#onward officer gore

[zzcorpserosezz]

Protect him 👀

[grimoireofhayley]

Of Friends and Horror

Stu Macher x Fem!Reader x Billy Loomis

WARNINGS: Graphic content, Smut (MINORS DNI), Language, Talks of SA, Cheating, Obsessiveness, Gore, 18+ Content, Stalking, Possessiveness, Dirty talk, Religion talk, Suppressed Mental Health problems (I.e., reader has some issues that she isn't aware of)

Word Count: 0.9k

Taglist: @ev3ningrain @nerdytif @fanfic-enjoyer123 @darkenwolfie @juda-the-simp  @colsons-baker @junnniiieee07  @ok-boke @ren-ni @katie-tibo @bruce-yamada

A/n: I promise the chapters from this moment onward will be longer! I haven’t proofread this chapter yet, but I’m working on it as it’s published. I can’t leave ya starving now can I? 😜

All chapter links!!! 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

OF&H Masterlist

Chapter 12

You stood a few meters away from the door, contemplating on how you were going to walk up to both Sidney and Tatum and act like you didn’t just have a heavy-heated make out session with Billy that almost ended up with your back pressed against the glass window; being railed from the front.

The door opened again, startling you from your thoughts as Billy and Officer Brinks came out.

You watched closely, frowning.

Billy was cuffed and being held aggressively against his own will and his dad only stood a few feet away from him, not even trying to hide the fact he was disappointed in his son.

Billy looked at his father, his white shirt clinging to his muscles from the amount of sweat that was coming off of him, defining them more than needed.

“Tell ‘em.” Billy began, his voice cracking. “Come on, Dad, tell ‘em!”

“Just wait for the lawyer, Billy.” His dad stated, unimpressed.

You wanted to run up to Billy and hug him close, but the interaction you had prior made it impossible for you to even budge.

“Sidney!”

This caught you off guard.

“Sidney, come on, you know me.” He whined, fighting against Officer Brinks’ hold, but the man was far too strong as his grip only strengthened, pulling Billy towards his cell. “Sidney, baby!” He hollered, not noticing your presence in the background.

‘I was merely just a distraction…’ You thought, baffled. ‘How could he do and say that to me, and then beg Sidney to look at him, like we didn’t just almost fuck back there..’ You cringed, biting your lip, trying your hardest not to let any tears build up again, but you failed.

Sniffling, you looked to the side, spotting Tatum, fortunately, she was already heading your way.

“(N/n), we’re going to get you and Sid out of here, okay?” She beamed, placing a hand on your back and began rubbing circles in an attempt to keep you from breaking down.

She gently grabbed your hand after a few seconds and dragged you towards Sidney, who was balling her eyes out.

Tatum looked ahead, seeing her brother, Dewey.

“Hey, Dewey. Can we go now?” She asked, impatient.

“Yeah, hold on a second.” He mumbled, but Tatum wasn’t having it.

“God dammit, Dewey!” She screeched, outstretching her arms to the side, in the process, she let go of your hand as aggravation strung along.

Dewey glared, stomping from his boss.

“What did Mama tell you?” He hissed, “When I’m wearing this badge, you treat me like a man of the law.”

You and Sidney just stared at each other, not sure what to say or do and for a minute, you had completely forgotten about the woeful event that occurred beforehand.

“I’m sorry, Deputy Dewey-boy of the law, but we’re all ready to go…” Tatum huffed, grabbing Sidney’s things and stuffing them away in a bag. “Now.” Tatum finished, handing Dewey Sidney’s things.

The Sheriff laughed, patting Dewey on the back.

“Take ‘em out the back way. Avoid the circus out there.”

___

“Isn’t there a back way out of this building?” Gale asked, already walking towards the back with her cameraman.

“Yeah, down that alley I think.” Kenny answered, hoisting the camera on his shoulder, steadying it.

“You stay here, I’m going to get the police car.” Dewey ordered the three of you and then jogged towards his destination, not realizing Gale was on her way.

“There they are!” Gale suddenly blurted, running towards you, Tatum and Sidney.

“(Y/n)! Sidney!” Gale shouted, slightly out of breath.

The bright beam of the flash on the video-er, blinded you for a moment.

“Hi, this is some night! What happened? Are you two okay?” Gale asked, not really interested, as she shoved the mic between you and Sidney, awaiting answers.

“They’re not answering any questions, all right. Just leave us alone.” Tatum stepped in front of you, swatting the mic away.

“No, Tatum, it’s okay. She’s just doin’ her job, right Gale?” Sidney spoke, now in front, confidence radiating off of her despite the forced smile making its way to her face.

You glanced at Sidney, not sure what she was doing, when all you wanted was to just leave, maybe get some rest before the next day. You were irked as it was, and Gale’s voice just kept going and going, making it more difficult to think, breathe, and leave.

“Yes, that’s right.” Gale grinned, oblivious.

“So, how’s the book?” Sidney asked, curious to know what Gale would say.

“Oh, it’s going well, should be out later this year.” She answers.

“Oh, I’ll look for it.” Sidney mocked, she was definitely pissed off.

“I’ll send you a copy—“

Gale didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence as you butted in; your knuckles connected to the side of her face, causing her to knock back, falling into her cameraman. She groaned, pain searing throughout her jaw and cheek, her hand immediately shot to the stinging sensation she felt in a horrible attempt to soothe the affliction.

Sidney’s mouth gaped as she looked at you, not sure if she should thank you or scold you as she wanted to be the one to punch her.

“I’ve had a long day.” You started, “And your voice was the tip of the iceberg.” You growled, “And frankly, I didn’t want to hear you talk anymore.” You fumed, spitting at her feet. “Now, if I were you, I would put that book on hold and shut the fuck up for once.” You finished.

<—Previous Next—>

[the-name-is-z]

SKELETONS | ch. 51

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: Iris, Daryl and Carol explore Atlanta in their search for Beth. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; suggestions of child/domestic abuse; child walkers; post traumatic stress

Chapter 51 - Bound

They left a trail of bodies as they rushed through the streets and alleyways to wherever Carol was leading them. Iris wasn’t used to traversing the dead city in the dark. Or on the ground, for that matter.

Carol led them around the back of another set of buildings, stopping at a small stairway up into a back door. Daryl tried the handle, finding it locked. He grunted, wrestling with it, but if he broke it in, they’d have no lock and it would make a sizeable noise for walkers to follow. He squatted down, peering at the deadbolt lock on the door before turning back to them.

“Two more.” Carol said, looking out at the two walkers approaching down the alley.

“You got a hairpin or something?” Daryl asked. He made a face at Carol’s notably short hair, looking mostly toward Iris. She put her hands into her hair, making a show of feeling around.

“Oh, no! I must have taken them all out after the prince’s ball.” She said drily. Daryl blinked slowly, showing no signs of amusement as his brow remained furrowed. She hiked her boot up onto the railing beside her, rolling up her pant leg to fish around. She pulled out three small metal tools, the first with a small curve at the end, the second with many curves, and the third with a larger notch at the end. “How about some lock picks?” 

“The hell did you find those?” Daryl asked, standing up. Iris offered a sly smile.

“Not so hard to find, if you know where to look.” She replied. She then jerked her thumb backward at the locksmith’s truck parked at the end of the alley. Daryl rolled his eyes and she took his place at the door, swiftly unlocking it. “Open sesame.”

“C’mon.” Daryl called, Carol surveyed their surroundings before ducking inside. Daryl pulled out his flashlight, illuminating a long hallway with a slumped body halfway down. Iris paused at the doorway in amazement, a small part of her wondering how the hell a potted plant could look so good after this long before realizing it was made of plastic. Luckily, Daryl and Carol both missed her small embarrassing moment, prioritizing examination of the body. Daryl leaned over the body, plucking a set of keys from the hook on its belt.

Carol opened a door labeled Service Center, a small office with filing cabinets and a sorry-looking desk awaiting them inside. The room was tiny, the walls beige and depressing, and this room in particular had no windows. 

“You used to work here or something?” Daryl asked.

“Something.” Carol replied. Daryl moved to another door further in, checking it briefly. Carol pushed the desk in front of a third door before they continued onward. Iris used the keys from Daryl to open the next. Inside seemed like a small apartment, complete with a very small bathroom, a set of bunk beds, an armchair and a few lamps. There was a side table with a few books and an ancient alarm clock. The book at the top was entitled, Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse: Psychotherapy for the Interrupted Life. Iris looked around, taking in where they were.

“What is this place?” Daryl asked.

“Temporary housing.” Carol replied with a sigh.

“You came here?” He asked.

“We didn’t stay.” She replied, shrugging. Daryl set his crossbow down on the side table as Carol began to empty her pockets. “I’ll take the top bunk.” Carol called. Iris walked in and pursed her lips at the sigh of only two beds, the top one occupied by a pair of very fuzzy-looking stuffed animals. Daryl followed her gaze, noticing the small predicament. 

“I’ll take first watch.” He offered, clearing his throat. Carol glanced back at the two of them, smirking as she climbed into the bunk. Iris paid her no mind. Daryl pointedly looked away, peering through the window next to the armchair as Iris stared down at the bed. She wrung her wrist absentmindedly, considering. They should all get as much rest as possible to prepare for tomorrow, and yet…

“Are you sure?” She asked him. He turned back to her, swallowing. He could handle taking watch. Of course he could. He’d done it hundreds of times by now, as had she. But was that what she was asking? His eyes seemed a little wider, considering the double-meaning of her question. Maybe he wasn’t sure after all. 

Carol was almost open-mouthed, glancing between the pair of them as their tension took hold of the whole room. She obviously saw something they didn’t. She rolled her eyes as they stared at one another, collapsing onto the mattress, the frame squeaking.

“Place is locked up pretty tight. We should be good.” Carol pointed out, poking her tongue into her cheek so as not to smile outwardly. Iris and Daryl both blinked, glancing at her, then the bed.

“I don’t mind.” Iris decided, her voice whisper-quiet. Carol pressed her lips together, rolling over on the bed to give them the illusion of privacy. Daryl’s eyes seemed wider, and he swallowed again.

“Okay.” He replied, his voice equally low. He turned, and she tried to convince herself she wasn’t watching as he shrugged off his vest, biceps flexing as the moonlight hit them just right. At least, she thought, no one would be able to see her face redden. She turned, and in turn, Daryl tried not to look as she removed her jacket, the hem of her shirt rising just a bit, her hair falling down across her back.

They all stilled as a thud sounded in the distance, hands reaching for weapons. They moved back out into the building, more doors leading to the rooftop and other temporary rooms. Daryl took point, aiming with the flashlight and crossbow. At the end of the hallway, a walker was pressed up against a frosted glass door, gnawing at the air. He almost reached for the door handle, but another silhouette appeared beside the woman in the door, not even half her height, small, barely-grown hands reaching for fresh flesh. Carol stepped forward and Daryl stopped her, a hand on her shoulder.

“You don’t have to.” He said softly. She looked at him, making for the door once more. “You don’t.” He insisted. Carol grimaced, scowling into the void before she spun on her heel, moving back to their chosen room. Daryl followed slowly after her, nodding to Iris, who stayed. She knew how hard it still was for Carol, even if she tried to hide it. She quickly killed the walkers, covering their bodies with sheets from the bed. She closed the door behind her with a small shudder, making her way back to their own bedroom.

When she returned, Carol was facing the wall, back in the bunk bed, and Daryl sat on the edge of the bottom bunk, resting his forearms on his knees. Iris said nothing as she put her knives away, crawling across the mattress and lying with her back against the wall. It was a roomy twin, and they were both painfully aware of it. 

