up the wall. Maybe he does. I really wish we would've seen Larry at the Snaptrap family reunion. Larry, your wife...

I doodled Larry with his Murray hair because it's cute when he ties it back :)

- It will never not be funny that when Larry defected and founded his own league of villains, he broke the entire crimefighting system by refusing to call in advance to tell T.U.F.F. what he was about to steal. Overnight sensation. Everybody hates him for that.

- Once upon a time, I joked that Larry probably worked with his brother-in-law instead of his wife because Snaptrap's crimes are smaller, so Larry probably gets out of jail sooner and can spend more time with the kids, house, etc. Knowing what we know about what a meticulous planner he is when he takes over, I think that sounds about right. It's all one big, elaborate thing... That's very Larry.

- There are so many little moments of the Snaptrap-Larry hatred I enjoy, like how they play word games together and Larry just gets in his face about it. Larry rarely communicates directly with T.U.F.F. (barring the episode he's his own villain), but in "Girlfriend or Foe," he jumps on the call just to brag about how he's beating Snaptrap in the game and I think that's fantastic. Even back in "Share-a-Lair," they were playing word games.

- In the truth syrup episode, Snaptrap admits he doesn't actually hate Larry, but he's hard on him because he thinks Larry has the most potential to be evil... but Larry straight-up confirms that he's been putting black widows in Snaptrap's gym bag. It's so funny to me... Snaptrap is mean in predictable ways, but do not mess with Larry. He'll get you back.

- I like how they went on a gameshow where Snaptrap had to guess Larry's secret desire, and it was-

The reason they lost out on their free vacation to Maui was because Larry stuck a rattlesnake in Snaptrap's pants at the airport and they couldn't get on the plane. He just can't help himself... He hates him so much. I just love them. He sit...

Why does Larry just have access to rattlesnakes and cobras? What does he do in his spare time?

- I like when Snaptrap breaks out of the holding cell to get snacks and then he goes back. That's always great.

- I love how committed Mikey is to being president of the Beast welcoming community. He has ONE JOB and he's going to do it. He loves his gift baskets. What do you mean Muckledunk's biggest export is silent whistles and they sell 9 per year? What.

- Everything Mikey says is fascinating to me. Also, within the first ~60 seconds of knowing him as a character in Episode 1, you get so much... He's an extravert, he does his research, he knows his town history, he plans ahead, he gets excited when he doesn't mess up his prepared speech, he's savage for no reason... It's great. Flawless character introduction.

- Like... Just the entire dynamic of "Bunsen is the first Beast to come to human school - and he's a member of a species known for eating humans - and it's on Mikey to make him feel welcome, not just as a fellow student but as an authority figure" is really interesting to me. Most of Bunsen's friends throughout the series are Beasts, which makes sense- Bunsen's actually pretty shy. Like... you wouldn't guess it by looking at him and his role as comic relief, but he's definitely less social than Mikey.

This screenshot just tells you the whole series dynamic:

It's Mikey and Amanda at each other's throats and Bunsen anxious in the background. SO funny. I also watched "My Gym Partner's a Monkey" years ago (and a little bit of "Squirrel Boy"), and both those shows lean into the "human is the comedic straight man and the non-human is the wild one" vibes.

But no... not Bunsen Is a Beast. It's Mikey who's the energetic, off-the-wall wild card. Bunsen just lives here. He's straight-up just a nerd who got sent to human school. Love that for him. Mikey's driving this car, but Bunsen keeps him from plowing into buildings and lakes.

Literally your best defense against Mikey is that when he gets too excited, he faints. This happens in multiple episodes.

Bunsen has such incredible "Perfectionist, told he's mature for his age" vibes... In Episode 1 when he almost eats Mikey, he whimpers, "Sorry, Mikey... I failed to co-mingle..." Everything in Bunsen's plot line comes back to "If you screw up, we can kick your whole species underground again." That's so much for a little guy. Ugh. My heart. I think he'd get along fantastically with Hazel. Mikey would be a lot for her.

- Every time Mikey and Bunsen try to say something in sync, but fail to do so, it's funny to me...

Your honor, this is a show about friends and kindness...

- I totally forgot the person Amanda invited to school for the "someone you wouldn't normally hang out with" event was someone with a restraining order against her. That's objectively hilarious.

- Cracking up at Mikey asking Amanda for break-up advice. Also, Bunsen warned him that if he tried to have a break-up talk with Willa, she might just eat him, and Mikey did it anyway. There is one thing this boy will not compromise on and it is "I am not comfortable with this. Stop coming onto me." Love that for him.

- I forgot Mikey got invited to a dance by Bunsen's cousin and he was so terrified he stopped breathing.

- "Extremely horny rich girl" & "Guy who will lure her in with promises of kisses and then dodge at the last second so something horrible happens to her" is such a funny combo. Mikey-Amanda rivalry, you will always be famous to me... You cannot get Mikey to accept her flirtations... He would sooner chew his arm off, I think.

- I can't believe Mikey threw Amanda off Santa's sleigh. Flying above the city. Really high. On purpose. Of course he would.

- I always forget Bunsen's house was just, like... built in the middle of the decorative roundabout piece.

- Mikey sending his own clone to run his conspiracy club is still one of the funniest plot set-ups I've ever seen. I didn't see it coming because Mikey was bringing in clones for every club he's in, but... yep. I can see how this went wrong. Mikey is such a terrible dad to his clones; it's so funny. He just dunks on them every time he sees them.

- I like how Nerd Mikey is equally as unhinged as regular Mikey. Logically he would be - He's a clone - but what is going on inside his head... Sir, you can't just leave school property to go back in time...

- What do you mean Mikey is in the "Amanda Stares at Mikey and Makes Tiger Growl Sounds" club. I mean, by default he kind of has to be there, but that's so funny...

- Totally forgot Mikey wants to write a song called "Hey Mom- Get Out of My Room." His hatred for his clingy parents plagues him constantly.

- Amanda- "I'm going to watch Munroe change his shirt. Raowr." / Mikey, screaming- "I will DIE in this shirt!"

- It is SO funny that even if you ask him directly, Bunsen will avoid questions about whether he eats people, but his first instinct to smelling Mikey covered in barbecue sauce is to tell him he smells delicious, and his first response to his BFF Wolfie suggesting they eat Mikey on a plate of noodles is "That does sound good." Hey. what.

And Wolfie knows Bunsen's hesitant about it, because he blatantly calls Mikey delicious, removes Bunsen's eyes, and tries to eat Mikey while Bunsen's looking for his eyeballs. Later he actually does get him in his mouth. And Amanda. omfg Wolfie...

We literally get to see a health class short film that's like "Let's talk about people-eating urges and feelings of guilt that come with it!" omg. Bunsen, why is that in your house? Why was that already on your person? Do you wanna talk about it?

I wonder if BiaB would've done better if it had been played with Invader Zim vibes. These shows have similar energy, but Zim has the colors and music to match its dark vibe. BiaB also gets pretty dark, but the colors and music make it so peppy and cheery... I think that's silly. You can tell it's got FOP energy (Sweet on top, horrifying underneath).

