#violently thrashing him around like a dog Tumblr posts

[crows-canvas]

Apparently there's an image limit on mobile which SUCKS but whatever. Here's some of my favorite stuff from The Magical Turnabout

Also this completely independent screenshot of the girls cause i just love twin dynamics and if I had a quarter for every time AA threw a twin at me I would have three quarters, which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened thrice

Why her hair do that thought and why are they so.. cell shaded

[acapelladitty]

take a drink from an empty cup

Pairing: Cooper Howard/Fem!Reader

Summary: Pursued by the infamous ghoul who is hunting you across the wastelands, you find that he has a very creative plan in place to punish you for your continued disobedience. (3.1k words).

(warnings for: cnc play, forced deepthroat, orgasm control, rope restriants, physical violence, oral sex, blood, threats of violence, unprotected sex, fingering, mild aftercare, dark humour, subspace, predator/prey)

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

Rapid feet kicking up soft plumes of red dirt as they pound across the dusty ground, the heat of the sun on your exposed skin bears down like a sheepskin blanket - your slickened skin feeling hot and uncomfortable despite the chill of anxiety which powers your frantic movements.

Panting as you duck behind the corner of a building, your ears strain for any sound, any whisper of your attackers whereabouts. Wearing only a tattered shirt and light-coloured panties, you're too consumed by fear to have any shame about your state of undress.

A low whistle forces your spine to straighten, eyes peeking around the corner as you watch him appear from the depths of a side street.

"Running ain't gonna save you, sweetie. Best give up before you really piss me off."

The Ghoul.

Cooper Howard.

The man hunting you with the casualness of a cat preying on an injured bird, certain of the victory to come.

You could hear it in his voice, in the way that his low tones carry with ease across the abandoned town as they swept across you with the breeze.

"If you're unlucky enough, you might catch the attention of the gang in the next town over. I hear they use their finds to entertain the dogs or sometimes the odd deathclaw if it's behaved well enough." Cooper paused, his head visibly scanning the ground as he sought out your messy tracks. "Hell, might even do that myself if you keep playin' so hard to get."

His footfalls are steady as they approach the corner you're hiding behind, the polar opposite of your own trembling limbs, and a surge of strength forces you to push off from your hiding spot and make a break for it. You don't dare turn around and look at him but you hear his speed increase as he zeroes in on his hunted prey.

He's faster, he always is, and his hands lock around your shoulders as the solid heat of him pulls you flush to his chest.

"Caught you, sweetheart. Now let's see about taking what's mine."

Body thrashing as the hard bulge of his cock presses against the lower end of your back, a feral howl - half fear and half rage - claws free of your throat and you slam your elbow back. It connects with his groin, and his hands drop from your shoulders like they had burned him as his face twists into a violent scowl.

"Motherfucker!" Cupping his cock through his slacks with a tender motion, you take the momentay distraction to run once more and refuse to look back at him as he recovers and continues to hollers his threats after you. "You'll pay for that, darling. Eye for an eye and I take mine with teeth."

You run on adrenaline, the frayed shirt whipping around your upper thighs with every quick turn as you seek out an escape route. Eyeing up a set of wooden stairs which lead to the upper level of a nearby building, you bolt for them with a sudden swing of your hips.

You don't feel the rope of the lasso closing around your foot until it's too late.

One moment, you're running, and the next you find yourself slamming into the wooden boards with a pained yelp - your knees and tits catching on the edge of the stairs as your mouth glances off the banister, bursting your lower lip in a sharp flash of pain as the taste of copper immediately fills your mouth.

Stunned as hell, you can't even catch a breath as you flip to your back, staring up at the unforgiving sun.

Cooper, his hand coiled around the other end of the rope, is just as unforgiving and he tugs the length with a vicious heave - the pressure enough to snatch you closer and pull you down a few stairs. The strong wood clatters against the back of your head with a horrid intensity, the bump of two stairs causing stars to flash in your vision as they leave a dull ache in their wake.

He's on you like a pack of wild dogs, his body dropping atop your own to pin you to the stairs by the sheer weight of him. Bruised and battered, you can't muster the strength to fight him off and instead the pathetic writhe of your body only seems to excite him more as his face swims before your own.

"Seems to me like you owe me an apology, little lady. Now," Cooper pauses and his hand wraps around your chin to force you to meet his eye, "I could be a bad man and treat you nasty, beating that lovely hide til it bleeds and glows even redder than mine, but that's not what's gonna happen here."

Whimpering, his knee drops to press roughly against your lower stomach, emphasising just how utterly trapped you were as his smug, leathered face blocks the sun from your gaze.

"Where I'm from, we kiss and make up, and since it wasn't my mouth you chose to smack up, I think you'll be better suited putting those pretty lips elsewhere."

"N-no." You stutter out, a low whine increasing in pitch as his other hand pulls at your hair, his grip igniting fire in your scalp. "Please, no."