Daryl lay down beside her, his broad shoulders taking up much of the bed, even with a considerable amount of him hanging off the edge. He tucked his left arm underneath his head, his right finding a comfortable resting place across his ribs. Iris curled her knees upward, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Daryl?” She asked, barely audible.

“Yeah?” He answered.

“You said before… we get to start over.” Iris breathed, looking over as he stared up at the bed frame above him. It was all she could think about, really. Everything she did was mentally compared to her life before. Much of her skills were fortunately transferrable. But… perhaps she wanted a different life. Was it really possible? Daryl hummed, confirming her statement. “Did… are you? Starting over?” He paused, inhaling deeply.

“I’m trying.” He replied, turning his head to look at her. Her hair fallen over the pillow, face illuminated by the moon. She had her eyes closed, and she opened them to look up at him again.   He was looking at her strangely, in a way she hadn’t seen him look at her before. She might have, if she had caught him watching her in the woods by Maggie’s farm, pacing on watch at the prison, countless times sitting on the back of his motorcycle, even trapped in a railcar about to be cut into by deceitful cannibals. But this was the first time she had caught it, and the first time he saw her looking at him the same way. She glanced down, eyelashes brushing against her cheeks. “What’s on your mind?” He breathed.

“A lot of things.” Iris answered. She moved to lay on her back, quickly finding that it would be impossible for the both of them to sleep on their backs and stay on the mattress at the same time. Daryl turned onto his shoulder, allowing her to lay flat. Iris fell asleep soon after, and Daryl watched the gradual rise and fall of her chest with slow breath, her lips parting. He fell asleep to the soft sound of her breathing and the heat of her body beside his.

When the sunlight peered over the Atlanta skyline, it was aimed perfectly at Daryl’s slowly-opening eyes. He blinked, moving his head so as not to be blinded by the sunrise. As he made to stretch his limbs, he found his arms and legs tightly entangled, wrapped securely around Iris as she dozed, his face almost buried in her neck. Her arms were latched to his, keeping him firmly against her. 

Iris shuffled with Daryl’s slight movement, her face scrunching in the light before she turned, unconsciously burying her face into his chest. Daryl swallowed thickly, feeling his face heat. Iris’ eyes fluttered open and she rubbed the sleep from her gaze. Daryl’s body was suddenly rigid against her, and she looked up to see him turned away toward the window again, the tips of his ears red. 

Her own face flushed as she processed the compromising position they were both in. She carefully pulled her legs out from between his, his arms retracting from her waist as she slowly turned to sit on the edge of the bed. She opened her mouth to apologize, though she quickly realized two things. The first, apologizing might just make it exponentially more awkward, and it would be the first thing either of them had said to each other that day, meaning it was worse. The second thing she realized was that she wasn’t particularly sorry.

Daryl allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he looked at her back, biting the inside of his cheek. She stood, stretching her limbs and turning to glance at Carol, still sleeping soundly on the top bunk. Iris swallowed, glancing to the rising sun outside. They had at least a couple hours before they needed to keep moving, so she could sleep in a little longer.

“We should burn the body.” She whispered. Daryl blinked, sitting up slowly and facing her.

“Hm?” He asked, shaking the sleep from his brain. 

“The kid.” She clarified, glancing to the door to the hallway. Daryl followed her gaze, nodding in understanding. 

“I’ll find some wood to burn.” He murmured.

-

When Carol awoke, she smelled smoke. She looked out the window, seeing the soft grey clouds trailing up into the morning sky. She grabbed the gun from under her pillow, placing it in its holster. She didn’t bother wrestling with Daryl’s crossbow, instead grabbing the rifle she’d carried from the side table, jogging to the window closer to the flames. 

Her mouth fell open as she took in the sight of the pyre, various pieces of wooden furniture broken up into kindling and laid out to burn like a nice bed. Her eyes filled with tears, though she didn’t let any of them fall, sniffling. Iris was crouched over the fire, poking at the pieces of wood with a long stick as Daryl stepped forward with a bundle of white. The body was tightly wrapped in a sheet, and he laid it to rest as gently as he could on the pyre without burning himself. The two of them turned as Carol walked out onto the roof, acknowledging her before turning back to the young girl. 

Iris walked over, lacing her fingers together with Carol’s. Carol glanced down at their hands, squeezing softly.

“Thank you.” She whispered. Iris nodded, glancing up at Daryl, who mirrored the action. 

Eventually, after a few minutes of silence and mourning, they returned to their room and gathered their things.

“The car was headed downtown.” Iris stated as she tightened her belts. “If we get up on one of the tall buildings, we should be able to assess the city. See what we see, at least.”

“We can stay close to the buildings and keep quiet, but sooner or later, we’re gonna be drawing ‘em.” Carol replied, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

“We’ll hop rooftops where we can.” Daryl nodded, slinging his own bag over his shoulder, beside the crossbow. Iris raised an eyebrow as he grabbed a pad of yellow lined paper, but he shrugged. 

It was strange, seeing the city in the daylight. In the beginning, when Iris was still there, it was overrun with swarms and herds of walkers, and she had to jump between rooftops to get anywhere at all. Now, there was nothing. Broken windows, garbage, abandoned cars and belongings. A few patches of blood and gore. Occasionally they spotted a walker slumped against a wall, and they eventually got the hang of discerning whether it would get back up or not.

They moved quickly regardless, keeping to sidewalks and shadows. Daryl halted at a corner, the sounds of sloshing flesh and snarling coming from the cross street ahead. He gestured to the building across the way, and Iris nodded. It would be good to access. Tall enough that they could get a good view of the city, and multiple pedways across the downtown streets meant multiple access points for quick exits.

“Alright. We can get up there. There’s a bridge.” Daryl muttered quietly. He knelt down, pulling the pad of paper from his bag along with a lighter. He lit it up, tossing it like a frisbee into a pile of cardboard and trash that was a little ways from where they needed to go. It started to draw more walkers as the trash caught fire, and Daryl led them around the corner and into the parking garage they had been skirting around. 

They ran up the ramps and followed signs to the pedway. It seemed relatively empty, save for garbage and a few discarded belongings. Except as they rounded the corner to the bridge, they stopped at the sight of four walkers wrestling against the sleeping bags they were packed into. The pedway had been a camp of some sort, a few tents at the far side and clotheslines slung up in the windows. They walked around to the walkers in the sleeping bags, stabbing them quickly and eliminating any extra risk. Daryl grimaced as a few of them started to claw through the walls of the tents. 

"Some days I don’t know what the hell to think.” He grumbled. Since walkers couldn’t operate zippers, they were fairly safe, deciding to leave them inside and move onward. Iris turned, frowning at the pedway. She shivered, an awkward feeling taking hold of her. Like someone was watching them. It was similar to the feelings she had just before they met Gabriel, like there were eyes peering through the trees, through the windows and blinds of the buildings. But when she glanced back, there was nothing.

Daryl held the chained door open, Carol tossing her backpack and her rifle through the cap before slipping inside. An awkward fit, but none too difficult. Iris followed soon after, taking the crossbow from Daryl so he could shoulder his way through the doors.

“Good thing we skipped breakfast.” He grunted, his broad chest just barely passing through the gap. Iris hummed in agreement, passing his crossbow back with a small smile. This building was much fancier, they observed, an office building for rich companies. Through the windows outside they could see the damaged city, parts of it blackened by fire, the plants and grass leaving a grey stain on the side of the Atlanta highway.

“How did we get here?” Carol murmured, her gaze caught on the remains of a small park. Iris pursed her lips. Apparently they were having an existential sort of day. She scoped the room as Daryl stood at Carol’s side, finding nothing in particular. She made a point of helping herself to the crystal clear water in the cooler against the wall.

“I don’t know. We just did.” Daryl replied. He moved over to Iris, who had sat down on one of the fancy leather armchairs, looking out over the city. He lowered his voice, leaving Carol to her pondering. “The reason I said we get to start over… it’s because we gotta. The way it was…” He trailed off, shaking his head. Iris looked at him for a long moment, reaching up to ghost her fingers across the heavy purple bruise that still lined his eye, curtesy of Joe and his merry band of idiots.

“Yeah.” She breathed. She put her hand down, swallowing thickly. His shocked and impressively still expression made her realize what she just did. She stood, looking out over the park again, frowning. Except this time, something caught her eye. “Hand me the rifle?” She asked, Carol passing her the gun. She held it up, peering through the scope. There was an overpass near Hammond Park, practically empty, save for one white van that was crashed into the railing. On the back windows however were two thick white crosses. “Right there.” She pointed, handing Daryl the rifle. He followed her gaze, grimacing as he noticed the van. 

“Definitely some kind of lead.” Daryl decided, nodding. He handed the gun to Carol.

“It’s been there a while, but definitely one of them.” She agreed. “We should fill the water bottles.”

“Alright.” Daryl nodded again, gauging the distance between where they were and the van. Though his attention drifted, and his gaze fixed onto the abstract painting behind the large, solid-wood desk.

“What?” Iris asked, looking between him and the painting.

“I bet this cost some rich prick a lot of money.” He stated. “Looks like a dog sat in paint and wiped its ass all over the place.” He motioned across the canvas and Carol snorted, looking over from where she stood at the water cooler.

“Such a way with words.” Iris praised, smirking as she shook her head. “I don’t know, I kind of like it.” Daryl glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head at the side of her sly grin.

“Stop.” He scoffed.

“I’m serious!” Iris insisted, gathering her stuff and turning to the door. “You don’t know me.” Daryl scoffed again, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Keep telling yourself that.”

-

TAGLIST:

@heidiland05

@ryoujoking

@catlalice

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[yellowbunnydreams]

Mechanised Devotion (Part 2) ~Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader~

~Holy cow, thank you so much to the people who liked part 1 despite the fact it was basically just set up! I promise we'll get to the more fun bits from here onwards. I'm just excited to be writing again, and honestly just trying to have fun with this little writing project~

Part 1

CW: Minors DNI, (18+ ONLY), afab reader, legal age gap (Reader- 20's, William - 40's), mention of crimes and violence, blood, mentions of child death (it's FNAF, what did you expect?), past trauma; abusive relationships.

It had been less than three days when Steve Raglan picked up his office phone as it rang, breaking him out of a stupor he had fallen into as he had pulled out his laptop and began watching the security feeds from his little 'hobby'. He'd watched the black and white cameras as they flickered with a little aged grain as the inside of what was once a colourful, successful establishment was now being ransacked by vagrants and bored teenagers. Today it happened to be vagrants, and he wished that he had remembered to wire back the audio into them as he witnessed a particularly large man run apparently screaming from an elongating, slow shadow behind him.

He felt a little regret that he wouldn't be able to watch his creations deal with the issue as the shrill tone of the phone of his desk continued. This was the downside to being Steve Raglan, he couldn't enjoy what he most wanted to when he wanted to.

It was never as satisfying to watch back the tapes.

"Steve Raglan's office." He stated cooly, running his thick fingers through his hair and hiding an annoyed huff as he kept glancing back at the screen. Raising an eyebrow as he watched the man on the screen pick up a chair and trying to jab it towards the heavy shadow coming into view on the edge of the camera. Soon joined by a second and a third.

"Hi it's um... it's me." You stated, similarly running your fingers through your hair although you were unaware of it. Hearing Steve Raglan's voice made you somewhat nervous for some reason, gripping the handset of the landline you were calling from and twirling the cord around a finger as they moved from your hair.

Raglan sat back in his chair, half-keeping an eye on the screen but now intrigued as to your call. If it had been anybody else calling on his free-office day, he would have put the phone down but the nerves in your voice pulled at some part of him and coerced him into listening. A sly, calculating smile crossing his lips as he drawled out your name.