- Bunsen has so much anxiety about following rules even when they're in direct conflict to his happiness... He is doing his best...

- Forgot Bunsen is personally offended to learn that humans don't give Santa gifts, because Beasts give gifts to their present-giver. He just has such a strong sense of personal justice and loyalty...

- I cannot get over Bob slowly fading from the timeline, but continuing to report the news anyway. He's flickering, gradually losing his legs, but he acts like nothing's wrong.

They brought him a stool because his legs got disintegrated... They throw things through his head..

- I can't believe Amanda almost put a kitten in a woodchipper.

- Mikey's parents are so overprotective, distant, and weird about him, they canonically have not given him The Talk about where babies come from. He doesn't know his middle name.

- I LOVE how Mikey's relationship with his parents is just, like... him screaming that he wants them to back off and let him grow up. They just spy on him with a drone. "Stalked by his parents" is such a silly thing to do with your main character.

- They leave him at home to fend for himself, but still micromanage what he's allowed to do (Ex: He can own a llama and a scary praying mantis, but not a dog). Heavily implied they avoid their son because germs. There is no doubt in my mind they will continue spying on him when he's an adult. That's rough, buddy.

- Is Mikey a kleptomaniac? He just steals things... Amanda's dog. A shopping cart. He took some guy's lamp for no reason. He just took it on his way out.

- It's not like "Mikey is a massive guilt-tripper" was new to me, but it's still SO funny to watch him blatantly take advantage of Cosmo and Wanda even after Timmy repeatedly asked him to stop wishing. Timmy gave him an inch and he fought for a mile.

- Perfect depiction of the Mikey-Timmy relationship:

Mikey, please stop running Cosmo and Wanda ragged- / I totally hear you. No <3

- Mikey is older, but Timmy is unquestionably the more sensible and responsible one of this duo. Which is horrifying.

iirc, the "Beast of Friends" crossover took place when Season 10 was airing, though it's probably pre-Chloe since she wasn't there. Consider: Timmy resisted Chloe as a godsister because Mikey had already turned him off to the idea of sharing fairies.

- I totally forgot Mikey got sent to the future once. I can use this...

- Timmy calls Mikey "kid who's older than me" because Mikey didn't like him just saying "kid"

- Mikey adored the crossover. I think Timmy's glad he didn't have to hang out with Mikey any longer than he did. Just in August, I scrapped my "Best. Day. Ever." prompt for the 130 which was about Mikey running Timmy ragged, but... I kinda want to bring it back. Mikey is exhausting. He will break you down.

- I like how Mikey was excited by everything Timmy showed him, but Timmy was uneasy about Bunsen's house; it's Timmy who took charge of trying to explain things as realistic to his confused dad. Mikey literally did not care if people were put off.

- I still think it would be funny if Mikey and Dev switched drones for a day. Also, you'll see this in my Dale character profile on the sideblog, but my headcanon is that Mikey grew up and went into security with a pinch of robotics on the side (taking after his parents), so he just, like... bothers Dale. They met as kids when Mikey tagged along on an installation trip for the Dimmadomes, playing into my long-time headcanon that all the rich people in Dimmsdale have wild security systems because of Mikey's parents. Dale does not like him. Mikey's been mailing Dale Waffle House coupons for 20 years. There are no Waffle Houses in California.

- Mikey would snap Peri like a toothpick. He's just a lot and I cannot imagine a world where Peri has the patience for him.

Anyway, thanks for reading my liveblog. Silly, silly...

#Riddle watches TUFF #Spy dog show #Vile Verminious #Blaming of the shrew #Special Agent Mutt #Kitty the good cat #Beasty such a beaut #Official human buddy TM #Fluffy blue transfer student #Savage spittle queen #Preschool sycophant #screenshots #Long post #Lonely lizard #apparently art #FAIRIES!#Perfect pink beaver boy #Dragonfly parents

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solitaryandwandering · 5 months ago

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Please help! Dog in need!

I've never made a post asking for any kind of money, but this is urgent. On Friday, my best friend (I'll call them D) was driving back home from a long day working in near-100° heat when they noticed an emaciated dog walking in the middle of the road. When they pulled over the dog immediately came up to her and tried to get in her car (which she couldn’t do without help). She seems to be no younger than two years old but has already clearly been pregnant. It’s not uncommon to run across stray dogs in central/southern Virginia; we suspect she used to be a hunter’s dog, which are often purposefully starved. She has tons of fleas and tick bites, sores, is missing parts of two of her toes, and is now showing signs of ringworm. She showed signs of fear when my friend tried to put a leash on her but is amazingly super sweet and affectionate, always asking for pets and attention. D and her boyfriend have named her Melon.

[ID: Melon, a young dog with a light brown and black coat, looks towards the camera. She is emaciated, her tail between her legs. A large red collar attaches her to a leash. End ID]

My friend has been dog-sitting and asked that person if they could keep this dog in her basement until future notice. She would take her home if it weren’t for her cat. It’s highly unlikely this dog has been vaccinated. Since it’s the weekend she’s been unable to get in contact with any vets or shelters and animal control has been entirely unhelpful. They’ve given Melon a bath and given her food and water. Melon has had a bout of diarrhea, is discharging a bit from her eyes and has been bleeding from her vagina, but has otherwise been super cuddly and sweet.

[ID: Melon rests on the floor with her head on my friend's lap. They are scratching her chest. Melon is wearing a new collar. End ID]

D has created a GoFundMe to cover costs of more food, a new collar and name tag, and other care items. She still needs money to cover a future vet visit and what’s looking like a long road of recovery. Any money left over will be donated to local animal welfare charities. If you can, please donate or share this post. Anything helps. Melon deserves better!

Here is the GoFundMe with more info: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-us-support-melons-road-to-recovery?attribution_id=sl:3d8d3a67-9cb8-4d19-9dfc-19702f183617&utm_campaign=man_sharesheet_ft&utm_medium=customer&utm_source=copy_link

#signal boost #gofundme #stray dogs #mutual aid #animal abuse #animal neglect #dogs #dogs of tumblr #dogblr #animal rights #animal welfare #please help!!#D is the best person but they can't afford this at all!

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riversofmars · 7 months ago

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I keep thinking I need to get better at cross-posting again and then I forget. But here we are with another attempt. A little fic for the prompt "Lost Dog". Sounds random and it is, but it also really worked and was fun to write!

One And Only

Summary: On her way back from the shop, Liv makes a sudden and unintentional acquisition. Rushing back to 107 Baker Street, she hopes Helen will be able to help her with her predicament. One thing she hadn't banked on, however, was that she was setting off an avalanche of surprisingly emotional revelations. (Rating: G)

“HELEN!” Liv yelled up to flat 4 at 107 Baker Street, hoping her best friend would still be in the living room where she had been when she’d left. She couldn’t risk opening the door. “HELEN!” she called again, drawing curious looks from passers-by and tried her best to ignore them. The last thing she wanted to do was cause a scene, things were bad enough as they were. Mercifully, eventually, her best friend stuck her head out of the window and looked down to her.