His hand scores across your face, the blow not enough to cause any real pain outside of disturbing your busted lip, but definitely enough to put an end to your refusals as you gaze up at him with watery eyes.

"Bite and I'll take those teeth, mind." Cooper warns, his brow furrowing in warning as the hole of his nose flares. "One by one. I'm sure you've taken ghoul cock before, sweetheart. What's one more, huh?"

As he speaks, he frees his cock with an excited grunt and his grip on your hair grows even more rough while he yanks at the strands to encourage your lips to part, uncaring of the split lip which is still gently bleeding.

"Nice and slow."

Incapable of doing much more, you open your mouth and accept his cock with a low whimper. He's already excited and as the tip of his cock glances off your tongue, you can taste his pre-cum, the pearly liquid more acrid than anything you'd tasted before. His cock is thick, the girth of it already threateneing to make your jaw ache as he slides himself across your mouth a few times - testing out your limits with a tight control.

"Oh yeah." Cooper rumbles. "This'll do. Time to work on your breathing, sweetheart."

Canting his hips forward, the tip of his cock buries itself down your throat and the suddenness of the movement makes your body startle - reawakening the various aches of your earlier fall as you choke around his cock and desperately claw at his clothed thighs with your fingers.

He ignores your distress, instead focusing on his own pleasure as he alternates between using his hand to guide your head along his cock and thrusting his own groin forward; both actions merciless in their treatment as an obscenely wet noise fills the space.

Head bobbing along his cock forcefully, nausea rises in your chest as his textured skin rams into the back of your throat - sparking your gag relax as you swallow around his cock in open panic.

"Keep massaging my cock like that, darlin', and I won't make it to the main event."

Cooper growls the words, smirking down at your misery as your vision swims, and he snatches his cock free with one swift pull.

Coughing and spluttering, you inhale big gulps of air and they burn your lungs like fresh hell - a light-headedness making your skull pound as you desperately try to fix yourself.

Lying like a broken marionette doll, your strings well and truly cut, you can't do anything but whimper anew as his rough hands grip their way up your thighs to cup at your cunt though your panties.

"You'll not be needing these any time soon." Cooper grunts, ripping the panties from you with a wicked strength; the fabric tearing like paper as you shudder and attempt to close your thighs around his hand. A move which quickly draws a low cry from your lips as he responds by pinching at your clit roughly with two fingers.

"Play nice, sweetheart, or I'll play rough. And you won't like that as much. In fact-"

The world spins as he flips you from your back, strong hands easily maneuvering you to ensure that your body is positioned on the stairs to allow him easy access to your holes - your head pressing into a higher stair as you tilt your face to allocate the pressure on your busted up lip.

Something like a sob slips free of your lips as one of his hands presses down heavily on your lower back, forcing your ass to arch up higher, as his other hands cups at your sex once more.

"Hmm, but which hole to use? I'm sure that hole has seen enough action to make any ride as smooth as a whisky sour." His fingers tease along your slit, refusing to push any deeper as they trail up to your skin and brush along the rim of your ass. "But then, if I want a tighter ride then maybe this fine ass would be better, might even learn you a lesson about showing respect too. I ain't afraid of a bucking bronco and I'm sure you'd take it like a champ."

"Not there." You mutter out, voice defeated. "Please."

"Hmm, then you better be good and I'll see about giving the little whore what she wants." You can hear the smirk in his tone as he gropes your body like a butcher measuring up a fresh hunk of meat. "Say it, sweetheart, ask me to fuck you and I'll let you choose."

"Plea-please fuck me?" The words taste sour against your tongue, the heat from his body making your head feel fuzzy. That, or the multiple knocks on the stairs were finally getting to you. Regardless, tears threaten the corners of your eyes once more as you are forced to play his little game. "I want you to- to fuck me."

"Well now," giving a low whistle as he lines the blunted head of his cock up with your cunt, Cooper has the gall to sound smug at the ask, "what kind of gentleman would I be to ignore such a request from a pretty little thing?"

With a single thrust of his hips, he buries his cock to the hilt within your cunt and the sudden burn of your flesh as it's forced to stretch and give way to his cock draws a strangled yelp of pain from your lips. His earlier actions having sparked some arousal in your traitorous frame, you weren't fully dry and Cooper chuckled lowly as his felt the moisture surrounding his cock as he stilled his hips.

"Well, well, well." He growls, his groin hot against your own as his balls hang heavy against your cunt. "Looks like this little hellcat isn't as unwilling as she wants me to think. You're soaked, sweetie."

Hot shame making you slam your eyes shut as you adjust to the pressure of his cock, you feel the heat of your walls being pulled roughly as he starts to lazily thrust. Every stroke is awful in how determined it is to make you feel every textured inch of his cock, Cooper pulling free until only the head is breaching your hole before slamming deep once more - his cock glancing off your cervix painfully.