"It's so nice to hear from you, what do I owe the pleasure of this call to?" He asked, watching the screen and grinning as the camera was predominantly dominated with the hulking figures of his creations reaching for the intruder. Watching as their maws opened up to reveal a carefully orchestrated mess of gears, pistons and wires and enough hydraulic pressure to snap bones.

You could hear the sweetness in his voice as he talked. Taking a deep shaking breath, your grip tightened on the handset before you glanced at the rent notice pinned on the board and saw your name as the one circled in red and underlined. The last one to pay rent that month. Again.

"I was um, wondering if you still wanted to talk to me about my...history." You ventured cautiously, subconsciously reaching up and biting at your nails and tasting the bitter polish as you felt the nerves and caution creep into your voice.

Steve leant forwards and pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that would somehow mean you wouldn't hear the smile in voice as he watched the carpeted floor of the old pizzeria seep into a darker colour despite the monochrome settings, and he was, surprisingly to himself, excited that you wanted to talk to him.

"Oh yes, you decided to change your mind? I knew you would be good and see it from my perspective." He felt his breathing hitch as he watched the somewhat censored gore on the screen and his heart began to beat a little quicker as his depraved mind began to wonder what little secrets he would be able to tear from your pretty little head.

You were somewhat glad that he couldn't see you as your cheeks filled and turned crimson in embarrassment. Hearing his words had made some part of your mind light up like an amusement park. 'I knew you would be good', and you weren't sure, but you swore you almost heard his breathing flutter excitedly as he said it. Shaking your head, you dismissed the notion that the man you had met a few days prior would be that weird.

"Yeah so um... It all really began back whe-"

"Oh no, sweetie, don't you think it would be far more professional to say something like this to my face?" Raglan asked, unable to contain a small sneer as he stressed 'professional' but let the warmth of his voice coat the nickname he threw in casually. He had found younger women were so much easier to manipulate as he pleased as long as he threw just enough scraps of compliments and feigned interest to light up their little hormone ridden brains. It was almost as easy as convincing kids to follow him back in his hay-day.

"Oh um, sure Mr. Raglan." You stammered slightly, caught off guard by the nickname, running your hand through your hair again and biting your lip as you wondered where the sudden informality had come from. Although you supposed this was only your second time speaking to him.

Shutting the laptop down and placing it into a desk drawer and locking it up, Steve loosened his tie and leaned back into his office chair. He wondered whether he should get her to come to the office again, but as he looked around the room idly, he noticed a menu flung onto the side and picked it up, twirling it in his fingers as he glanced over it and decided that an informal setting might make you squirm more. He wanted to see you on edge.

"How about I meet you at a place called Sparky's? It has good food I've heard."

Food sounded like a wonderful idea, if a bit strange to you that he mentioned meeting you somewhere so informal when surely what you were about to divulge was confidential.

'I'm not the expert though. This is literally his job.'

"Umm... Sure, but sir I-"

"No ifs, no buts okay?" He raised his finger and waggled it as if you would see, but the predatory grin remained on his face, slightly faltering as the adrenaline from watching the feeds faded out all too quickly for his liking. "See you in about...an hour." He said, giving no option to argue as he put down the phone. Standing up and stretching, letting his back crack satisfactorily and tucking in his shirt again, adjusting his tie again as he picked up your file. Deciding to read through it once more before meeting with you again.

~~

Finding Sparky's wasn't that hard, but walking there in worn down sneakers that really weren't suited to walking that much, jeans and a baggy t-shirt even in the thick Utah heat had seemed like a great idea when you left the house. However as you reached the aged looking diner, it was regrettable one.

One thing you had realised as you had settled down in the middle of nowhere also known as Hurricane, everything looked like it had been built in the eighties and then left to rot away, never being updated apart from the barest health and safety codes that allowed things to continue functioning.

Stepping inside, a small bell chimed and you were glad to find the cozy space air-conditioned. A mousey haired and boyish faced waiter smiling at you from behind the counter before returning to cleaning momentarily, allowing you the chance to look around and find Raglan. You noticed him in a booth in the corner, legs stretched out to one side and head leaned partly against the cool glass, a mug infront of him that his massive hands fiddled with idly. It was comical in a way, the way the massive man sprawled to fill out the space with a slight scowl on his sharp features.

Cautiously, you approached, and Raglan turned his head automatically as he noticed movement in the glass where his head rested. His features cool and unreadable before he noticed who it was approaching, breaking out into that cute lopsided smile that made you light up slightly seeing it.

'Since when did you light up seeing somebody smile?' you asked yourself. Offering a nervous smile back before taking a seat opposite in the booth. Smelling the freshly brewed coffee he had in front of him and feeling the change in your pocket jingling as a heavy reminder that you too would probably only be having coffee. Watching Steve tuck himself back into the booth and lean his forearms on the table, leaning forwards slightly.

"Ah, glad you found it! Now, you look absolutely parched lovely, let's get you a drink." He said, voice warm and comforting again, seemingly concerned with your state as he gestured for the boyish waiter to come over. Reading his name-tag as 'Ness' as he got closer.

"Hey folks, what can I get you? Another coffee sir?" He asked, his voice bubbly as he directed his question towards Steve first, who looked in his cup. Notably almost comically small in his calloused palm, before he shrugged and smiled charmingly at the waiter.

"Sure, two waters as well and whatever this young lady would like, it's my treat."

"Mr. Raglan I really couldn't -"

"No no," he said, tapping the table idly with his right hand, as if keeping it occupied as he spoke. Tilting his head to one side and widening his smile as he said your name gently, reassuringly. "no ifs and no buts, remember?"

Swallowing softly, you stammered through your order, making sure to pick the smallest thing on the menu still. You weren't going to be stupid or cheeky, remaining frugal in a way that made Steve raise an eyebrow and smirk to himself. He was beginning to form an image of you in his head, and a shiver ran through his body as he realised you were ticking quite a few boxes for himself mentally.

Ness disappeared with a smile and a nod, leaving you and Raglan alone and in somewhat awkward silence as the buzz of the air conditioning tried somewhat unsuccessfully to fill it. Twirling your thumbs around each other, you looked at your hands and thought for a moment about which nail to chew before taking a deep breath and matching Steve's pose. Forearms on the table and slightly leaned forwards.

"I guess...my personal issues at work started with my ex." You admit, keeping your eyes on your own hands and how your thumbs move, trying not to disturb the pattern that you had fallen into with the soothing motion. "He was...A real peach, you know? Made me feel pretty and stupid and like I was dating God's gift to women." You sigh, biting at your lip and chewing at a dry piece of skin, avoiding Steve's eyes.

The man opposite you listened intently, and a malicious glitter formed in his silvery eyes as he stared intently at you. Head bowed, speaking softly and brokenly. Bitter. Although something gnawed at his insides as you spoke about your ex-boyfriend. How he had made you fall so vastly in love with him, that you didn't care when the beatings initially started, because you deserved it in your eyes. You would apologise even as you laid bloody and bruised on the kitchen floor because you were stupid enough to make him angry.

Raglan scowled as he realised that the feeling eating at him was jealousy. Jealousy at a man he had never met nor heard the name of before that day because he was the one that had gotten to break you first. Not him. Not who he really was anyway.

Food arrived and you finished talking, summing up your life-story about how you had gotten fired from multiple jobs because your psycho ex would stand outside or inside your place of work and simply stare at you for hours after you left. Would follow you to a car, or bus or train even, just because you dared to leave him.

Steve offered his large hand out, switching from a scowl to a concerned frown as you looked up, tears pricking at your big doey eyes. He felt angry in a way. He wanted to be the reason you cried. Not some stupid, half-assed attempt at a threat.

Raglan wanted to see you cry with real fear.

Gently, he placed his large hand on your forearm and stroked it slowly, a comforting motion that made you look up at him and into his eyes as he spoke with what sounded like sincere grief on your behalf.

"I'm so sorry sweetie, somebody like you shouldn't have to go through that kind of fear. I understand now, I think I have something in mind for you, a job that would mean you're out of sight if he should come looking for you." He offered, letting his hand rest on your elbow for a moment before resuming the comforting motion again.

Internally, he was grinning. He had been sincere when he said you shouldn't have had to experience that type of fear, no, because he wanted you to experience real fear. The type that meant he could watch your panic and pain upclose and personally.

[yuripoll]

KNOCKOUTS: Vengeance (2015 - 16)

Vengeance is a Korean thriller by Aji about a detective investigating the murder of her lover.

Having witnessed her "secret" love killed by a murderer, the normally calm and cool headed police officer, Seolah, is determined to find the bastard and avenge her love's death… - AniList

Originally posted on Lezhin (both KR & ENG), but has since been removed :(

CWs under the cut. General severity rating: major.

sexual content & nudity

bloody violence <- gore & detailed injury is the big thing; guts shown in ch22 and maggots shown in a wound in ch18. detailed slit throat shown frequently. on top of that, fighting, stabbing, blunt force, gun violence. facial trauma in ch14.

animal death <- ch7, dead animal (cat, i think? ambigious) is thrown in a carrier bag and you can see part of it's corpse. mention of animals being killed by a stalker in ch9 (not shown).

homophobia <- pretty intense, kind of everpresent throughout. violent homophobia in ch7. the protagonist theorises that her partner was killed with homophobic intent. additionally, derogatory use of "homo" towards a gay woman. multiple homophobic men relish in her death.

stalking <- subplot in ch7 onward, tries to attack his victim in ch10

police brutality & abuse of power <- arrest of a citizen without a permit followed by violently assaulting him during an interrogation. he's homophobic and sucks but that... doesn't really change the circumstances of the thing. happens in ch6. she also later attacks potential (but innocent) suspects extralegally. tresspassing into a suspects home without a warrant.

very brief mention of sexual assault in ch6, not related to any main character

murder & grief <- central themes

suicide <- by stabbing, not shown in detail.

adult age gap <- doesn't really draw attention to it aside a comment in ch16 confirming that the protagonist is "much older" than her lover, but the central relationship is between a uni student and an established police officer.

self harm <- ch12, character digs nails into face hard enough to cause bleeding.

incest(???) <- one character has a crush on someone she's ambiguously related(?) to.

unhappy ending and general very bleak tone

[shoutascoffeepot]

Chapter Three: Unloaded

The Art of Deception: The Deadly Dance - Series

Pairing: Aizawa Shouta x Female Original Character

Themes: Mafia, psychological, gore, age gap, cultural differences.

!!!Trigger Warnings!!!: Age gap, sexual visualizations of a minor (she's almost 18), swearing, gun usage, deep talk, kidapping, controlling, smoking, drugs, graphic depictions of gore, blood, torture, dead dove do not eat.

Notes: I decided to switch from third person to first and switching POV from this chapter onward. Similar to Haunting Adeline's writing style. Also this chapter has our first 18+ Scene. Lmk if you'd like to be tagged for upcoming chapters.

Also, this chapter contains unfiltered criminal and psychological behavior, please be mindful whilst reading the trigger warning list and expect the worse before proceeding. Read at your own discretion. Your mental health matters <3

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

I will start going through my followers and viewers of my posts and if you don't have your age I will resort to blocking for the safety of my content.

Shouta

The flower I had picked was not what I thought it was. My instinct, alongside the evidence, the little things, pointed to my suspicions being correct.

After breakfast this morning, I was energetic enough to finish up a good portion of both the legal business and oversee the records of our shipment tracks. It’s the coffee. It’s the motherfucking caffeine. It’s anything but that cold run in my veins when I think of her. 

Pursed glossed lips, long curled black lashes, was she foolish enough to challenge me? Who the fuck was this Lilith? Not a wallet or a phone with her when I caught her. No identification, no records, apartment empty of any source of identification, I got nothing on her. It’s going to be a hassle to get her info. 