“Liv? Is everything alright?” she called back, and it seemed she hadn’t realised her predicament, else she would likely have commented.

“Can you come down here a minute?” the med-tech requested and Helen, kind and considerate as she always was, merely nodded with a smile, closing the window again. Liv made her way up to the front door, hoping against hope her problem would solve itself but it didn’t. “Yeah, alright-” she mumbled, waiting anxiously until the linguist finally opened the door.

“What is it?” she asked brightly, only to have the chocolate coloured dachshund, that had been following Liv, jump up at her legs with excitement. “Oh-” She blinked, confused and was likely asking herself the same question the med-tech had been struggling with the last few minutes: Where had the dog come from?

“It won’t leave me alone,” Liv rushed to explain. “It just started following me and- It was trying to come in the house and I didn’t know what to do so…” Her rambling trailed off when she saw her friend crouch down to greet the animal with a wide grin.

“Hello you…” she hummed, brushing her hand across his head and behind his ears. She seemed perfectly at ease, even looked to be enjoying herself, and Liv gaped.

“Careful! What if it has fleas?” she exclaimed and Helen laughed.

“He’s clearly a pet, he’s got a collar, the lead is still attached and look how clean he is. Clearly his owners have lost hold of him, that’s all,” she chuckled as the dog rolled over, presenting its belly to her, begging for more affection. It was actually quite cute, as was the look on her friend’s face.

“Yeah well-” Liv flapped her arms and the linguist looked up to her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked with a grin. “Do you not like dogs?”

“I don’t not not like dogs, I just… don’t know what to do with them-” the med-tech admitted, her cheeks pinking as she scratched the back of her head. Perhaps she had been a bit exaggerated in her response. “We don’t have them on Kaldor.”

“You don’t have dogs on Kaldor?” Helen echoed in disbelief.

“It’s not the sort of place where you can walk pets,” Liv shrugged. It wasn’t something she had ever truly thought about. She’d known people to have pet lizards and the like but that was about it. Dogs were hardly suited to the desert. Looking at the linguist now, seeing the grin that was painted on her lips while stroking the small creature, she thought perhaps she could be convinced into having one…

“Oh, Liv,” the blonde chuckled as the dog turned over once more, jumping up her knees, clearly wanting to be in her arms. “You’re missing out.”

“He clearly likes you,” Liv commented, unable to help a smile of her own. It was lovely to watch. “Did you have one? When you were younger?”

“No… no… I wanted one, but… father would never have allowed it…” A flash of sadness crossed her friend’s face. “This girl I used to be friends with had one… I’d go around all the time. While I could anyway…” She cleared her throat, clearly not wanting to dwell on it, so the brunette didn’t push. Instead, she watched her getting up and grasping the lead. “We’ll have to try to find his owner… Did he just run up to you?”

“Yeah, literally, just halfway up the street suddenly he was there snaking around my legs-” Liv answered truthfully and as she gestured down the road, Helen’s eyes fell to her hand, spying what she was holding.

“Think it’s that sausage roll…” she pointed out with a smirk and the med-tech looked down at the half-eaten pastry in her hand.

“Oh.”

“Well, with his little legs, he can’t have run very far,” Helen concluded, looking up and down the road. “Which way were you going?”

“Just down the road from Greggs…” Liv answered and the blonde nudged her to get walking.

“Is this a reflection on the salad I made for lunch?” she teased as they fell into step with each other.

“That was lovely!” the med-tech retorted immediately, colour draining from her cheeks. She didn’t mean to offend her, not when she had been so kind to make her a lovely lunch. She had, however, still been peckish and the opportunity had been there when her friend had sent her to the shop for milk… only, she hadn’t gotten that far yet. Then the dog had happened.

“But you still had to get a sausage roll,” Helen hummed, fixing her eyes forward.

“Well… salads are not that filling…” Liv mumbled awkwardly, fighting a wave of concern. “I’m sorry, are you mad?”

“Not even a little,” the blonde laughed, shooting her an affectionate look. “Just amused. Teaches me for trying to feed you healthily.”

“I eat healthily! Just fancy a treat every now and again,” the med-tech launched a feeble defence, relieved that she hadn’t taken offence. The dog was walking ahead of them happily, though as she took a bite of the sausage roll it promptly stopped to whine at her. She nearly fell over it, drawing another laugh from her best friend.

“And you call a sausage roll a treat?” she quipped, clearly amused. “Well, I was thinking of doing some baking later, but maybe now I need to reconsider if you don’t want anything sweet…”

“Were you really?” Liv’s expression brightened immediately. She adored Helen’s baking. And really, everything else she made. Just as she adored her… She could probably feed her anything and she’d thank her… But the prospect of baked goods was certainly an intriguing one.

“Well, let’s find who this dog belongs to, and then we can talk about cake,” Helen suggested with a smirk and that certainly quickened her friend’s steps.

“Right, let’s get to it!” she declared, stuffing the remainder of her sausage roll into her mouth in a messy, yet somewhat adorable display. “Surely whoever lost him will be looking for him too,” she spoke through crumbs, hoping the dog would be less distracted now.

“Oh my god, Aiyko!” a female voice called ahead of them, making them both look up. A woman who was dragging along a small child hurried towards them. Her face was flushed in near panic and promptly, the dog started pulling. “You’ve found our dog!” This was clearly the owner and she crouched down to greet her pet with joy and relief.

“I turned around and he was just following me,” Liv said, exchanging a quick look with Helen who was smiling happily as well. They had gotten lucky for their search to yield results so quickly.

“Eyeing up her sausage roll, most likely,” the linguist added, giving her friend an affectionate nudge as the woman looked up to them.

“My son insisted he just had to hold him and of course he let go and- Trying to manage a child and a dog-” she gestured to her son who looked about five years old and was now having a turn at greeting the dog.

“Oh we can only imagine,” Helen gave back kindly. “Everything was fine though, he was very friendly.” She knelt down as well, giving the small dog another stroke as this was goodbye.

“His recall could be better,” the woman sighed as she straightened up and looked to Liv with an apologetic smile. “All these distractions- I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

“It was no bother at all, he’s lovely,” the blonde carried on and looking up to her to check it was okay to do so, she handed the lead back to the small boy. “Here you are, little man. Hold on tightly this time, yeah?” The child gave a firm nod, as she took care to wrap the lead around his hand so he couldn’t so easily lose it.

Liv, for her part, found herself rather transfixed. She knew her friend to be kind and gentle and every time she witnessed it first hand, the affection she held for her in her heart grew. Soon enough, she feared it would burst. So far, she had done alright to keep her romantic feelings for her hidden, assuming them unwelcome, but she wasn’t sure if she would be able to keep it up indefinitely.

“Thank you so much, honestly, I don’t know what we would have done-” the woman sighed, running her hand through her hair as the shock slowly wore off and Helen stood up again.