Worse than that, is just how good it feels.

The ridged and slightly rough texture of his cock stimulates every nerve in your heated hole and the betraying arousal only serves to make the growing band of arousal in your gut even more cruel in its intensity.

It's uncomfortable, it's hot, and it's so fucking good.

Body aching despite the distraction of his cock, you try to focus on the building pleasure as a means to escape the other more shitty feelings which afflict you. In spite of it all, the tight band of pleasure across your groin is undeniable and his cock seems to brush the sensitive spot inside you with pinpoint precision, every thrust making your toes curl while you whimper and whine.

You come with a startled gasp, waves of pleasure crashing through your body as your cunt spasms around his cock - pulling him deeper as your walls milk him for what he's worth. He seems to appreciate it though, as his pace - if possible - grows even sloppier and his groin makes a obscene slapping noise while it bounces off your ass.

Overly sensitive, you squeak in discomfort as he continues to fuck himself into you without mercy; dragging your orgasm out until you're cunt feels heated and your limbs ache from the constant flex of the muscles. He's vocal too - grunts and low growls of pleasure marking his movements as his thick hands pin you into place to give his cock unfettered access to your hole.

Eventually, you feel his cock give a very definite twitch within your cunt and you gasp anew as a fresh heat floods your walls; his release pumping itself as deeply within your hole as it can while he remains flush against your ass.

"Goddamn, sweetie. Ain't nothing like it."

He pulls his cock free, the hardened length only just beginning to wilt and you feel the mess that coats every inch as it slips free. Body feeling well used and deliciously uncomfortable, you stay in place, unsure of what he plans for you next and in no fit state to escape without further injury.

"Smooth as a whisky sour." Cooper repeats his earlier words, his voice sated and low with his satisfactory use of your hole. "But i'm sure you got another good one in you."

His hand is harsh against your back again until the pressure forces your ass up higher - the combined mess in your cunt dripping free to the wooden stair below.

Panic reignites in your chest as a sinking feeling alerts you to his plans.

"I can't- please, don't! Please!"

He ignores you and you feel his rough fingers pressing along your slit until he finds the target of his little game - your clit already swollen and making itself an easier target. His forefinger grazes the nub and the intensity of the touch makes you howl as fresh lightning scores across your spine.

It only takes him a few deliberate movements, rough strokes giving way to a more gentle circling motion and your cunt clenches around nothing as he easily pulls a second orgasm from you; your legs painfully tense as you bury your cries in the skin of your forearm and hump your cunt in the warm air, wordlessly encouraging his fingers to push you even further.

"Greedy little thing." Cooper chastises, enjoying how pathetic your movements are as the shame of being forced to come around his fingers only serves to make the pleasure all the sweeter. "Look at how shameless you are, darling', pretending that you aren't desperate to be wrapped around my cock again."

Denying it with a frantic shake of your head, you ride his fingers regardless until he takes pity and pulls his hand away from your overstimulated and aching cunt - your legs trembling and fists clenching against the hard grain of the wooden stair.

Cooper exhales deeply, his body rolling from your own as he lays flat out on the stair by your side. The scent of sex and sweat hands heavy in the heated air, a pungent aroma that speaks to just how roughly he had treated you and your fingers are quick to sink into the lapels of his leather duster as you inch closer to him.

Sensing your movements, Cooper extends his arm overhead and allows you to burrow in close to his side, your legs hooking within his own while a pained gasp slips free of your lips as the motion causes the ache in your sex to sting anew. The gasp forces a soft coughing fit, your abused throat really forcing its attention as you shiver in place.

Wordlessly, Cooper sinks his hand deep within his side pocket and pulls free his flask, handing it off to you with a pointed look.

"Thanks." You croak out. Taking a deep swig, the warm water may as well have been taken from the most pristine, crystal blue spring as the relief it pours through your gritty throat and aching, heated limbs is like pure heaven.

Thoroughly fucked and satisfied, the comedown of your activities draws a fresh shudder from your spine as you hand Cooper back his flask - his blazing eyes watching your every move with pinpoint precision.

"Need anything else, sweetheart?" His voice is low and raspy, saturated with the same satisfaction as your own and his features are loose as his arm wraps around your lower back to keep you close.

Shaking your head, you blurt out the first thing that springs to mind. "Didn't mean to hit you in the dick."

At that, Cooper chuckles; a genuine laugh that rumbles through his chest as his head tilts back ever so slightly. Like this, in the post-fuck haze, he's at his most muted and content - his expression open and relaxed as he enjoys the feel of you against him.

"Liar." He accuses without fire. "Suited me fine though, darlin', cause it made it easier to smack you down those stairs."

Your little games were an idea of your own making, his enthusiasm taking some time to come around until he was convinced that you were eager and willing despite your actions.