As if I was her pawn, not the other way around. She’s kidnapped, she should be throwing a fit, screaming, kicking, planning her escape. All I found was this disposable vape in her bra, laid neatly on the side of the table. I eyed it then slammed shut my laptop. I picked it out and smoked it. 

Strawberries, mint. 

Fuck. Is that how her breath smells? Would that be how her soft glossy lips feel? No, they would taste of glossy cherry candy.. Or fresh strawberries. 

I shouldn’t be attracted to her. She’s well ten years younger, if not half my age. I shouldn’t have kidnapped her. We barely had two interactions and this is how I’m reacting. Putting the vape back down, I slid down my desk chair, under the table where I laid my sleeping bag and some pillows. If I sleep uncomfortably I would wake easily, I would be alarmed. And this bag brought me comfort….

– 

I scrunched my face as my back ached from the awkward position I was in, perhaps I should’ve slept in bed. No, I’ll rest when I get all my work done. I just need to… Where’s my phone? I grabbed it and looked at the time, four in the afternoon. I slept for four hours, that’s the longest I’ve gone in a long time. Probably why my back hurts. 

Lunch, we could have lunch.. Dinner, with Lilith, I’ll make sure she sits face on one of the cameras and we could start the background check from there. Then we have that deal with the North Japanese Yakuza who should arrive tonight. I will need my notes ready. 

I stood, grabbing my suit jacket and tie, did I sweat so much? So a quick shower first and foremost. Walking out of my office, I went to my wing from the mansion, seeing my right hand, Shinsou, as he caught up with me. He was well young, eighteen, and I was going to give him all this and teach him how to manage it if I were gone. 

“Aizawa-Senpai.”  His tone was dark, as if he were just a boy. I sighed, was he responsible enough? 

“You hadn’t told me about the guest.” He continued, his purple messy hair brushed back out of his face as he stared at me, I looked ahead, annoyed. 

“What makes you think I should report to you everything I do? Kozou?” I snapped after clicking my tongue. 

“I hadn’t exp–” 

“Do not act like you are in charge when you’re merely a mentee at my mercy.”  I reminded him. “I will take a shower. Do me a favor and tell Lilith we’re having dinner at five, introduce yourself to her if you wish. Afterwards we will take our leave.” 

“Yes Aizawa-Senpai.” He took a turn as I went into my room. Tossing my jacket and shoes aside as I unbuttoned my shirt. I let my clothes drop and pulled my hair tie out of my hair, even though I showered this morning. I hated how warm I get when I sleep. It’s like I’m a fucking heater. 

Letting the cold water run over my body, I kept my eyes closed. I wish I could stay like this forever. Unbothered, uninterrupted, no need to talk, no need to understand, no need to be alarmed. The cold water seems to understand me best, cooling the fire burning my skin. Washing the sweat and worry away. Draping me with peace and serenity. 

The fire burning me is the dread of what I did eating at me. Lilith seems unbothered, too carefree with her freedom taken away. I suppose she’s smart for not wasting her energy. Albeit it was unsettling for my instincts. The same tinglings that I get before a disaster unfolds, the tingling that got me where I am today. 

However, this is the first time that this instinct…

Excited me. 

I couldn’t tell whether she was a foolish girl thinking this is fun or someone I should be afraid of. Perhaps a spy sent to kill me? But if she was she wouldn’t have hesitated at the shooting range. Her cat-eyes simply fluttered as they pleaded the gun out of our hands, dark eyes having the sun shining on them to a chocolate color. Thick brows knitted together and biting on her lower lip because of the anxiety. 

Lilith was so adorable her little reactions have a grip on me. It sent all the heat to my groin. Fuck. I have no time for this. I should not be attracted to her; she might be a threat to me and the thought of her having a knife to my throat isn’t intimidating me as it should. I still reached out to my cock, stroking it. A heavy sigh left my lips as I closed my eyes. The coldness of the water on my warm cock edged me just right.

What if it was her red painted nails stroking me? If she pleaded with those eyes to taste me? Sitting between my legs and using her pretty little words to beg me? I yearn to pull her hair back, expose her neck and mark it. If she sits on my thigh, would I feel her wetness on my legs? Would she grind herself to her own release and whine out my name?

Fuck. No.

I came all over myself. The water quickly washed it off. I grabbed the head and cleaned the rest of myself with shower gel. When I got out I wrapped a towel over my waist and squeezed the water out of my hair. When I idly got the blowdry out to dry my hair, my eyes went to all the scars scattered over my chest and abdomen, shoulders. The hair on my chest – It wasn’t common for Asians to grow hair. And for some reason now I find it an insecurity of mine. 

Lilith was beautiful. I don’t know what she had or what she has seen or preferred to her men. But she was the glowy, influencer  kind, and I was the pale, too lazy to shave, just putting sunscreen on kind. And I could easily see by her side a pretty kind of man, too, one who probably has blue eyes, clean shave, gelled hair. Like superman. 

I cursed the way my thoughts were in the wrong alley as I buckled my belt, wearing the shirt and closing it. But seriously, the idea of her being with other men shouldn’t nudge me the way it is. She’s too young either way. I just so happened to catch her. She might be a spy. I’ll eventually have to kill her after finding who sent her to me. So whatever thoughts were in the shower, they stayed there and shall go down the drains. 

I decided that, and I don’t change my decisions. 

Lilith

We were having dinner, and the whole goddamn day I was so bored. I took a stroll in the gardens, sketched on the little notebook that I had found. I did a whole face of makeup, it was the same as my graduation too. And tried on the dresses that were offered and shoes, they were all designer. Damn, I don’t know if this is a curse or blessing. 

I was wearing a black satin and lace dress that had a cocktail top but sleeves that reached down and matching gloves, it hugged my body but not as tightly that it would be skintight. I looked at myself in the mirror just as I heard the door open and I jumped looking at the man before me. He had purple wavy hair pushed back and was in a black button up and pants. He eyed me down. I sent back a glare and clenched my jaw. How fucking dare he think he has the right to look at me that way?

“Konnichiwa. Shinsou Hitoshi.” He muttered and leaned on the wall, his eyes finally coming to meet with me while he sucked his teeth. He was enjoying what he saw, huh?

“Lilith.” I patted down the dress. 

“Nice to meet you. Aizawa-Senpai and you are having dinner at five,” He coldly stated. 

I checked the clock. “It’s four fifty.” 

He was acting interested but the way he crossed his arms in front of himself. He feels inferior. Aizawa Shouta didn’t seem the last-minute planner type. Even if he were, why would this Shinsou person be feeling inferior, was he trying to put me on the spot? 

“You got a problem? You seem to already have other plans.” He chimed. 

“No, but with no phone nor access to the internet I am investing in whatever idle things I like to do.” 

“And you enjoy dressing up like a prostitute?” 

I gazed at him with my tired eyes, how adorable would it be if he accidentally had his eyeballs gouged out. I then looked away, Yin was quick on her feet, good thing she found and took my electronics before his men emptied my apartment. 

Now lying about not having any shit other than a measly phone should be easy. 

“Cat’s got your tongue?” 

I turned to look at the lavender-haired boy again. Wearing a pair of heels and putting on perfume before walking past him, my shoulder hitting his chest. But he was quick to grab me. 

“Don’t try acting strong. Lilith. You’ll just embarrass yourself.” He advised. 

Grabbing his wrists, I pinned them to his sides on the wall and laughed. “Don’t threaten me, boy.” My nails dug into his wrists despite the skimpy lace between his skin and them, drawing blood. “Don’t make an enemy out of someone you know only their name.” 

His purple eyes widened as he struggled against my grip, he was hardly taller than me with my heels on. “Go cry to your daddy about how your cockiness got you souvenirs.”  I let go of him and left. 

I strode through the gardens whilst cursing myself. Fuck fuck fuck, why did I go off on him? Now they’re bound to know. Nono no no, calm down.. Calm the fuck. Down. Just say the truth, best manipulation and lies are the ones that have the truth embedded in them. Don’t panic, panic only leads to disaster. Fix boldness with more boldness. 

Aizawa approached me from the other side of the cobblestone sidewalk, his eyes focused on me. Almost strained struggling, I smirked, he probably is trying not to look down. He stopped as I reached him then we strolled together. Confidently, I smiled at him. “Good evening?” 

“Good evening, doll.” His response made my brow arch. 

He thinks I’m a doll. He seems tenser than before. He must have suspected something. If I were him, I’d think I’m a spy sent out to kill him. We reached a dining area that was located in the traditional area, the seats were floor-leveled and the table just an inch high enough to serve them. 

“Here,” He pulled out a chair for me. 

“Chivalry’s alive?” I laughed as I sat down, and his cologne hit me as he pushed my chair in before taking his own seat. It was spicy, like cinnamon? And vanilla? Mixed with an earthy scent..

“Itadakimasu.” He muttered. 

“Itadakimasu..” I repeated as I grabbed the chopsticks, maki rolls, soup and sushi, today we’re having more Japanese cuisine huh?

“You seem dressed up” He commented as he dug in. 

“So do you, sir..” I tilted my head, putting the salmon sashimi in my mouth. 

“I have somewhere to go after this.” He cleared his throat. Did the nickname catch him off guard?

“I’m coming with you.” I told him. 

“No you’re not.” 

“I am.”

“This isn’t some sort of gameplay.” 

“I am smart enough to realize that.” I stared at him as he looked at his soup, clenching his jaw. 

“Who are you?”

“Lilith.” 

He clenched his jaw again. 

“Trust goes both ways. Aizawa… Shouta.” I looked down when he stared at me, we barely had a minute of eye contact. I suppose I keep him on edge as he keeps me. 

“Who sent you?” He demanded. 

“If I was sent you wouldn’t be breathing right now.” I stuffed my face more, gosh I’m hungry and this food is amazing. 

“Kidding, I’m only joking. Or am I?” I raised a brow. “What I mean to say, Aizawa Shouta, not everyone is your enemy.” I continued. 

“Then what are you?” He reluctantly continued his food. 

“Your hostage. Either way, I will be coming to whatever auction you’re planning to go to.”

We wrapped up and I stood up after dabbing my mouth. He also led the way, arms up to tie his hair back into a messy bun. I’m a big fan of messy buns, but he has thick hair and it seemed painful. I wonder how it feels to touch it. No. 

No.

I want to though. 

It’s none of my business.

Fine. 

I leaned back on the leather seats of his car across from Aizawa who was texting on his phone. I felt my forehead begging mayday. I rubbed my brows, fuck. I have no idea where we’re going. But I just know I have to tag along no matter what. 

“Do you need a gun?” I heard Aizawa’s voice ask as I glanced at him, his eyebags seemed a little better than this morning. 

“No.” I looked out the window. “Turn up the radio, please.” I asked the driver as I dug my bra for my gloss and applied some. 

This is going to be an eventful night, however it may go. 

Shouta

She asked to come, yet wants no weapon. She knows her way with a gun. What the fuck did I fucking get in this claw-game and do I even want to be angry right now? Fuck it, if she died it’s less of a hassle for me. 

We reached and before I could get off she went out first. Eager, I followed, anticipating her trying to escape. But she didn’t. All I saw was her ass shifting very subtly as she cat-walked in front of me on the carpet to the entrance. In the cafe, they took us to the vip lounge where there sat a big round table and I took a seat with my men. 

She remained standing. Wandering about in the lounge room, I could sense and hear the mutters of my own crew either judging her or eye-fucking her. I tapped with my shoes on the hardwood floor, where was Shinsou?