“It’s really no problem at all, just glad we found you,” the linguist gave back kindly. “I’m not sure how Liv would have coped with a dog in the flat. That would be a first.” She shot her friend a cheeky smile and the med-tech rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly.

“He’s cute, but probably not the best first pet,” she admitted sheepishly, glad the matter had been easy enough to resolve.

“Please, let me buy you a coffee as a thank you?” the woman suggested. “You and your girlfriend.” She looked in between the two of them hopefully.

Liv’s heart dropped and Helen seemed perplexed.

“My-” she started but the med-tech was quick to interject, trying to avoid an uncomfortable situation.

“No, it’s fine, really.” She shook her head firmly. “ Just happy you got him back. We do have to get on.”

“Thank again,” the woman smiled and as her son was already starting to wander off with the dog again, she had no choice but to rush after them, leaving them in a muddle without realising as much. Silently, tensely, they turned to head down the road back towards Baker Street.

“Helen… you okay?” Liv probed eventually, disliking the heavy silence that had settled around them.

“Yes… perfectly fine…” the linguist answered and far too quickly. It made the med-tech all the more worried.

“Really?” she prompted anxiously, as her stomach twisted itself up in knots. Helen didn’t answer, not immediately, silence fell again and it took the length of another two houses before she asked:

“Why do you think she said that?”

“What?” the brunette questioned, even though she knew full well what she meant. It was the comment that had thrown her, too, though only out of concern over the effect it might have on her friend.

“That she assumed we-” Helen flapped her hand in between the two of them but didn’t look at her.

“Oh uh… I dunno…” Liv mumbled awkwardly, pushing her hands into her pockets, taking to watching the pavement beneath her feet. Perhaps she had caught the way she had been looking at her, so full of adoration… Everyone seemed to be aware of it… Ron and Tony had commented. Tania had asked about their relationship. Sometimes she even thought the Doctor knew… Like that time he had set them up on a date on Kaldor… It seemed the most obvious thing in the world to anyone except Helen herself… and while it remained like that, Liv wouldn’t dare to say anymore.

“I forget…” the linguist carried on with a little huff and the brunette frowned, confused.

“Forget?” she echoed and with a deep breath and without looking at her, Helen elaborated.

“That it’s… In this time… that it’s perfectly normal… People don’t think twice… They see two women together and just… assume it might be that…”

“Well… it’s not so far-fetched, is it?” Liv commented though she wasn’t entirely sure why that had been her response of choice. Perhaps it was just that she wanted some sort of confirmation that in another universe, it could be that… even if it wasn’t.

“If you say so…” the linguist mumbled, dropping her eyes to the floor and her friend’s frown deepened. While she hadn’t expected enthusiastic agreement, she found her tone odd. She didn’t seem uncomfortable at the thought, merely disbelieving and perhaps a little disheartened. Liv couldn’t be sure so she probed further.

“You don’t think so?”

“What would you possibly want with me…” Helen scoffed, shooting her a look, a pained half-smile that made the brunette’s chest tighten. Was she serious? Did she really think she wouldn’t want her in some way that implied she wasn’t just not interested but that she wasn’t good enough?! It was ludicrous!

“Helen!” She grabbed her arm and stopped her, forcing her to face her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying… Even if, you know… You wouldn’t end up with me…” the linguist answered, seemingly confused as to why she had stopped her, but sure of her answer. She started walking again, as if she was trying to evade the conversation. “I think Tania has her eye on you anyway and she’s probably more-”

“More what?” Liv shot back, quickening her steps to catch up. “My type?” Annoyance swept over her. “You haven’t got the first idea what my type might be! What I find attractive in a woman. What I would be looking for in a partner,” she argued, surprising herself with the sharpness of her tone. She wasn’t setting out to have a go at her but she needed to make her understand that she was in no way lesser than Tania or any other woman for that matter. As far as the med-tech was concern, she was the one, the only one-

“Well no… How would I know… You haven’t said…” Helen countered calmly, if slightly shakily. She didn’t look at her or stop.

“You haven’t asked!” the med-tech retorted, unable to keep a measure of hurt from her voice. It wasn’t that she was hurt, no, that was wrong to assume. It was that she hurt for her friend who seemed to think terribly little of herself to misjudge the situation so grossly. If only she had asked, perhaps then she’d understand…

“Right,” Helen mumbled, a flash of hurt crossing her face as well, and Liv felt the conversation slipping away from her. This was not what she was aiming for, she never, ever, wanted to hurt her friend, so she changed course.

“I like kindness,” she said, and the linguist’s response was puzzled.

“Kindness?” she echoed, and the med-tech found she was having some manner of success as she actually looked around that time, awaiting her explanation.

“Someone who puts others before herself,” she carried on. “Who gives people the benefit of the doubt, who doesn’t judge, who always tries her best, even sometimes to her own detriment.” That was something Helen often did… with the resonance engine, in Salzburg… Before the blonde had the opportunity to respond, she carried on, fixing her eyes forward. “Intelligence. I like that. Someone who is sharp and witty and who I can turn to for advice, who surprises me with her insight and talks rings around me when she wants to. Someone who I am in awe of,” she continued, speaking with no-one but her best friend in mind.

“Good luck finding-” the linguist scoffed but Liv spoke over her, undeterred.

“I like someone who is curious about the universe and passionate about the things she believes in. Who doesn’t shy away from doing the right thing, even when it’s hard. Someone I can trust with my darkest secrets and who loves me in spite of them.” Carried by a wave of determination, she stepped into Helen’s way, turning to face her and to make sure she was listening, even as her voice grew shaky. She hadn’t expected herself to turn emotional but she was. “Someone who I can be vulnerable with and don’t have to act strong all the time. Someone who is my best friend as well as my lover and truly understands me,” her voice broke a little but she met her friend’s eyes anyway, hoping - stupidly - that she would understand. “And the fact that she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on is just the cherry on top.”

“Liv-” Helen whispered, overcome. Tears had long since sprung to her eyes and the look in her eyes left no doubt that she knew exactly what she was saying. It made the med-tech’s heart race, anxiety crawling up her back but she tried to hold firm. For Helen. If nothing else, she needed her to understand how wonderful she thought her, and how much she meant to her.

“And if she doesn’t feel the same way about me, that’s also fine because I’m just happy to have her in my life,” she concluded, hoping to limit some of the damage her words had the potential to do. “If I can’t have her heart I will settle for her friendship and still call myself the luckiest woman in the universe for being allowed to share my life with her.”

Helen dragged her hand across her cheek, trying to catch her tears but failing. She gave a little sniffle as she dropped her eyes, self-conscious and insecure. Liv’s heart ached for her and she took the fact that she hadn’t run away yet as encouraging. The only way forward was facing things head on now.

“You wouldn’t happen to know someone like that, would you?” she asked softly and the linguist gave a heart-breaking little sob as she shook her head.

“I-I think you’re wrong…” she whispered, her voice thick with tears and Liv’s heart sank. She had miscalculated.