"Great." Tired and slightly nauseous, you can't help but smile at him as the ragged edge of his nose hole flares with his suppressed amusement. "You banged me up good. My lip is fucked."

"Fucked more than just that, sweetie. You almost got away this time."

"Liar." You parrot his earlier words.

"Gotta say though, you're getting much better at swallowing my cock down-"

Interjecting quickly, you roll your eyes at him. "Didn't have much of a choice."

"-getting a bit too good mind. Might have to start making some scratch from those skills. Put you to good use. What do you think?"

The sun beating down on your skin as the uncomfortably sticky mess from between your thighs continues to drip free of your abused cunt, a weariness sets into your bones as you cling to him with desperate fingers - a strong desire to drift off into a short nap clawing at your senses.

"You're too much of a jealous son of a bitch." You sigh out, closing your eyes as you focus on the beat of his heart as it thrums beneath your ears. "You'd kill the first man to look at me funny."

Sensing your fatigue, Cooper matches your exhale with one of his own as he fixes his hat across his forehead.

"Sleep, sweetheart. We'll pick this dumbass conversation up when you're not dripping like an old faucet."

Eyes slipping close, the nasty comparison draws a smirk from you regardless as you wrap your leg around his own with a tighter grip and settle in for a recovery nap.

[cowboycannibalism]

Bullet with Butterfly Wings, Smashing Pumpkins// Saw 2004// Caged Rat, Soul Asylum// The Jig Is Up, Ice Nine Kills// Rats!Rats!Rats!, Deftones// Hatchet, Movements

I know there's heavy association of Adam with the dog motif (which I love) but I swear I've heard Bullet with Butterfly Wings on the radio way too many times during the last month while thinking about Saw for it to be a coincidence

Rats symbolize impoverishment, disease, the lowest of low.

"He's not a cop. He's a bottom feeder, just like you."

Jigsaw calls him angry and apathetic, and we'll be honest here, he is on the surface. He calls his apartment a shithole, he knows his job is shitty but it keeps him fed, and he's just dragging himself through life because he's pretty much already convinced himself this is as good as its going to get.

But here's the other thing about rats: they will do anything to try to survive. Sometimes, that means just doing what they've been conditioned to do by the world around them.

Have you ever seen a rat backed into a corner? or stuck in a trap? they will scream and thrash violently to try and free themselves.

From the moment he wakes up in the tub, Adam is moving. Throughout the movie, he has a hard time staying still, trying to escape, trying to survive. He is loud and frantic. Even though he is pessimistic about life, he wants to live.

also, to swing back around to the Smashing Pumpkins lyrics in particular, I thought a lot about how Adam mentions his ex, thinking he was "too angry." If you've dug into that song a little, it's interpreted in a lot of ways but a common one is oppression and being stuck in a situation/world where you're aware of escape but incapable of it. Adam knows he should appreciate life more, but what's the point when he lives the way that he does and nothing seems to ever get better? Anger feels like the only option and honestly sometimes it is.

(not to get too political or whatever, but if we never get angry enough to do anything, nothing will ever change. Don't let anyone tell you that emotions don't belong in politics/social issues because that's a fucking stupid take.)

[citruslullabies]

Trigger warnings: blood, gore, death, that whole shabang. ‼️PLEASE DO NOT ACTUALLY INTERACT IF YOU FIND THESE THINGS DISTURBING‼️

Romantic/platonic?: not really either, could be taken either way

Requested by: me! Because I forced an idea out of @bumblehoneybee

Category: HEAVY. ANGST.

Ship (romantic or platonic): Dogday x reader

Word count: 704

Give a Dog a Bone

It all came down at once, with the four of you being ambushed and separated and Dogday being recaptured while the side of Poppy’s face shattered and who knows what happened to Kissy.

But he was so worried about what happened to you, last he saw you were knocked unconscious as he was being dragged away by force. He tried so desperately to get back to you but everything went black. Now here he was, restrained again like some poster and an example of heretics again. His wrists felt the familiar sting of belts, ones that were tighter than his previous ones were.

He still had his legs, but they lost feeling in them from being held up so high. He may as well not have them at this rate, the stitches slowly becoming undone anyway. His mind raced but the only thing on his mind was you, his angel. The canine wanted nothing more than to make sure you were okay and safe, but he couldn't do that restrained.

Heavy footsteps approached, ones that made the ground shake and Dogday growl. Those familiar steps used to horrify him but now they just infuriated him, his head hung low until he looked up at the feline with a chunk of his ear missing from the ambush. The only hit Dogday had managed to land. But his fury morphed into confusion when he saw something in Catnap’s mouth, something alive and still thrashing around. He glared at the feline as he approached.

Catnap's heavy paws came to a stop In Front of Dogday, hanging his head low and dropping whatever he had in his mouth to the floor. And to Dogday’s absolute horror; it was you. A bloody mess in tears. “Angel…?” He managed to choke out, trying to break from his restraints. You looked like a wreck, your left leg twisted in an unnatural way as the skin on your arms and chest was sliced open.