He joined just as I thought that, the cuffs of his sleeve barely hid the trace of a bandage, when did he get hurt? He sat beside me with the folder. I side-eyed him, expecting him to tell me what happened. He leaned into my ear and whispered. 

“Lilith.” 

My eyes trailed to her again, she bent down, ass up as she looked under the table. The guys were making insolent hand gestures. I can’t take this shit, I reached inside my suit jacket for my pack and lit one up, taking a deep breath. Soon, the North Japanese Yakuza joined, and Lilith stood by, glaring them down as they took their seats. 

Her doe eyes were now judgemental and scary. 

I stifled a chuckle, why is she acting like my little bodyguard? 

Then I noticed. 

With the Northern Yakuza was a little girl, about eight? she seemed different, with that condition…Not having pigmentation.. Fuck I forgot the name. Her eyes were red and hair was bluish white. She was dressed in white hospital gown and had bandages all over her arms and legs and neck. The sight already put my stomach in a twist. Why the fuck did they have a little girl? 

“Should we begin?” I cleared my throat, glancing at Lilith and she was already switching glances between me and the girl. 

“Yes, as we mentioned in code we have many benefits of forming an alliance together.” The brunette leader started, wasn’t the leader an old man? 

I kept quiet, letting him do all the talk, we’ll see how this takes us. 

“Out North, we have established secret laboratories where we conduct experiments for a new product that would break the black market.” He continued.  His assistant handed me a tablet that showed me boring statistics. I skimmed over the next slide which explained the product. Serum…. Mutates human genetics? 

“It’s a bullet infused with a new type of germ. It's an unidentified disease, and deadly if not treated. Neither a virus or bacteria. But something far more concerning. It mutates the genes of human DNA.” 

The more I listen, the more I get the urge to vomit. I could feel Lilith’s aura without even exchanging eye contact. The pieces are all coming together. Is the little girl with bandages their donor?

“Of course, to make our finances skyrocket. We intend to have the antidote and sell it to the medicine companies. And with your transportati-” 

I slammed my fist on the table. 

“The Underground Japanese Yakuza does not have business with the likes of you.” I could feel my blood boiling already. 

“Excuse me?” He spoke, laughing. “I’m afraid you have no choice, Eraser.” 

I stood up, but then the rattling of guns aimed at my head and my men aiming theirs on them. 

“You do not force me into a deal.” My tone threatened. 

“We could achieve greatness! Change the world, fix the overpopulation as well. We’d be heroes!” He sounded like a lunatic. And looked like one at that.

“That’s not what we’re supposed to be. Especially with this sickly plan. You disgust me.”

“Gentlemen, fire–” 

“No one moves or your pathetic leader’s dead.” Lilith suddenly came up from under the table and pinned the man by his neck to the wall of the lounge. SHE’S HOLDING A PENCIL IN HER HAND? TO HIS EYE? 

They were about to move the guns when she dangerously ticked his eye as he gulped. “IT’S NOT A THREAT IT’S A FUCKING PROMISE. I WILL NOT HESITATE TO MAKE YOU ALL WITNESS SOMETHING WORSE THAN YOUR PATHETIC LIVES.”  She screamed at us.

Even I froze in fear. 

“Guns down, or one of his eyes is down. You choose.” She ordered. 

One by one, his men put their guns on the table. 

“ON THE FUCKING FLOOR. UNLOADED.” The man had visibly goosebumped when she yelled at him and they threw their guns to the floor. I couldn’t even think such a sound could come out of her.

One of them defied her, grabbing the gun and triggering it and she did not hesitate to stab Chisaki in the eyeball. No one dared to look away except the little girl. The guttural scream of agony that escaped him definitely reached even Italy. Blood poured out of one side of his face as he cried in utter pain. Lilith, unfazed, pulled his eyelids open, and made sure she gouged out the eyeball on the pencil as she pulled it out. It looked like a bloody horror movie kebab. 

She turned to look at us, blood splattered on her face as she let go of Chisaki, I started to pity him. “Anyone want to join him?” She scanned the crowd. 

“I do not need a pencil, I have no problem pulling out your fucking arteries and playing connect with them. Ask this guy.” She patted Shinsou on his back. I saw Chisaki trying to crawl to a gun and load it. 

Before I could think to look at her, she wastes no time turning and slamming her heel on the ground just beside his hand, a loud crack indicating she broke the wooden floor, the gun fell from his hand. 

“I missed~” Her sweet voice cooed. Why was this turning me on? Why with every unexpected turn I find the rush of adrenaline going to all the wrong places? 

She lifted her dress, hiking her knee off the floor and tilting her head. “Which part of you should I step on? Does my underwear look cute from down there?” She asked him before pivoting and stepping on his thigh. The four-inch heel tore through his flesh as blood splattered on her calves. His cry was even worse than before. 

But all I could think of was her in a lingerie with blood splatters of her torture session right now. 

“I want to keep him. He’s fun.” She looked at me after taking out her heel from his flesh, a fountain of blood started coating everything as she squirmed and dug her heel back where it was to stop the blood. 

“What a mess you’ve fucking made.” She continues to degrade him as she takes off the heel, leaving it inside him as she walks one barefoot towards me, her eyes empty and daring – whatever that was behind them, that was the realness of the woman who stood before me. 

“Tell me, Eraser, do I look better in black?”

[thezanyarthropleura]

“We’re starting to get a better idea of that,” Hanatani’s voice sounded around the room, while Asagi used the police officer’s handcuffs to bind Yoneda’s hands. “Whatever you do, don’t look into the creature’s eyes, we think that’s how it—"

“I know. He tried to do it twice to me already. I think I’m immune to it.”

“That’s… probably a good thing. Look, if you can make it to a police checkpoint, I can have—"

“No,” Asagi said again, putting the radio down for a moment while she used the crutch to break the lock on the Employees Only door and open it. “My best friend is still somewhere in the city, and I’m not leaving without her.”

“Listen, I know how you feel—"

“I’m not. Leaving. Without her.”

If the words "Heisei Barugon" mean anything to you, there's a chance you may like my most recent (and probably favorite of all time) kaiju-themed fanfic. Staged as a companion piece/story expansion of the 2003 Gamera vs. Barugon Manga, an idea that started with "where were any of the film characters during these events?" soon became this 18,000-word survival horror story, set in a city overrun by one gigantic gator-ceratopsian greed demon and his horde of hypnotized zombie followers!

Words: 18,799

Category: F/F with an M/M side pairing, but largely a plot-focused story

Pairings: Asagi/Yukino, Hanatani/Obitsu

Content Warnings: Blood and gore, dark imagery, unnamed character deaths, temporary zombified state of a main character, overall bleak tone toward society but a hopeful ending

Set between the second and third films in the Gamera Heisei trilogy, Gamera vs. Barugon: Comic Version never saw official release in the west, although an excellent English fan-translation exists for those willing to do a little digging. It's sometimes erroneously reported that Asagi appears in this manga, but that isn't the case - Dr. Honami and Obitsu have a brief cameo in an introductory recap of the final minutes of Gamera 2: Attack of Legion, but otherwise the manga stars original characters that echo the archetypes from the original 1966 Showa Gamera vs. Barugon film.

Even without the familar cast, the manga still manages to work fascinatingly within its canon timeframe - early into the three years post-mana-beam, we already have a rogue Gyaos appearance, and in addition to the state of the planet presenting conditions for the awakening of monsters, there's a heavily implied expansion into the state of society where concerns Barugon and his exploitation of greed at what seems to be all socioeconomic classes indiscriminately - he acts as a precursor to later threats like Iris, and a test of humanity's resolve in an era where Gamera is becoming an increasingly distant and unpredictable player on the board.

But one additional layer I definitely wanted to explore here is where a few of the trilogy's human characters fit in: Asagi is in the aftermath of her bond with Gamera shattering, and in the prelude to her island-hopping trek where she'll learn about Mana. The SDF is in the aftermath of the battle that elevated their trust in Gamera - with First Lieutenant Hanatani as the face of that trust - and in the prelude to a long decline that will test that faith harshly. The character story largely rests on the meeting of the two, even over a desperate radio connection, and the commonality they share in falling for people who wear bright pink jackets carrying hope onward in a world it may seem Gamera has abandoned.

[jaws-and-canines]

Flowers

A re-write of this scene. Contains vomit, gore, blood, mentions of animal cruelty, field medicine and passive suicidal ideation. Sorry Fennec (again)

---

His heart is beating so hard it hurts. He pelts through the forest,the dappled light playing over him. His ID card has come undone, the pin stabbing into his collarbone over and over, but he doesn’t have time. There's no more time. The papers in his pockets crumple every stride he takes, his signature on the orders, his name on his own death warrant.

But he doesn’t want to die. Not here. Not like this. Not scared, not so far from home. Not alone. Not in pain.

Please, not like this, and that's the mantra that keeps him running from the State soldiers not far behind. He tried. No quarter, they said, and knelt him down to put two in the back of his head. Their commander interrupted. He thought he was saved.

The officer gave him a three minute head start in a fox hunt. He is the fox. He is going to die like one too, he thinks, unless he keeps running. All that matters is that he keeps running-

Searing cramp shoots from his foot up his leg. He screams, stumbles and hits the ground, scrambling on bruised knees and grazed hands, and feels the horrible heaviness of bile rising in his throat again. He claws his way to his feet against the bark of a tree, clamping his jaw shut to keep himself from vomiting. It doesn’t work, an acidic stream erupting from his nose instead, and finally, he succumbs to it, and throws up into the mud. He doubles up, a hand on his chin, tears streaming down his face, spit trailing from his beard.

His muscles are on fire. He is on fire. Part of him wants to lie down and wait for them to catch up with him, wait for them to sit him up and cut his throat, or to meet his end with fibre wire and a hand over his mouth. If he's lucky, to be double-tapped and watch a round tear through his chest before the one through his head finishes him off.

But he knows he can't. He's too scared. He wipes his mouth and forces his burning self onwards. Steps become walking becomes jogging becomes running with the taste of vomit in his mouth. He breaks out of the forest and into a meadow. The ground hardens a little beneath his feet. He glances behind him and sees nobody.

Maybe, he dares to hope, he's gotten away. A smile cracks across his sweat-drenched face. A cool breeze rustles through the meadow, across the balmy blue sky. His running slows into a jog. The smile broadens as he glances behind again, and starts the slow jog towards the far treeline.

“Not today,” he gasps, winded, the same smile on his face. “Not-”

The words are ripped from his tongue abruptly. From a place he doesn't see comes a shot he doesn't hear. A high calibre bullet carves the air apart. He just happens to be in it's way. Immense speed meets soft flesh. Speed obliterates it, carving a path through him, throwing blood and bone and muscle out behind him.

The shattered bones give way and the force of the bullet carving through his leg knocks him off his feet. His brain is yet to process the pain. It simply feels like he has been hit by an invisible wave, an unseen force tossing him backwards. His torso and hands go one way, breaking his fall in one direction, and his legs go in the other- and for a moment, he thinks he is split in two. Like he has been hit by lightning- one moment he is upright. The next he tumbles head-over-heels, and then the last, he hits the ground with a bang. Ribs crack. A spray of blood arcs over his head- somehow, it ends up on his face, in his hair. It takes a moment to work out what has happened. He looks down, and then heaves a dry retch as he looks at his leg. It looks like it is hanging on by a thread of shattered bone and gristle. There’s so much blood. He can’t believe how red it is.

“No!” he cries out quietly, drawing out the last syllable into a little howl, a quiet protest at the universe. He gasps for air to try and calm himself down. It doesn’t do much- his eyes are fixed on his ruined leg, on the bright red blood spreading in a pool beneath him- and his mouth goes dry when he realises it’s not that just he may never walk again- he is actively bleeding to death.