“Right…” she mumbled, her shoulders drooping in defeat but then, Helen continued in a shaky whisper.

“You wouldn’t be the luckiest woman in the universe… that would be whoever has the privilege of calling you their own…” she breathed, desperately trying to stop her tears from falling. “And if that was me… oh Liv--” She shook her head to herself in a disbelieving manner, touching her fingers to her trembling lips as she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

Carefully, hopefully, and with her heart thundering in her chest, the med-tech reached out for her hand, moving it away from her face and tugging it towards her.

“I wish it was…” she gave back, offering a heartfelt, emotional smile as her friend’s eyes blinked open again, looking at her in wonder. Gently Liv leaned forward, pressing a tender, chaste but lingering kiss to her lips.

Helen drew a sharp breath of surprise, standing motionless for a moment and her friend waited, hopeful yet terrified until she responded with a slow, soft kiss of her own. It was blissful and new and wiped away all the doubt and pain that had come before.

In the end, the linguist pulled back far too soon for Liv’s liking, but she knew she shouldn’t rush her. She simply offered her a soft, encouraging and patient smile.

“Are you sure?” Helen asked in a wobbly voice, her insecurity far from gone but now that they had made a first step, the med-tech knew what to do. She would make her feel like the most important, most treasured woman on the planet, not letting up until she believed how precious she was to her.

“How about you let me buy you coffee and a cake?” she suggested softly, raising her hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. It was a tender gesture and the expression that filled her friend’s face was enough to make her melt. She looked so surprised, so moved, so disbelieving that this tenderness was meant for her and it only made the med-tech want to give her more, anything, everything she could possibly desire. She would lay the world at her feet if she could and the simple fact that Helen, sweet, unassuming, insecure Helen, didn’t think herself worthy of it made her all the more determined to prove it to her.

“Like a date?” the linguist whispered, as though she didn’t trust herself to speak up for fear her voice might break once more.

“If you’d do me that honour…” Liv smiled, reached for her cheek to brush away her tears as best as she could.

“Nothing would make me happier…” Helen answered tearfully, dragging her sleeve across her eyes and Liv intertwined their fingers as she chuckled.

“Shame…”

“What?” the linguist’s head snapped up, colour draining from her cheeks but the med-tech elaborated quickly.

“Shame we didn’t have that conversation sooner… could have had it for free,” she grinned and while Helen looked instantly relieved that she hadn’t changed her mind, her expression quickly turned to a scowl.

“Liv!” She gave her arm a playful slap for having tricked her so and Liv laughed, wrapping her arms around her in a tight embrace. She would never let her doubt again.

#doctor who #fanfiction #liv chenka #helen sinclair #big finish #femslash #liv x helen #fluff #feelings realisation

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cryingatwindermerepeaks · 2 months ago

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Little Daisy Pt.8

Daisy makes a new friend :)

I’d recommend reading the other parts first but this also works as a stand alone !

Tw: mentions of drugs and addiction

Word count: 1615

🐾🥨☀️🧸

Daisy didn’t go to post show parties anymore. And if Daisy didn’t go somewhere, Karen tended not to go either. Neither of them minded, really, they tended to want to just be together more than anything else. It was easiest when they could finish a show and go straight up to one of their hotel rooms and go to sleep, but without her Dexies sleep was becoming a bigger issue for Daisy than it had been in a long time. The current solution (and the only one Karen was yet to find even the slightest bit helpful) was to walk with Daisy around whatever city they were in until they were both practically dead on their feet then go back to the hotel, give Daisy a bath and some warm milk. It worked most of the time, which was good enough for Karen.

Tonight however, Daisy’s restlessness had been relentless. They’d found themselves in a dingier part of the city, eating warm pretzels on the side of a street which smelt of mildew and rust. “We should head back now, at least try to get some sleep,” Karen suggested, gently brushing Daisy’s hair behind her ears. They were crouched near the floor, backs against the brick wall, cover of the night hiding them from any fans which may have still been lurking around the streets. Daisy sighed and pouted, stretching her arms out in front of her. She didn’t want to keep Karen up at all these absurd hours of the night but she knew she couldn’t sleep and in all honesty she didn’t particularly trust herself to be awake, sleep deprived and alone whilst still being able to ignore the temptations to just take a few pills. She was about to say yes and head home when she heard a rustling sound from across the street. Daisy reached out and grasped Karen’s hand on instinct, heart pounding just for a moment before she saw two small, beady eyes glimmering in the street lights. Immediately, and with little care for road safety, Daisy pulled herself off the wall and towards the small dog which had sat itself down in the middle of the road. She shook her head disapprovingly and picked up the dog, which despite clearly being a malnourished puppy looked overgrown in Daisy’s arms.

“Daisy, no.” Karen came over to where Daisy had sat the dog down on the side of the road. “Absolutely not.” She could already see the idea blooming in Daisy’s head. “We’re not getting a dog.” Daisy’s face dropped into one which looked as sad as the dog beside her. She stroked her hand gently down the back of the dog's golden brown fur, matted and dirty.

“He looks sad,” she pouted, looking up at Karen.

“No he doesn’t,” she promised knowing if Daisy grew too empathetic towards the dog they’d have no hope. “He’s probably just tired.” Daisy shook her head, tilting her face down so it was inline with the dog. They held eye contact for a few moments and Karen had to resist the urge to pull Daisy away from what was probably a pile of fleas. Despite its relatively sad looking face, the dog was wagging its tail excitedly.

“He must be hungry,” Daisy surmised, holding both her hands up to its face and scratching behind its ears. Daisy reached up for her half eaten pretzel which she’d previously handed off to Karen. She tore off a piece of the bread, offering it to the dog which ate it straight out of the palm of her hand, before turning itself in a happy little circle. Daisy melted at the sight, squealing happily and clapping her hands. “Can we keep him, please,” she begged, dragging out the ‘please’ desperately.

“He probably has a family,” Karen sighed. She didn’t want to disappoint Daisy but there was no way they were bringing a dog home, let alone on tour.

“He doesn’t have a collar,”

“He’s probably got fleas,”

“Would you leave me on the side of the road if I had fleas?” Karen chuckled softly,

“That is very different.” Daisy scrunched up her nose in irritation. She scratched at his neck gently. The dog was still wagging its tail like Daisy’s attention was the best thing it had ever experienced. It filled her with a kind of joy she hadn’t felt in possibly forever. Karen could see this, she really could. The way Daisy’s face softened at the sight of the small creature, the way she could barely take her eyes off it.

“Please Ma,” Daisy practically begged. The use of the name made it almost impossible for Karen to say no. It just made Daisy seem so small and innocent. Of course her baby needed a puppy. God. How could she possibly say no to that face?

She sighed, tiredly. “Fine. If you can get the dog back to the hotel we can keep it overnight. But I can’t promise Rod and Billy won’t make you leave it here in the morning.” She was really just saying this so they could go back to the hotel, no chance the dog would still be around tomorrow night.