He wanted to save you like you had saved him before, cradle you and wipe the snot and tears off your face. But he couldn't, and that ate him from the inside out.

“D.. Dogday?” You choked out, trying to crawl towards him as you sobbed pitifully. The pain being all too much for you, you were down like a fighting dog in a ring. You gave it your all to survive and still you're wounded and down on your luck. Dogday wanted to respond, but a paw lifted his chin up and forced him to look at the disgusting feline Infront of him. He growled but Catnap stopped him before he could speak. He let out a heavy sigh, red gas barely escaping so Dogday can stay wide awake for this.

The feline slowly leaned in, holding the dog's head still so he could look him in the eyes. A leader being taken down once more after getting back up, the feeling was satisfying. “Look what you made me do, heretic.” He hissed out before forcing Dogday to look back at you.

Catnap lifted one large foot up, and Dogday’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what was about to happen. “CATNAP, NO PLEASE!” He pleaded, trying to squirm away so he couldn't see. This had to be a nightmare, but he watched as Catnap’s foot came down agonizingly fast and the sound of your yells and your bones crunching. The canine could only stare, trembling as Catnap put more weight down which released the sigh of your organs and your blood spilling. Crushed like some bug.

He started sobbing. Shaking and violently sobbing as he was too frozen to try and fight his restraints anymore, his chest moving up and down in a ragged motion as he felt the oxygen leave his lungs. he watched Catnap move his foot off of you, blood and strings of your hair sticking to the bottom and he wanted to vomit at the sight of your unrecognizable body. Completely crushed and destroyed, Catnap lifting one of your broken ribs up and wedged it into Dogday’s mouth despite Dogday trying to squirm his head away.

Knick knack, patty wack. Give a dog a bone. Poor angel won't be going home.

Aggressively plays Shoots and Ladders by Korn

[verybadatwriting]

A Prequel to Dog Tags

Summary: A blurry recounting of the first few years of your life. 

Warnings: Medical problems (seizures, broken bones), experiments, Nazis, HYDRA, war, needles, kidnapping, child death, major child abuse, swearing

Notes: Prequel to Dog Tags, which you can read here. Dada/dad=Bucky, Papa=Steve

Fem!reader

Word count: 5,386

The first memory you have is the cage. It’s tall enough to stand in without hitting your head. Around you are a few other kids, all the same age, roughly two, maybe three. Scars from constant needle pricks litter everyone’s inner arms, especially around the inner elbow. It’s cold, and you’re all wearing identical beige shirts and shorts. You have a faint feeling that there’s someone missing. Like there used to be more of you. 

Through the thin twisting wires, you can see a small handful of people in long white coats working at desks, storing documents in massive metal cabinets lining the walls. Soon, they leave.  

The dim overhead lights turn off quickly after that, tossing all of you into darkness. You curl up together. Dirt and grime from the floor gets everywhere. Your hair, skin, nails, and clothes are all layered with it. Your eyes drift closed, and you dream of a woman whose face you can’t quite remember holding you.

You wake up when the boy curled next to you starts shaking violently. The other kids wake up, too. All you can do is watch. Most times this happens, the kids wake up fairly quickly, cry a little, and are fine.

One of the dreaded men comes in to monitor the fit. He wears a white coat which goes to his knees. When the shaking stops, he waits a moment. The boy doesn’t move. He pulls a stethoscope from around his neck, presses it to his chest, listens for a moment, then lifts the boy up and takes him away. 

You remaining kids cuddle up in an even smaller pile than before and try your best to sleep.

Another memory is from a long time later. It’s just you and another girl in the cage now. You’re maybe four years old, and have just woken up. 

Two white-clad men walk in, and as one reaches to unlock the cage, you and the girl scamper to the opposite side and press yourselves against the metal. Clinging to the bars is futile, as he simply reaches in, grabs your ankle, and drags you out. He passes you to his companion, and reaches back in for the second girl. 

She bites his hand and he curses quietly, but keeps his grip and pulls until he has a screaming, thrashing child in his arms.

“This one,” He says, shaking his head, “Always biting.”

“Calm that thing down,” The man holding you said. “These are the last two, we can’t risk losing another one.”

Their harsh voices echoed off the walls as they walked. Through the doors, straight, left, up a flight of stairs, and through swinging double doors. You’d made this trip more times than you could count, which wasn’t saying much since you were four.

The man put you down on a cold, metal table, and helped his coworker strap the other girl into a chair. It was so tiny. Specially made for her. She fought against the straps, like she always did. She was strong, for a child. She helped you feel safe. 

They pulled a curtain around her, and that was the last time you saw her. Things get worse after that. Since there was no one else left for them to poke and prod, all of that fell to you. The cage felt colder at night. 