It still doesn’t hurt yet. He thinks maybe he can walk on it. He claws at the mud, pushing one foot into the dirt and pulling with all his strength. He bears down on the other, and then feels something break inside of it- an almost audible crack, with the overwhelming sensation that may as well have been a baseball bat to his head.

He is proved wrong on every count. He can’t walk. It hurts. It hurts like hell. He puts his fingers against his leg, and for some reason, claws at it, wondering if he can distract himself enough to be able to crawl. Fennec is again proved wrong- he moans, bearing his teeth, feeling his fingers go into his bone and his muscle. Paper, the lower half of his leg is little more than paper, and as he tries again to bear down on it, to get to his feet, the noise of something snapping like a twig is unmistakable. A noise tears from his mouth- an animal howl.

He bears down again, pushing himself to his feet, and then lurches forwards, falling down into the dirt, his good leg slipping in the mud. He gets nowhere. Again, he puts his hands in the mud and pushes himself up to a position where he can half-crawl, half-drag himself along the ground. Behind him, a snaking trail of blood runs over the drought-parched ground, swirling into the dirt. He slips again, his elbow giving way, and this time, lands on his knee. Something snaps again. His vision goes white, almost, then black around the edges. He realises he isn’t breathing- he isn’t remembering to- and gulps down the cold morning air like a fish out of water.

He goes from crawling on hands and shattered knees to lying on his side, howling at the top of his lungs, almost as if he is no longer the same as his body. The noise that comes out of his mouth barely seems like it’s coming from him. The flowers remain silent. It passes after what seems like an eternity. He rolls onto his back and puts his hands beneath him for a moment. He didn’t think that that simple movement would hurt him. It does. His shattered knee rolls over along with him, and the next phantom blow takes him out.

The white-out is tremendous. The black seeps in again as he forgets to breathe. When he gasps for breath again it is laboured. The blood has turned what is beneath him to mud. There’s bile and tears and snot all down his jumper. Cracked glasses, cold fingers and toes, and the only heat is what leeches from his leg. He looks a picture of utter dread- staring into the middle-distance, he sees his own death rapidly approaching.

He is going to rot there, he thinks. The flowers will eat him away into nothingness under the rolling grey sky. His wife will never know what happened to him. All Alais will know is that he is gone and he is not coming back when the officers show up to their little cottage with their caps in their hands and paperwork and condolences.

The flowers remain silent. His unborn daughter, Sabine, she will grow up without a father, and he will die here, in the middle of this field, far from home, with the slate-grey storm rolling above and the flowers swaying gently around him. He will rot, like he’s seen deer carcasses rot- his skin will slough off, eaten by flies and maggots and animals, and then his bones will stare up into the disapproving sky until their putrid brown is bleached to ivory white.

He starts to sob, and still, the flowers remain silent. It’s not fair, he thinks. He tried. He really did. He tried and he’s still going to die. The tears quickly pass. Something fills him, an uncanny calm as if it’s being poured into him like water. He puts his fingers at the edge of the hole in his knee, wipes his face and lies back in the grass, staring at the sky. Waiting to die.

He undoes the top button of his shirt, leaning back into the cool earth, and feeling the warmth pour from his body and into the earth. The sky that he is beneath is the same Alais will look up at- they will never be apart, not really, as he soaks into the earth and his atoms return to feeding plants and animals and seep into the watercourse- because nothing is ever created anew, and nothing is ever really destroyed, they will never be truly separated- and the more blood that leaves him and soaks into the earth, the more he knows he is okay with this, he’s okay with this, he’s okay with this.

But this is not what happens.

No, that is not what happens, and he laments that fact, sinking deeper and deeper into the uncanny calm. Even as the dark green uniforms of the Rangers fill his hazy vision, he can’t find enough care in him to react. He just stares at them, silhouetted by the sky. They kick his sidearm away from him, and his knife, and pull something from his pack. Fennec looks at it and realises it’s his haemorrhage control kit. All he can remember from the classes where they taught him how to use it is the smell of wood polish. The rest is lost under the smothering blanket of the peace that threatens to drown him. The earth beneath his back is cool. He is getting colder.

The Ranger apologises to him, pulling something out of the trauma pack. Catastrophic bleeding from the leg can be stopped temporarily when the femoral artery is compressed enough by the tourniquet further up the limb than the open wound. No more blood can get to the wound and no more blood can get out. It is well renowned for being painful. To a patient who is conscious and aware of what is going on, it can be explained and braced for. Fennec can’t fathom why the man would apologise. For what, he thinks. Apologise for what? Not for this. Not for this feeling. This beautiful feeling. He does not understand it, and he does not brace for it either- just watches distantly as they apply the tourniquet- until they tighten it.

The bleeding stops. The agony takes him by surprise. The white-out comes again. He can hear himself screaming and yet cannot make himself stop. All he knows is the notion that it must stop. It must stop. He screams, and screams, and screams, trying desperately to slam his head against the ground, arching his back, clawing furrows into the dirt with his fingers and kicking an arc into it with the heel of the shoe that isn’t completely drenched in blood, the sky’s pallid blue glancing off of broken glasses lenses, yet, though he tries with all his might to knock himself out on the ground, it never happens.

He writhes in agony, screaming and howling, kicking out weakly with blood-soaked trousers and his good leg, drawing his hands up to try to hit himself in the face just to feel something else in the hopes that it would lessen the feeling that the pain is shredding his very personhood into tiny little pieces. He can make no words, no sounds but the screaming.

When it is over the flowers are silent still. He catches his breath, chest heaving. The dressing being packed into the wound barely makes him flinch as he comes back to himself still hazy. He winces as the skin pen touches his forehead, writing the time below a letter T in blue-purple ink.

He thinks he will never know pain like it ever again. In fact, he would come to be good friends with it. He has the rest of his life to get to know it- in the dead of night, he would have many a conversation with it- and it would be like an unwelcome guest in his house lingering to the morning. But there and then, in the meadow- he had never once felt something like that before. He didn’t think it was possible.

But now he knows.

[crashandswirl]

MUSE INFO

Name: Vance Drew

Vance comes from the 2002 film Resident Evil. Some influence the novelization Resident Evil: Genesis. When interacting with him, there might be violence, blood, injury, gore, body horror, and death. Except for violence, all of these things will be tagged as cw: [subject] when applicable.

Also known as: Drew (used by most, but he has no real preference)

Eyes: Gray

Hair: Dark brown

Face claim: Torsten Jerabek

Pronouns: He/him

Age: Dependent on the verse.

In the Anderson flicks, twenty-seven at the time of the Hive Incident in 2002.

Also in the Anderson flicks, in his thirties in Extinction through to The Final Chapter, which ends in 2012.

In the game universe, twenty-seven during the time of the Raccoon City Incident in 1998.

Height: 6'1"/185 cm

Sexual/Romantic orientation: Asexual/heteroromantic (semi-closeted)

Occupation:

Former N.Y.P.D. police officer.

Paramilitary commando for the Umbrella Corporation. U.S.S. (Umbrella Security Service).

In Apocalypse to The Final Chapter, he primarily spends his time going around and trying to aid survivors.

In the gameverse, a member of TerraSave.

Personality: Vance is best described as quiet and phlegmatic. His stone-faced demeanor and tendency to contribute very little to conversations have earned him a bit of a reputation as a hardass. However, Vance is hardly that. He simply isn't animated or talkative.

With a lot of focus and drive, Vance isn't afraid of a little hard work. He has a strong sense of duty and takes his work seriously. Outside of the action, he prefers to relax and partake in more low energy activities, yet hardly stops his friends from dragging him out places. He never minds much. He enjoys existing around others.

If you need an ear to listen, he's a good person to turn to.

Vance worked in Umbrella's security division up until a mission went horribly wrong in an underground research center of theirs. He lost most of his teammates in what would eventually be known as the Hive Incident. And not long after, the Raccoon City Incident occurred.

Verses:

Always ready for the next mission. (Pre-Resident Evil) – Set before the first film and follows Drew during his time as a paramilitary commando. Can be shifted to the RE game universe.

Keep your head on straight. (Resident Evil) – Takes place during the day of the Hive Incident. Canonically, Drew dies when Umbrella's security system dices him apart with a laser (the laser corridor can be seen in the top middle GIF). I'd be interested in exploring different ways things could've gone down!

Out of the frying pan into the fire. (Apocalypse) – Drew is trying to plan his next move when he wakes up one night and finds Raccoon City in full crisis mode. He tries to make his way out of the city while searching for survivors of the virus. Can be shifted to the RE game universe.

I'm still here. (Extinction through to The Final Chapter) – The world is in ruin. When Vance isn't sitting in solitude in his van, he responds to distress calls over the radio, vanishing as soon as he's no longer needed.

I'll never forget. That's why I'm here. (Resident Evil game universe) – Drew goes on to join TerraSave in 2009. Can take place any time from there onward.

Suppose I had my nose in my book for too long. (Crossovers) – A generic verse for crossovers.

Thread tag: Muse: Vance Drew

Visage: ...

HC/Info tag: This is serious.

Relationship tags:

What do you have in store for me? – w/Alfonso Warner, his teammate and closest friend.

Miscellaneous:

Vance loves reading. He often has a book with him and will be going through four or five titles at the same time.

Depending on how I have him survive the Hive Incident, he might be missing a good chunk of the fingers on his right hand. Sans his thumb.

He grew up as an only child with both parents.

The unit he's in is known as Sanitation. It's led by Commander James Shade. Other teammates include Rain Melendez Ocampo, J.D. Salinas, Alfonso Warner, Chad Kaplan, and Olga Danilova.

[moonslaura]

rotten woods  —

tldr: former camp counselors who survived a cross-country trek after the blast, vaguely based on the breakfast club.

please note that below the cut there are vague mentions to the demise of like...so many people.

 

LABOR DAY, CAMP IDLEWOOD —

SEPTEMBER 2020 - After another idyllic summer in the Kennebec Valley, Maine, CAMP IDLEWOOD has emptied out, leaving behind the staff to pack up the canoes, close down the barn, and lock up the cabins. But first, there’s the end of the year bonfire, where beer flows steadily and counselors enjoy the camp just a little for themselves. It teeters on the edge of a John Hughes movie and a bacchanal for the most part, but THE BLAST turned IDLEWOOD summer slasher. How they survived ranges anywhere from happening to be down in a basement to drag out more frozen burger patties to other strokes of dumb luck. But when the sun rose, all that was left were five twenty-somethings in the gore-splattered woods. Not friends, not all of them at least, and certainly not prepared to explain what had just happened -- they buried what they could and cooled their heels. Someone would come, right? Some sort of authority?    PRESENT DAY - Bound together mostly out of necessity, the IDLEWILDE FIVE mostly stumbled their way to outpost in Carlsbad by accident. As conditions grow worse, they’re thinking of trying their luck on the outside once again. 