“They won’t,” Daisy shrugged, as if the possibility was nonexistent. She used the rest of her pretzel to lure the dog to follow her back though from the look on the dog’s face Karen thought it would’ve followed Daisy anywhere no matter what.

No one in the lobby batted an eye at the two of them guiding a dog into the elevator- what were they gonna do anyway? If Daisy Jones wanted a dog in her hotel room, she’d have a dog in her hotel room.

They got the dog up to the room easily, then on a condition of letting it sleep in the room Karen made sure they cleaned the creature. There wasn’t a bath in the room so they made do with the shower. The whole bathroom was flooded and both girls soaked by the time the water stopped running grey with dirt from out of the dog. But Daisy couldn’t stop laughing the entire time and Karen couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so happy. He shook his fur, spraying them all a final time. “This is disgusting,” Karen chastised but even she could help but smile as the dog nudged its damp face against Daisy’s knee.

It ended up being the three of them curled up in bed. Three plus Daisy’s stuffies. “This is Bowie,” she explained to the dog, holding up her stuffed dog. “He’s mine but you can cuddle him if you’re scared.” She reached over to pet the real dog’s ears. “And this is Bailey,” she added, pulling her bear into her lap. “He’s not a dog like you but you can still be friends.” Karen’s heart was little more than a pile of mush at the interaction. She hoped Billy or Rod would say no to the dog because there was no chance she was saying no.

“I think he’s tired now, Daisy,” Karen yawned, smoothing down Daisy’s hair. Daisy smiled at the dog, leaning over to kiss it's damp nose and getting a lick on the cheek in return.

“Night night,” she whispered before slipping her pacifier in her mouth and curling up to Karen’s side. The dog shuffled up the bed and curled up behind Daisy like it was common practice now. Yeah, he fit in pretty well.

***

Billy just laughed when he saw Daisy coming down for breakfast the next morning with a dog trailing behind her. Rod sighed but didn’t otherwise contend it. Plus, the others thought the dog was pretty cute so apparently he was staying, which Karen couldn’t really complain about as she watched Daisy sneak it bacon under the table at breakfast. Before they got on the bus that afternoon they’d gotten all the things Daisy thought he’d need. Anything a dog could possibly want, really.

On the bus Daisy curled up in the back with the dog on her lap, gently carding her fingers through it’s now much cleaner fur. Karen watched the two quietly, sitting so Daisy’s head was against her shoulder. “You’ll have to name him if we keep him,” Karen explained.

Daisy nodded thoughtfully, cupping the dog's face in her hands. “It hasn’t come to me yet,” Karen quirked an eyebrow.

“Well let me know when it does, he’ll need a name tag.”

***

Karen threw the ball across the length of the park they’d stopped at. Both Daisy and the dog bounded off after it.

“Apollo!” She squealed, chasing the dog, which was their new favourite game. Apollo. It was a Greek name Daisy had eventually chosen. God of healing, sun, music and poetry. Yeah, that was Daisy’s dog. Karen watched them quietly from the park bench, Daisy chasing after the golden ball of fur under the setting sun. She was laughing between squeals and her hair was flying everywhere like a first halo. Karen couldn’t help but muse again that, yeah, this was the happiest Daisy had been in a long time. They both bounded over to Karen after a moment, panting and glowing. Daisy collapsed into Karen’s arms, pressing her sweat dripped face against her shoulder. Apollo dropped the ball and sat by their feet, wagging his tail wildly, he was always wagging his tail when Daisy was within reach. Karen gently stroked her hand along Daisy’s arm, holding her warm body against her side.

“Thanks for letting me keep him, Ma,” she thanked. Karen couldn’t help the comforting tightening of her chest at the name. Ma.

“Of course, he’s family.” Daisy nodded, humming happily.

“Family,” she parroted.

🐾🥨☀️🧸

For reference, Apollo is a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. I had no idea these dogs existed until I wrote this but they are SO DAMN CUTE and I want one now : D

#daisy jones and the six agere #baby daisy #little Daisy jones #little daisy #cg karen sirko x little daisy jones #cg Karen sirko #sfw agere #fandom agere #djats agere

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sinsiriuslyemo · 9 months ago

Text

Chapter Two: A New Dog

Much to his delight, by the time he began to open his eyes the next morning, the smell of chicken was already permeating the air. An itch behind his ear prompted him to move, scratching himself just as Penny came to set a bowl in front of him.

“Morning, Bigfoot. Sleep well?” she asked as he began to eat his breakfast. She reached for something on the blanket, her knuckles brushing over the ends of his fur. “Hm, you do have fleas,” she said, looking at something between two pinched fingers. “You up for a bath?”

He glanced up at her, his eyes shifting away as he began to growl lowly, though there was no true aggression behind it. He was a grown wizard! He could bathe himself whenever she left the flat, thank you very much!

“Oh, come on. I bet it’ll make you feel a lot better, it can’t be fun to have all these little blood suckers biting you all the time,” she said. “And after your bath, I can go into town and get you a flea collar. What do you say? Bye bye fleas?”

It would be nice to not have fleas anymore, and he couldn’t really be certain when she would leave him alone or for how long. For all he knew she worked from home and rarely left. Grumbling in reluctant acceptance, Padfoot finished off the chicken in his bowl and drank some water. Penny picked up his empty bowl and stood as she pet his head.

“Good. Do you need to go to the bathroom before we bathe you?”

Yes! he barked in response, carefully standing and following her to a back door in the kitchen. He still limped slightly, though his legs were much more cooperative after a proper night’s rest. She let him into a lovely though small yard, and he wasted no time in finding a good spot to lift his leg before he found a different spot to squat over. Penny came up behind him with a plastic bag and picked up his waste, tying the bag shut and tossing it into the metal rubbish bin by the door.

When they got back inside, she led him to the bathroom, where she began to draw a bath, adjusting the temperature of the water until it was just right.

Getting into the tub was a bit of a challenge, his muscles still sore from his long walk the day before, but with a little help from Penny, he managed and stood still while she wet him down until his fur was dripping. She then lathered dish soap in a ring around the base of his neck to keep the fleas from escaping onto his face, or so she said. The more she lathered his body with dish soap, the better he felt, her fingers inadvertently massaging his sore muscles and getting all the dirt and grime off of his fur. If Harry wasn’t an orphan, if Wormtail weren’t still alive, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, Padfoot might’ve been keen to remain in his dog form permanently.

You should consider it, Padfoot, James’ voice echoed in his mind. Personally, I think you’d be happier as a dog.

“Oh yeah, you needed that alright. That’s gotta feel better, doesn't it?” Penny said as she began to rinse him off.

As the warm water ran over his fur, the water below him became darker and darker, clouding with the twelve years worth of filth he had been covered in. Regular baths hadn’t exactly been available in Azkaban, he almost forgot what it felt like to be clean. Padfoot barked as she took up a washcloth and carefully cleaned his face.