One day, just as the overhead lights rattled on, very loud noises and shouts echoed through the halls. Raised voices weren’t super uncommon, the guards weren’t the most peaceful of people, but this was louder. 

You scrambled as far from the cage’s door as you could, hands clamped over your ears. Something rammed against the door once, twice and it burst open. Men carrying large guns swept the room. One saw you. 

He had a dark blue jacket, brown pants covered in pockets, and short dark hair. 

“Hey, Dumdum,” He called quietly to one of his friends, “Look at this.”

A short man with a large mustache walked over, brow furrowed.

“A… child?” He asked. “I knew they were twisted but…”

The blue-clad man took a step closer, and you shrunk even further into the shadows. 

“You’re okay,” He said, putting his hands up, palms facing you. He crouched slightly to be at eye-level with you. Your eyes fell on the gun that was now slung across his shoulder. He followed your gaze, and made a big show of putting it on the ground.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said.

You didn’t move at first, but your grip on the metal cage loosened. Slowly, you put one hand on the ground, and started crawling towards him. He held out his hand, and you took it after another moment of hesitation.

He picked you up out of the cage and held you with one arm. 

You were scared, yes, but you could tell he wasn’t with the scientists, so maybe wherever he was taking you was better. You looped your arms around his neck and propped your chin on his shoulder. You watched the cage get smaller as the man walked towards the door.

The mustachioed man stayed behind, looking through papers from the many filing cabinets. 

You’re carried through the halls, at first familiar, then they grew stranger. Eventually you reach the final door. He walked though it and you were bombarded by vibrant greens and blues. There’s people walking everywhere, all with such purpose, from trucks to the door, or back out again. Mud caked the ground where they walked, their many feet had quickly worn a path through the grass. Most people had guns strapped in holsters. The trucks had extras, too. The light was so bright, unlike anything you’d ever seen. 

It was all too much. You tucked your face into the crook of the man’s neck, blocking out most of the light. 

“It’s bright,” You said quietly. 

“Jesus,” He whispered, “Did they not take you outside?” He didn’t really need an answer. He already knew. 

“Is this better?” He asked after a moment. You looked up, and saw you were inside one of the trucks. It was darker, and quieter. You nodded.

“Alright,” the man said. “We can stay here.” 

You looked around some more, still not daring to let go of the man’s jacket. Something shiny caught your eye, and you pointed. The man followed your finger, and picked up the metallic thing.

“This?” He asked. You nodded.

“It’s a canteen,” he unscrewed the cap and took a sip. “Want some?”

The two of you stayed there for a while. You’d point to something, and the man would explain it. After everything in the truck had been thoroughly investigated, you pointed to him.

“Me?” He asked. “I’m Bucky. Who are you?” 

“I don’t know,” you said. 

“Well, what did they call you?”

“Number Sixteen. But I don’t like that. I think–” 

You were interrupted by the canvas cover of the truck being pushed aside, and about a half-dozen people clambering in. They were loud; you shrunk into the space between Bucky and his arm, tiny fingers digging into his jacket sleeve. 

He shifted to make room for someone to sit next to him, and moved you so you were sitting on his leg. The truck’s engine rumbled to life and it lurched forward. You leaned against him and closed your eyes.  

“I found her file,” the man next to Bucky said, passing a folder to him. His eyes skimmed over the pages. There were photos of experiment setups, logs of their results, growth milestones you reached, every little thing about you from the past four years. Stapled to the back page was the information from when they caught you.

“It says her parents named her Y/n Y/l/n.” 

Somewhere deep down that name resonated with you. You curled up in Bucky’s arm, and fell asleep. 

You half-woke up when the truck stopped. You felt Bucky stand up, still cradling you against his chest. He started to pass you to someone standing on the ground, and your eyes instantly snapped open. You shrieked, and clawed out of his hold. You scrambled across the dusty ground, and snuck under the truck. 

The rest of the world continued on, people unloading trucks, and moving boxes. All you could see was their boots stomping by. The truck shook slightly, like someone had just hopped off it, and soon Bucky’s face peeked under the truck.

“What’re you doin’ down here?” He asked. 

“I don’t know him,” you said, referring to the person Bucky had passed you to. 

“Well, we can fix that,” Bucky smiled. “His name’s Steve. He’s my best friend, and I promise he’s nice.”

Having successfully coaxed you out from under the truck, and introducing you to Steve, Bucky brought you to the mess hall. You had to stand on the bench just to see over the tabletop. Bucky sat to your right, and Steve was to your left. 

While eating, Bucky introduced you to a few other people. He called them the Howling Commandos. It was a little overwhelming to be suddenly bombarded by so many new faces, but you were alright so long as Bucky was close by.

“I’m gonna take her to the medical tent,” Bucky said to Steve, as you were wrapping up your meals. “So they can give her a once over.”