“THE PRINCESS” / OPEN / RESERVED FOR MOLLY Formerly a camper, THE PRINCESS came back to IDLEWOOD because she loved it, point blank, and spent the summer ensuring that GIRLS BUNK A had equally sunny memories. Perhaps: a silver-spoon daughter of a scion with soft hands, she’s taken the end of the world mostly in stride, despite possibly being unnfairly established as a weak link at the start of their adventure. She’s worked tirelessly to keep the group together and perhaps indulge in their humanity more often than not. What’s the point in surviving if there isn’t anything to look forward to?  “THE ATHLETE” / OPEN / RESERVED FOR JAY Tapped astThe de-facto leader as they stuck out from CAMP IDLEWOOD after THE BLAST. The prototypical golden boy, a consummate optimist, product of generational wealth — THE ATHLETE almost found a thrill in everything going shit-sideways. For once: there wasn’t a playbook to follow, no more eventual picket fence with 2.5 kids and a golden retriever, no more family firm and corner office or endless games of golf looming in his future. Currently, the most skeptical about leaving the safe-haven of Carlsbad, his constant optimism is starting to fail him. A straight shooter, a Fred Jones archetype, but who stays the same when the world ends? “THE CRIMINAL” / DARCY FARRELL / RESERVED 4 THE #1 CROCS APOLOGIST (SAV) He spent the majority of summer in the craft yurt or slipping off to smoke on the jetty dreaming of the different life he would have when he finally got the fuck out of dodge. Had a kindred relationship with “THE BASKETCASE” out of all of them before THE BLAST, though perhaps he didn’t quite understand how deep that went for her. A never-do-well that was only sort of straightened out after the apocalypse. A townie who had a golden ticket out of Maine, but that got blown to shit with THE BLAST. Adaptability is with its weight in gold these days, and he’s not gambling on Carlesbad anymore. “THE BRAIN” / NAME NAME / OPEN Took the job at CAMP IDLEWOOD because he thought it would help differentiate his already packed resume going into INSERT IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL HERE. THE BRAIN has always been determined to move up and onwards, high school sucked but eventually, he’d be the one to call the shots. Perhaps he wasn’t the most popular counselor at camp, but he’s found his opportunity to be a team player in the apocalypse, despite initial misgivings about “THE ATHLETE”. A “well rounded overachiever” in a previous life, THE BRAIN’S encyclopedic knowledge about science fiction constructed the “Don’t Be Stupid Rules” that have more or less kept them out of trouble as they trekked across the country. Sometimes feels like an unsung hero, but hey — the meek inherit the Earth, right? “THE BASKETCASE” / NAME NAME / RESERVED FOR BRETT Probably didn’t have any business (desire or inclination) being a camp counselor, but when your mom is the longtime camp director, it was more or less an expectation. Something of a loner, avoided the general jocularity of her coworkers and preferred to spend time by herself in the sick-bay or waiting for “THE CRIMINAL” to put down his hemp bracelets for a minute. Unrequited pining aside, the BASKETCASE has become something of their walking first-aid kit, but is itching to be a little braver at the end of times. Has certainly found her voice and a purpose in Carlesbad, and while she isn’t eager to strike out again, she figures that it's better to stick together than to be alone. 

[pluralsword]

Even if that is the case it is still really, really stupid even from their own point of view to do this because at this point the opposition wants the centrists dead too. there's been a shift in american politics that has been in swing since the Southern Strategy and Barry Goldwater's coup of the old Republican party. Forty years ago, the idea of a Republican ex-President staging an insurrection among many other things and not dropping out after when exposed would have been considered preposterous what with Nixon having resigned after the Watergate scandal only a decade before. Fast forward to 2004 where the uncertainty of what to do with capitalism as it stumbled through making a mess in the 90s is replaced with all the awfulness of the Middle Eastern conflicts and the Patriot Act underway and you have a much higher uptick in irreverent nationalism among the Republican Party. There's significant concern about the Florida recount in Gore vs. Bush. The neoliberalism of Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher and the corporations behind them yars before has changed both parties for the worse, realigning a lot of political goals around the rot economy, and having long created a strong opposition towards the USA (and many other countries) becoming a social democracy (and in the case of many other countries as well, the atomization of their public institutions and community practices) as it was on course to be back in the 70s. Things are very bad. Moderate Republicans are starting to become frustrated with partisan gridlock.

The Great Recession forces some sort of reckoning between the Democrats and Republicans to have some sort of socioeconomic response, but it is not as broadly radical as the New Deal, thanks to neoliberalism/neoconservatism. American exceptionalism continues. The country is on it's way to recovery economically, and it turns out there's a small segment of the country who unsurprisingly cannot handle having a black man in office for President and they spout all sorts of conspiracy theories about him and his policies - and it is during his second term that most moderate Republicans in Congress who haven't switched to the Democrats do so, because they're so fed up with their party careening further to the far right.

I don't think we can give the DNC credit for trying to hold the country hostage with fascism that would kill them too. That's too many dimensions of chess (and certainly not go). The centrists still think the 'old rules' are in play when it comes to political losses. Even some people who vote for the neofascist candidate don't actually believe that he will obviously attempt to destroy democracy during his second term. If the DNC truly believed they were at risk, they would have had far more to say about the attacks on the democratic process much sooner than all the weird angles they chose far after worse things happened. We're not sure the centrists in it have really accepted reality. They're too insulated by their wealth and power for all the good it does them with how they use it.

There are veteran political operators for the Democrats who helped them win Presidencies such as e.g. for Bill Clinton in the past who are in shock at the Presidential debate the other week. Some think Biden should drop out.

What is going on with the ex-President since 2015 onwards is not how politics used to work. Even President Bush Jr., who as mentioned above, won on terms that are deeply contested because of how the recount was mishandled, did not have the same bombastic attitude that Trump does. Not even Teddy Roosevelt, the progressive conservative imperialist who was very much at the furthest extreme of the national level of the Republican Party over 100 years ago and tried and lost a third term bid as an independent, known for his bombastic demeanor and speeches including that infamous one about the American empire (in support of it) to the Navy, was not such a flagrantly sexually harassive misogynist and so openly corrupt as to leave boxes of classified documents everywhere.

What comes to mind is the racist Horton ad during the 1988 election by George H.W. Bush vs Michael Dukakis. The ex-Pres constantly spits out the level of awfulness that ad involved. Even H. W. Bush would have been a bit embarrassed for his own racism to go on and on like that openly instead of unsaid or only quietly said, simply done and carried out.

Honestly, this last eight years have felt like the re-emergence of the volatile era of early American politics in the first years after the Constitution when Congressional representatives would get into brawls in Congress. And we pity the fact that the DNC centrists can't grip that this is where we are.

Post that will get me labelled a psyop but honestly the moment that a party realizes that "you might not like us but you have no choice but to vote for us because otherwise the fascists win" is an effective way to rake in votes it practically ensures that they'll never take any actual meaningful action against the fascism problem. They gotta keep the fascists around bro they're their electoral strategy.

[cedefaci]

Five Times Vongola Settimo retrieved corpses at his CEDEF counterpart’s behest, and one time he made one

1, 2, 3, 4, Policemen, 1

The watery light of Ligurio’s lantern was just bright enough for Fabio to avoid the unidentifiable chunks of gore strewn across his path, a sight that was as familiar as it was gruesome. Spada had put together a similar display on their first meeting, after all, and this time, past midnight in the coolness of winter, he was spared the stench of corpses ripening in the hot afternoon sun.

Nevertheless, his friend’s latest masterpiece was worse than his first.

The dead men, or what was left of them, were wearing the uniforms of the police, and it was their own offices that had become their mausoleum.

“Your consigliere has crossed a line.” Ligurio said quietly, the Mist Flames in his lantern twisting and turning, casting shadows like writhing vines onto the walls.

Fabio closed his eyes.

“Yes.” Don Vongola agreed, “Yes, he has.”

His Guardian followed him onwards without him needing to ask, instead of leaving him to meet Spada alone, as was their custom, and for that, Fabio was thankful. They headed deeper through blood-stained halls, an occasional effort from Ligurio creating shortcuts through the walls, until they reached the dark heart of the station.

Years upon years of violence and cruelty had left their mark in the cells, the memory of suffering sinking into the very ground, and Spada, vicious and brutally brilliant, had stirred the past up in his tableau of vengeance. The victims here were still half alive, each trapped reliving the fates of whichever unfortunate souls had been brought in by the police and beaten and broken by them.

Overseeing things like a demon meting out justice to the damned in hell, Spada leaned casually against one wall, his overcoat hung over one arm.

He smiled as Fabio came into sight.

"Settimo!" He greeted, "What say you about my handiwork? Is it sufficient to make my point? More could be done, but it seemed wise to me to leave some room for future escalation."

"Spada." Fabio said, taking comfort in the glow of Ligurio's lantern. "Do you know what you have done?"

Spada frowned. "I would have thought it obvious. If Mori wishes for war, then war he shall have. This is but a taste of what awaits him and his dogs."

He gestured to the moaning men at his feet. "In addition, I have left these alive so that they may draw suspicion with the inexplicability of their survival, to divide their ranks further, and naturally, once their minds are worn down, I will insert my Flames into them, so that we may always see what they see and know what they know."

"You have openly attacked policemen." Don Vongola said, "And you have done so with Flames. How do you expect all this to end, External Consultant?"

Spada's eyes narrowed. "A protracted battle. We will force Mori to spend so much blood and treasure that he beggars himself and his masters give up on us, or else risk collapsing themselves. And if they persist, then we may as well move north. I have run the calculations. We can afford it."

Fabio’s thoughts stuttered to a halt as his mind refused to comprehend what Spada had said. Surely this was some horrendous dream? It could not be real, his friend, no matter how unorthodox his opinions, would never escalate to such reckless insanity.

“We do not need to afford it,” Fabio tried to understand Spada’s line of reasoning, tried to see just what had made his friend come to such a decision, “We are safe, Spada! Mori’s a blunt instrument, and he is no Sicilian. We’ll feed him his pound of flesh, and he’ll think he’s won his battle, and then we’ll be left alone, as we always are in the end.”

Spada shook his head sharply, the play of Mist-made lantern light over his face turning it into a skull. “Showing your belly or hiding from this fight won’t make you win it, Settimo. The only way to be safe is to make the threat stop, anything else simply delays the confrontation, and to do so without clear intent is to surrender the initiative to the enemy.”

Those words came almost as a relief. This was something he knew how to address.

“That’s why I have you preparing contingencies and fall-back points—it might be a more drawn-out affair in that case, but it would end the same way. We’d have let him see a few shadows, given him the confrontation he wants, and then he’d have left under the impression that his work was done. But now, not only have you rendered a major provocation in the form of a lethal attack on their own, you’ve done so in a manner without a mundane explanation—what do you think will happen then?”

“Lest you have forgotten, Spada, inexplicable occurrences are violations of Omerta.” Ligurio added snidely from beside them. His Mist Guardian had kept a hold on his lantern instead of hanging it up on a hook, so it dangled from his crossed arms, the swinging motion shifting shadows in such a fashion that it only added to the unreality of the situation.

“Only if they lead to further investigation.” Spada sneered back, “Anyone who can lead back to us will be dead before they even begin to do so. All I have done is demonstrate the futility of bearing down upon cosa nostra with simple-minded force, and the extent of the enemy’s ignorance, though I have no hope that their small minds hold the wisdom to see that this is a fight they cannot win.”

An inarticulate sound of frustration slipped past Fabio’s lips. “But you are picking fights and making enemies. Mori won’t even know to target us unless we show ourselves to him, let alone be a threat to us without you making it so—”

He was interrupted by laughter. Bitter, contemptuous laughter.

“You are incurable optimists, the both of you.” Spada’s tone fell short of mocking, laden down by the dark currents of disappointed faith, deep passion, “Or at least you, Fabio, fall prey to this sin. Ligurio’s flaw is simply that he cannot endure a worldview that allows for true crises. Do you think that threats come but from within, and not from without? That the Family must be the intended victim for it to fall prey to the politics of power? In such a storm, there is no such thing as safe harbour; one either rules the storm or one is rolled under. The north will not be stopped until it is made to stop, and if I must bring the full strength of the Vongola to bear to break its will, then I shall, and you shall do so with me, and without hesitation, for to do otherwise would be weak and you have sworn to me that we shall abide no weakness!”