When she drained the tub, he tried to hold still while she towel dried him, but the urge was too great to shake off the water. Penny squealed as droplets began flying out of his fur, laughing with her eyes closed and her head turned. When he had gotten as dry as a shake would allow, she pulled out some muggle contraption that she plugged into the wall and pointed at him. Hard, hot air blew out of one end, which at first he tried to bite, but quickly realizes it was useless. Penny seemed amused by it and waved the contraption all around his boy and tail, drying him off proper.

By the time he got out of the tub, he felt like a new dog — clean and cared for and re-energized.

“Okay,” she said, gathering up the towel she’d used on him. “All done. I’m gonna throw these in the wash and then go out to get a few things. Will you be okay if I leave you here alone for a bit?”

Padfoot barked and gave her a doggy grin. With her gone, he could have a look around her flat and figure out where he was exactly.

“Good boy,” she said, briefly scratching behind his ear before she stood and left the bathroom.

He followed her out, going right over to his water bowl for a drink. When he went to lay on his makeshift bed, he noticed it was gone and groaned under his breath. Laying on the floor, he moved his eyes over the whole front room, trying to decide where he would investigate first. The window that faced the street was a problem, he would need to close the curtains before transforming, but at least they were on the ground floor. It would make escaping later much easier.

Penny walked past him and picked up her purse from the corner of the sofa. “I’m gonna get you a new bed too, okay? The one you used last night had dead fleas all over it, it's in the wash. I shouldn’t be longer than an hour, so please don’t wreck my place. I promise I’m coming back.”

She came up and pet him affectionately, said goodbye and left the flat.

Padfoot waited until she walked by the window, then waited just a few minutes more before he stood and went to the window. Standing on his hind legs, he looked for a street name, but had no such luck. He’d have to find another way to figure out where he was. Moving to one side of the window, he took the curtain with his teeth and closed one side, then the other, before he transformed.

Sirius let out a breath, his elbows stretching back toward his spine before he started his inspection of his surroundings at the wall closest to the window. There were a few photos up that weren’t moving, as muggle photos often didn’t, of Penny with two others. He assumed they were her parents.

“I wonder what they’d say if they knew their daughter took in a stray wizard wanted for murder,” he mumbled to himself as he moved on to inspect the shelf full of books.

There were quite a few history books, but it wasn’t until he started to peruse the second shelf from the top that things got more interesting. And somewhat confusing. There was no question that Penny was a muggle, so why she had a copy of Magical Theory and A History of Magic was a question he didn’t have an immediate answer to. She couldn’t possibly be a Squib, he would’ve smelled it on her, the traces of magic lying dormant deep in her subconscious. So where had she gotten them?

Sirius looked back at her photographs, taking in her smile in one of them.

“How on Earth did you even find these books?” he asked under his breath.

And if she had these books, what else might she have that he would find interesting?

Looking back to the bookshelf, he perused the other titles, but found the rest to just be muggle books — even if there were quite a few more on the subject of witchcraft, mostly as it related to history. As he walked past the fireplace, something on the mantle caught his eye. Sirius stopped short when he looked to find a clear glass case, and inside it… was that a wand?!

Taking a step closer, he furrowed his brows as he inspected it closely, noting the engraved runes immediately. How had he not noticed that before? He sniffed the air above it, but couldn’t detect any magic coming from it. Touching the glass top, a shiver ran down his frame; the glass may have been too thick for him to be able to smell its magic, but he could feel the vibrations of it against the glass. It was a wand! Looking around every edge of the case, he tried to understand how he could open it. He wouldn’t do so any time soon, but there would certainly come a time where he would need a wand, and now he knew exactly where to find one.

“Bloody Rowena,” he muttered, unable to find a way for the case to open. He pointed at it indignantly. “I’ll get you somehow.”

Moving along for the time being, he went down the hallway, past the bathroom, and went into the next room. It appeared to be an office of sorts, with a desk that looked as though a tornado had blown over it, a big calendar hung on the wall, and yet another bookshelf filled to the brim. On the other side of the bookshelf beneath a window was a fluffy, comfortable looking arm chair. He went to the shelf and looked over the titles, inspecting each one and found three other magical texts that only a witch or wizard would ever find access to — An Anthology of Eighteenth Century Charms, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Ancient Runes Translation.

“Well, well, well, Miss Penelope, you have quite the little collection, don’t you?” he mumbled.

Going to the desk, he tried to read some of the papers there without disturbing any of them. The last thing he wanted was for Penny to think that her new dog had allowed someone inside to search through her private things. One stack appeared to be some sort of academic paper, while various smaller, bright yellow papers were stuck across the desk, some on a box-looking machine with a black window. Curiously, he cupped his hands around his eyes and tried to peer inside, but couldn’t see anything. On the corner of the desk was an opened envelope, and he looked down at the address — her address. Number 11, Gordon Square. That was quite a drive from Surrey. But luckily for him, not very far from King’s Cross.

“What were you doing in Surrey then?”

He went into the next room, the one she had mentioned the night before as her bedroom, which unlike the office next door, was really quite organized. A large bed was situated against the wall beneath a window and a wardrobe across from the foot of it. On the night table was a clock, a lamp, a box of tissues, and three books, two of which appeared to be muggle fiction stories, the one at the bottom didn’t have a title on the cover. A diary perhaps?

Leaving the room, he went back down the hall, and into the sitting room just as a car door shut in the distance. He sniffed the air, picking up a familiar scent — Penny was back. Quickly, he transformed back to his dog form and went to open the curtains. He had only managed to get one open and was just halfway with the other when she opened the door.

Her eyes fell on him immediately as she froze halfway through the door. “Please no.”

He let go of the curtain and lowered his head, which seemed to reassure her. She reached just outside the door, and brought her haul inside, which he now saw included a large, fluffy pale blue pillow. Barking excitedly, he ran over to her, his tail wagging frantically as she dropped her purchases on the sofa. He sniffed at the bed before his attention went to the large brown paper bag on the sofa, digging his head inside while she laughed and gently pushed his head away.

“You don’t have hands, Bigfoot, let me get it all out,” she said.

Padfoot scooted back, sitting and staring as her arm reached into the bag and pulled out a long, thick bone.

“I guess this is what you want?” she asked, holding it out to him.

He wasted no time; he may have not actually been a dog, but when he was living as one, Padfoot enjoyed everything a dog would. Taking the bone over to where his bed had been, he laid down and began chewing on it. Perhaps he could stay a bit longer, just until school started. It was better than living on the street at any rate, and he could at least enjoy a few luxuries before he would have little choice but to live outside.

“Here, this’ll be a lot more comfortable, I bet. It’s supposed to help with dog anxiety,” she said, moving the large dog bed closer to him before she went back to the bag and pulled something else out. “And I got you a flea collar so you shouldn't get fleas anymore.”

She reached under his chin and fastened something around his neck with a soft click.

“There we go,” she said, going back to the sofa. “I got a couple more things for you.”

He could hear her speaking but was much more preoccupied with the bone that he was chomping on, licking the length of it for a bit before he would chew on one knotted end.