“I’m going the same direction,” Steve said, “Might as well walk with you.”

The dirt paths through the camp were lined with long, dry grass. You walked with one hand in Bucky’s and the other trailing through the thin strands. A grasshopper sprang out in front of you. You stopped suddenly, and crouched down to get a better look. Its little shiny eyes stared up at you.

“Come on,” Bucky gently pulled your wrist, and you continued onwards. 

“What was that?” You asked, twisting around to try and see it. 

“Just some bug,” Bucky said. “We can look at more after the doctors make sure you’re not hurt.”

“Okay,” you said, glancing over your shoulder one last time. Steve parted ways with you at a tent with a large red cross on it. You and Bucky went inside, where there were rows of beds. He set you down on one, and talked to a woman wearing a blue blouse with a white apron and a long white skirt. Again, on her chest and hat, was the red cross.

She stood in front of you and introduced herself as Nurse Boyd.

“I’m just going to make sure you’re alright,” she said. She washed your face, listened to your heart, and did a general check up. 

“You seem to be all good,” she said, writing down measurements and such on a clipboard. She turned to Bucky and said, “I am a little concerned about her lack of medical records. Is there any chance they could be passed along to us?”

“No,” Bucky shook his head, “Everything we found in that base has to be screened before we can send it to you – if we can release it at all.”

“That’s a shame,” Nurse Boyd said, shaking her head. “To be on the safe side, we should administer the vaccines for typhoid, yellow fever, and tetanus.”

Bucky nodded in agreement.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Nurse Boyd said. “Do you have any clue what they were trying to do there?”

“Last I heard, it was called Project Prophecy, but that’s about all we know.” 

“You’d better get those files to me the moment they are cleared,” Nurse Boyd’s voice was ice cold, and Bucky quickly agreed.

Despite a World War actively raging, you were having the best time of your life in the Howling Commano’s Camp. You’d given many people nicknames, mainly Dada for Bucky and Papa for Steve.

They’d heavily altered some uniforms to fit you. It looked like you were just a very, very small soldier. Even just having you around boosted morale.  Once you got comfortable with the sheer amount of people, you were confident strutting around camp on your own.

Your constant amazement and pure joy at the most basic of things was infectious, like when you’d first seen a grasshopper. Since then, you could always be found in the small grassy patches, looking very closely at small things. 

There was always someone watching you, or at least there was supposed to be.  More than once, you had slipped out from Nurse Boyd’s watchful gaze, or snuck past a distracted Stark to scale a tree. You never quite thought about how to get back down. It always turned out alright in the end, since Bucky or Steve would climb up after you. 

Since you knew they’d come get you, it wasn’t scary. The first three times. The fourth time you shimmied up a tree, something bad happened. Your eyes grew unfocused. They couldn’t tell up from down, which can be rather dangerous when high in a tree. 

Your fingers clawed the tree bark. You knew what came next, but normally you’d get a bit more warning. Your limbs started to shake violently.

Strange images flashed before your eyes. A woman with red hair getting shot. Papa and a masked man fighting. The man shooting then lunging at Papa with a knife. His arm shined, like it was made of metal. A red star painted on the shoulder. Papa kicked him into a car, but he just got right back up and kept fighting, then chucked him across the pavement. He brought his metal fist down, slamming it into the concrete just as Papa moved his head.

They moved too quickly to keep track of. It was overwhelming. Eventually, Papa managed to flip the man and toss him. His mask fell off. 

Dada?

Then, blank nothingness for a split second. Peaceful, blank, nothing. All too soon, your eyes opened, to see Bucky and Nurse Boyd standing over you. The canvas walls and rows of beds told you you were in the medical tent. 

You felt dizzy, your head hurt so much, and your arm, too. But most of all, you were scared. Dada and Papa weren’t supposed to fight each other, and they weren’t supposed to let you fall.

You sat up, despite the dizziness, and reached a hand out towards Bucky. 

“Dada?” You asked.

“I’m here,” he said, taking your hand and crouching down next to you. 

“Where’s Papa?” 

“He’s on his way,” Bucky reassured you. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and you crawled over next to him. He hugged you. You could tell he was scared. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “It’s over now. It won’t happen again for a little while.”

“This has happened before?” Nurse Boyd asked, eyebrows knitting together.

“Mhm,” you nodded, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, already over the whole thing and starting to explore the world again.

“Y/n,” Nurse Boyd prompted, “I need you to tell me about the other times this has happened.”

“The world goes fuzzy,” you began, a small frown scrunching your face. “Then I see things and shake a lot. But it's fine after a little bit. I'm okay now!”

As if to prove this, you stood up on the bed and did a little jump. Bouncing on the mattress, even though it was fairly soft and springy, made your arm hut. 

“Ooh,” you said, looking at it. “That hurt a little.”

“Let me see,” Nurse Boyd held her hand out, and examined your little arm. It bent a little too far the wrong way.