Comprehension struck him like a blow to the head, leaving his ears ringing; like a bucket of cold water over the head, soaking him to the bone with icy fear. “There are laws which even we must obey, Spada! Chief of them all Omerta and barely second to it the commandment against worlds mixing!” Fabio had cast aside composure, Spada was his friend even if he had gone mad and he would not allow him to be lost to the depths of the Vindice’s prison, “If we reach, with Flame, into the world above, then it will not be our peers who police us, but the Vindice coming with their chains to drag you forever into the darkness without any hope of recourse. They cannot be negotiated with. I will not allow it.”

“You would bow to their authority, out of fear, Don Vongola?” From Spada’s lips, Fabio’s title sounded like an accusation.

“I dislike picking unnecessary fights.” Fabio said flatly. “Go home, External Consultant. Ligurio and I will clean up here.”

“CEDEF’s Commander answers not to thee in this.” Spada purred, eyes locking with Fabio’s in challenge.

Fabio sighed. “But I’m asking. Please, Spada.”

A long moment. Then.

“As you wish, Don Vongola.”

Spada vanished.

Fabio looked to Ligurio, who raised his lantern. The pale indigo light revealed no shadows out of place. Spada was gone. Fabio let his eyes slip shut for a count of three.

Modify the memories of the survivors. Place them properly. Arrange the scene. Burn the evidence down. Six hours to morning.

He opened his eyes. “Time to get to work.”

next

[astraves]

“Squiddly-things”

Chance encounters leave the mind racing.

Burning.

Nerves fire from a million severed endings, cut bridges where separated throngs scream across the chasm at one another.

                  We’re alive!

Over here!

The mind translates its excitement to pain. There should be a bridge there, after all. Now there isn’t. Something is wrong. 

The body builds itself with blood, rushing out of the cut to clot and forming the lattice to become flesh and bone again. Teams of frenzied guards armed with hunger seize onto and devour anything, psychotic androphages frothing gore about their mouths as they howl triumphant into the gaping wounds of their foes, of which there are untold thousands.

Engineers and directors, morale officers and trundling observers all parse the course of flesh and vein inflamed along those marred, tattered edges to make sense of it all and get to work.

Collagen, stern and brittle in its striations, becomes the memorial shrine that covers the gap and recalls what used to be.

Those without purpose, those too traumatized to continue and those whose purpose has been exhausted in the chaos are all given a single command by the directors.

Without hesitation, they obey. 

Their bodies are vivisected and dispersed, reabsorbed to become the cobblestone below, the masonry in the walls, or to be compiled together again into new incarnations of the old.

Yet, the battle is not over. There are still untold thousands more.

Volseth stands in his laboratory. It’s three in the morning, and countless small works of artifice buzz and thrum with churning arcana flitting between themselves in complex relays all attuned to their precise signals.

Though the moons above stream through the domed, vaulted ceiling far overhead in pale blue and silver hues through passing, fluffly clouds, his eyes are obscured by a visor - one that doesn’t allow him to see the world before him, but instead the world below. His brows loft in surprise as he watches the events unfold in a small, precise cut on the back of his left hand. A sort of stylus held in the right carries paired apertures at the tip that act as his eyes into the world around them.

Toys from Aberrus. Stolen, retrofitted, reverse-engineered and all else to suit his designs. Artifice of another world almost, yet fabricated there just under their noses in the deep places of Azeroth.

All the works of a mind too brilliant, too horrified and driven to unleash the expressions of terror it knew upon those around it - for what else could the maker do but scream into those forgotten hollows below the earth with every begotten iteration?

His thumb eases back to roll across a knurled disc of a knob, granting precision and scale to his vision. Time and again, his observations dance between the components of his make and the rough folds and chasms that define the landscape of his own form. “Incredible,” he mutters.

Though obscured in part, his expression pulls no punches in wavering between fascination, disgust, and both in tandem. His thumb reels the wheel forward just slightly. Crags and furrows give way to a closer view. Closer.

Astraves scowls against the visor. The way it presses against his face makes his expression all the more severe for its binding.

Closer.

His lips part slowly, a sneer at first, fang bared and lip curled.

His thumb twitches just slightly on the dial.

“Merciful GOD IN- 

HELL- WHATTHESHITISTHAT?!”

He throws the stylus onto a desk nearby, a panicked, frantic groan escaping his lungs in all haste and terror as he wrenches the mask from his face and bolts. The clamor startles his familiar, the imp itself screaming as glass clatters and metal clangs.

Fuck. Volseth’s legs piston the man’s unbalanced body onward, staggering and sliding into stairways and rails. He bounds down, skipping steps and risking life itself with eyes flared in horror only the Old could inspire.

           Fuck.

Dutifully, the devil comes bounding after him, darting and scrabbling like a cat across the floors, sliding and slamming into adjacent walls as it struggles for traction.

My son.

                              MY SON.

“VALENTE!” he howls from the stairs as he darts into the front room, hands grasping desperately for the railing.

The boy looks up, his mop of unruly, black hair wobbling in the sudden bounce with terrified eyes as if he’d done something awful.

“An’da?” he murmurs warily.

The father slips and slides sidelong down the stairs, his robes catching and twisting under him. Clumsily, he bounds to his feet and slams shoulder-first into a bookshelf.

Gasping for air, Volseth holds out a hand like some psychic power can stop whatever madness unfolded. He plods forward, hip screaming in pain as his fingers curl to point at the child.

“BOY! Did you eat yet?!”

“...No?”

“Ohthankgod...” Volseth doubles over and plods his hands on his knees with a pained groan.

“What’s wrong?”

“Go wash your hands,” his father says in a winded rush to the floor.

“But they aren’t dirt-”

“Valente, just... Go wash your hands. Please. Do it for An’da, it’ll...”

He raises a hand and rolls his wrist in thought. He had no idea how to explain it to the boy.

“It’ll make me happy, if you do... Use the soap.”

Silently, the child stands and walks up to his father. His little chubby hand reaches out to gently pat the man on the back with a knowing nod.

“Don’t be sad, An’da. I’ll wash my hands.”

Volseth gives the boy a few pats back and nods. “Good man.”

“No you’re the man,” Valente tells him in sing-song as he toddles off to the kitchen basin. His father chuckles breathlessly and looks up, then around.

“Zaraat,” he calls. A cold command.

“Ye wot,” the imp chirps flatly. “We’ll die ‘fore water touches us.”

“Your filth... transcends anything soap could cleanse,” Astraves tells it. “We need to...” Volseth curses under his breath with a huff, finally bothering to straighten himself out with a grunt. “We need to get all the sweepers going.” “Why? Like... We will-... race them down the stairs-like an’ make 'em fight each other, yeah, but we’ll turn them all on. All at once, everywhere. As master calls.”

“This place is filthy,” the arcanist tells his familiar, hands on his hips like there’s work to be done. “Absolutely disgusting, crawling with... Things, I don’t even know what to call them.” Zaraat sits down on its back haunches. “We see where this’s goin’. What’dja see?” “Tiny... Things, squiggling... writhing parasites? Everywhere, on everything. On my... fffffucking skin, it’s disgusting-” The imp raises a claw and shakes its head. “They’s everywhere.” “What-” “By design, no less.”

“How is this by design?!” The imp draws a deep breath and sighs. It scrabbles up toward the stairway and slithers along a rail to roost at the crown of it, head tilted and eyes smoldering with a nonchalant expression. “Everythin’s made a little bits. Little bits react. Little bits make biggah bits. But those biggah bits is still made a little bits. Them little bits a life eat bits from the biggah bits an’ them biggah bits eat the little bits. Everythin’ wot exists is little bits.” Volseth stared wide-eyed at the thing. Slowly, his brow collapsed above his nosebridge in a furrow hearkening to a churning sea in its stormy depths. “What the fuck are you on about, creature.”

Zaraat hunches forward and smacks its palm with its knuckles. “Look. When we gets summoned, we start little bits first. Everythin’ is little bits, you an’ me an’ ya dead cat an’ yer mumsy-nan an’ yer boy? Little bits. We’s just gigantic-like, made a little bits. No’ body-limbs like armses an’ toes an’ shit but... Them little bits.” “...I should choke you.” “ ‘s true! Swear it so on our little black ‘eart,” it explained as it signed an X across its chest. “Yer little bits is made a little bits an’ those little bits is made a more little bits, an’ there’s things wot eat the little bits a little bits. Wot’s great’s echoed in wot’s small, an’ wot’s small is echoed in wot’s great!” The imp waggles both hands, fingers splayed in a show of spirit and whimsy. “Thought’cha was inta tha’ cosmic shit. Mackeycosms an’ macrogasms an’ all... Eekey-systems.” “We’re host to worlds, then.” “Everythin’s a world. Ousside. Inside... No’ jus’ them squiddly-bits only. The little bits wot make you. They’s alive. Like a buncha people stacked up-like atop on each other t’ make like one huge person.” “I think you got into my drugs again,” Volseth remarks absently. “All’s we’re sayin’ is... Go back ta watchin’. Study an’... do them note-things ya take.” Volseth runs a hand through his hair and scratches absently at the stubble on the side of his head. His expression shifts from frustration to confusion easily, all in the eyes and ears. “Zaraat, how do you know all of this?”

As soon as the imp attempts speech, Valente trundles out with his hands raised, fingers wide.

“An’da I washed up, look!”

The imp takes its interruption with a huff and a curse under its breath before bounding off. Volseth looks down at his son with a smile and picks him up under his arms. The boy lets out a hoot and throws his arms around his father. “Where are we going?” “There’s something amazing you should see,” he tells his child as he carries him toward the stairs. “We’ll look together.”

“Is it stars, ‘da?”

“No. We’re going to look inward at some things, tonight.”

[onward-magic-princess-barista]

My Onward x Parks and Rec AU Pt. 3

[delightfully-deranged-dagur]

Something I wrote in response of the Colt haters

Note: this takes place after the movie

"The kids a screw-up" she said it as if it was common knowledge. "You can't say you don't right agree, right Bronco?".

No he didn't agree. "Actually, Gore. I can say I don't agree." Colt replied. Specter looked at her coworkers, knowing by the tone of Colts voice he was about to go on a rant.

"Barley is a lot of things but he's not a screw-up. He's a troublemaker, he's a little immature, he takes fantasy a little too seriously, and yes he is very stubborn. But he's also a great big brother, has an incredible imagination, knows more about history then most people I know and he built a van from scratch! I'd hardly call someone like that a screw-up! Especially not my own step son!"

Colt finished his rant looking ticked off. Specter looked at her coworkers and decided to stay quiet. Gore just now realised the weight of what she said and to who she said it. "I'm sorry. I-i didn't-" she was cut off. "I'm not the one you should say sorry to" said Colt while giving her an angry glare.

>a few days later<

"Why would officer Gore give you chocolates" Ian asked as examined the box.

"No idea, Colt won't say why either." Barley said as he took the box back. "Let's not question the reasoning behind free chocolate and just eat them" Barley eagerly opened the box while Ian gave a small smile and rolled his eyes.

"Should we write her a "thank you" note?"

Done.

And let me be clear. I don't dislike Gore, I just think she shouldn't have gotten away with calling Barley a screw-up.

[kaptkookiekrunch]

What do you think of Officer Gore?

If you don’t know who she is, she’s the faun (or satyr?) cop who was with Officer Specter (Disney’s 43rd “first gay character”) during that whole scene where the brothers disguised as Colt. Honestly I think Gore said even LESS than Specter, to ones saddened about the latter’s amount of screen time. The only thing I remembered Gore doing was calling Barley a screw up, which results to Barley indirectly learning that Ian considers him one, too. So...what do you think?