She dropped a couple of things on his dog bed and walked into the kitchen, saying she was gonna make him some food.

Good, his stomach was already beginning to growl from how delicious the bone was. Perhaps James had been right, perhaps he would be happier as a dog.

“On Monday we’re gonna go to the vet so they can check you for a chip,” she said, her voice carrying over the beeps from her pushing some buttons on the microwave. “Is it bad that I’m kinda hoping you don't have one?”

He paused his chewing for a moment to look over his shoulder at her. Did she really want to keep him? He’d never had anyone want to keep him before. Even when a child would show interest in wanting to play or pet him, their parents usually said that he was too big for their home. But Penny had a relatively small flat as well, and she wanted to keep him. She was staring at the microwave, her hand on the handle while she waited for his food to warm for a few seconds. Opening the door, she took out the bowl, touched the meat with the back of her finger and poured the slightly steaming chicken into his dog bowl.

“This might be a bit too hot,” she mumbled, frowning to herself. “Don’t worry, I’ll get better at heating it just right for you.”

His heart fluttered in his chest, but he turned his attention back to his bone. He was happy to stay until the school term began, but he knew he shouldn’t become too attached to Penny. It was better if he thought of her as merely a temporary landlord. She would provide him room and board, while he gave her companionship, as it seemed she didn’t have very much of that. Or at least, none that he’d seen to that point.

“Okay, Bigfoot, gimme the bone. It’s time for food,” she said.

Absolutely-bloody-not. Padfoot looked at her sideways, his teeth still contently gnawing at the end of the bone.

“Come on, buddy, you can have it back in a little while,” she said.

But I want it now! he tried to growl, but it came out as much more of a whine.

“Bigfoot…” The tone in her voice had shifted to a slightly deeper one, and when he looked up at her, she’d narrowed her eyes at him.

He whined again, but let the bone go, even if he still had it wedged between his paws.

“Don’t get snippy, you’ll get it back in a little while, okay? And on the upside, this little back and forth has given time for your food to cool,” she said, placing his bowl in front of him.

The scent of chicken prompted him to redirect his attention immediately, and he moved to the bowl to begin eating it.

“Good boy,” she said, standing.

His tail wagged lazily, snout still in his bowl.

“I need to work for a little bit, so I’ll just be in my office, okay?” she said, giving him a gentle pat on the head.

Her footsteps carried down the hall and a faint beep sounded from her home office. After finishing his chicken, he drank some water and went to find Penny. As he had anticipated, she was in her office, working on the contraption on the desk. The dark window on the box was now white, and displayed what appeared to be text. Didn’t muggles write things by hand anymore?

Curiously, he stood on his hind legs behind her, his two front paws on the back of her chair, and looked over her shoulder.

She glanced back at him and snorted softly. “You wanna finish my dissertation for me?”

Padfoot tilted his head as he looked at her. Disser… what?

“I’ve been working on it for three years, maybe you’ll have better luck coming up with a good conclusion,” she said, turning back to the window with the words on it. “I just get this feeling like there’s way more to be studied out there, and I can’t bring myself to finish.”

There were clicking sounds, and more words began to appear on the screen. It took a moment for him to realize that the clicking was Penny’s fingers on a thin, rectangular-shaped box that had letters, numbers and symbols on it.

What is this?! Padfoot barked.

“You know I never thought about that, but maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just write the conclusion around what I have for the dissertation so I can actually defend it, and then keep researching on my own. Who knows, maybe I can even write a paper and send it into a historical journal or something.”

Padfoot barked again.

“Yeah, well, that’s what I get for majoring in History with an emphasis in witchcraft. All our jobs are boring,” she said, still clicking.

Padfoot looked at her again, tilting his head slightly. She was studying witchcraft? As an academic? He didn’t think muggles actually did that. He had always assumed that the muggles who took an interest in magic were doing so for the purposes of gaining their own power, not to actually study it.

Penny looked back at him over her shoulder, pausing her fingers from clicking. “Do you ever feel like there’s magic in the world?”

His heart warmed though he couldn’t discern why. Perhaps because she seemed to be truly interested in the craft and not just how much power she could have. Not that she could ever have any, at least he didn’t think. There was still the matter of the very real wand that she was somehow in possession of, and the books. Where would she have come across those books? More to the point, how had the Ministry not confiscated them immediately?

“Okay, you don’t have to look at me like I’m crazy,” she said, turning back to the words on the window and mumbled. “Though you certainly wouldn’t be the only one.”

His eyes softened, still staring at her, and he inched his snout closer to her face, giving her a few kisses on her cheek. She huffed a gentle laugh, leaning into him before she looked back and lightly scratched his cheek.

“Thanks, buddy.” She turned back to her work and Padfoot fell back onto all fours, opting to lay by her feet. “Just let me write this conclusion and then we can go for a walk.”

His ears perked up at the word walk, his tail swishing back and forth across the floor.

She didn’t finish until nearly an hour later, and after pressing a few buttons, a different box that sat on the floor beside the desk started making a loud noise. He sprang to his feet, walking over and sniffing it. Ink? How had he not seen this earlier when he’d been looking around? And what was it?

Something was inching its way out. It was white paper, and had words on it.

“It’s okay,” Penny said, apparently having noticed his curiosity. “It’s just a printer.”

A printer? Muggles have printers?

“I guess you’ve never seen one before, huh?”

No, I haven’t, he thought, watching in awe as the paper was released and another began to follow.

“It’s easier for me to read something when I have it printed out in front of me,” she said. “Come on, that’s gonna take a while. My dissertation is 290 pages. Let’s go for a walk.”

He whipped his head around to look at her, eagerly following her down the hall and hopping on his front paws. She laughed and reached for a lead that was attached to a black collar. Ugh. Did he really have to wear that thing? He was well-trained, he didn’t need a lead. He barked at her, growling low in his throat as he stared at the lead.

“Don’t be a turd, you have to wear a leash or I could get in trouble,” she said. “Come on, I’ll take it off when we get back home.”

Groaning, he stayed still while she put the collar around his neck and led him outside, locking her door behind them.

“Just a short walk, okay? You’re still recovering, so we’ll wanna take it easy for now,” she said as they walked at a leisurely pace down the sidewalk.

A walk in theory had sounded wonderful, but his legs began to ache almost halfway down the block, slowing him down slightly.

“You wanna turn back?” Penny asked, kneeling beside him and petting his head affectionately. “It’s okay if it’s too soon for a walk. I’m so stupid, I should’ve known better.”

Don't say that, you aren't stupid, love, Padfoot whined softly.

“Yeah, let’s go back,” she said. “We can veg out on the sofa, take it easy. What do you say?”

Barking lazily, Padfoot followed her back to her flat, waiting for her to open the door before he went straight for his water bowl. After she got the collar off of him, he laid on the fluffy bed she’d gotten him and almost instantly fell asleep.

#sirius black fanfiction #sirius black x ofc #harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban #post azkaban sirius

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