“You'll be alright,” she said, “just need a cast.” 

As she said that, you spotted your Papa enter the tent, eyes wide and face serious. Nurse Boyd noticed him, and after flagging down another nurse to cast your arm, she went over to talk to him.

Bucky stayed on the bed next to you, and held your other hand while this new, unfamiliar – and therefore untrustworthy – nurse tended to your arm. 

He kept you distracted, which helped, although you were still scared.

“I don't give a damn about procedure!” Nurse Boyd yelled from her and Steve’s secretive huddle in the corner. The whole tent went quiet as she continued. “This girl just had a seizure for God's sake, I need her medical records.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Steve replied, notably quieter, but not calmer. “I think this incident will be enough to convince them.”

“This “incident” might have been avoided if I had been given the necessary information any basic physician requires.”

“I know,” Steve's voice was stern. “If I had it my way you'd have gotten them the day we found her.”

“Good to know we're on the same page.”

A few days went by before Nurse Boyd finally got her hands on your records, and had time to study them. In those days, she kept a very close eye on you. She eased her watchfulness once she started listening to your heart and giving you medicine. With help from Stark, she was able to find the right balance of medications to help with the seizures. These meds made it so you'd only fall asleep and twitch a little, instead of violent shaking. 

The one thing they couldn’t fix, which just seemed to steadily keep getting worse, was your heart. It went from a minor source of worry, which Nurse Boyd was passively keeping an eye on, to a clear danger that heavily interfered with day-to-day life. 

Stress grew, soon and all the Commandos were on edge. One surprise, one scare, one tantrum, and your heart could give out. Being five years old was all the more dangerous, since anything could upset you. 

After yet another close call, Nurse Boyd suggested an… unorthodox idea to your Dada and Papa. They seemed reluctant, but agreed it was the best course of action. They didn’t tell you what the plan was.

The night it was put into motion, y'all were eating dinner and everyone seemed sad, despite a recent victory. They tried to hide it. You knew there was something more going on, but they were very good at distracting you.

“Ooh, I'm full,” Bucky said, pushing his plate away.

“Me too,” Steve replied. “I don't think I could eat another bite.”

“But we have all this dessert left! Whatever shall we do?”

You smiled and raised your hand high in the air. They pretended not to see you.

“I guess we'll just have to throw it out,” Dumdum sighed.

“I don't see any other option…” Bucky shook his head with mock sadness.

“I have an idea!” You declared. “Give it to me!”

The adults looked at each other in amazement.

“Why didn't I think of that?” Bucky said as Dumdum comedically slapped his own forehead. They slid over the little bits of deliciousness, and you gobbled away. They still looked sad… but how could you be expected to fix that with all these sweets to eat?

Then, after an hour or so where everyone seemed solemn and were way kinder than normal, Bucky and Steve took you on a trip. They had a truck, like the one you’d been in the day Bucky had found you. 

The rest of the Howling Commandos, plus Nurse Boyd, Agent Carter, and Mr. Stark gathered to send you three off. They all had similar smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. There were lots of hugs, and goodbyes. Why they were doing all this, you didn’t know.

As Steve drove away, you looked out the back. The little group seemed to deflate, shoulders sagging, once you were in the truck. They didn’t see your little eye peeking out through the curtains as they grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

You drove all night, wherever you were going was far from the frontlines. Most of the trip, you just slept. Finally, the sun pulled up over the horizon, just as you came to a stop outside an already bustling building. It looked too small for all the people and crates going in and out. 

“This is a Strategic Scientific Reserve base,” Bucky explained. “It’s where a lot of big ideas come from.”

“These are the people who tell us what to do,” Steve added. 

“Woah,” you said. “So they’ve gotta be really strong!” 

“Um, they’re more smart than strong,” Bucky said. “They’re some of the smartest people around.”

The two men sat there, looking at the building.

“Why are we here?” You finally asked.

“You know how your heart isn’t so strong anymore?” Steve started.

“Yeah.”

“The people here think they can help,” Bucky said. “Nurse Boyd and Mr. Stark have been working with them to come up with a solution.” 

“Then let’s go!” You jumped up, beaming.

They had no choice but to oblige. 

It was very exciting to get to see so many new faces and interesting things – still a little scary though, so you kept Bucky close.

He didn't resist, or try to get you to hold Steve's hand instead. Even before you got into the building, you got distracted by a line of ants marching in perfect order. An SSR agent nearly stepped on them, which caused quite a hubbub. 

Bucky didn’t hurry you along to go up the steps and in the door. He didn't pull you down along the hall when you inevitably got distracted again. He just let you walk at your own pace through the hallways, accepting whatever little distractions or treasures you found joy in. 

Neither Steve nor Bucky were talking much. They’d respond when you said something, most times, and they’d nod along while you talked. They kept exchanging little glances. You didn't understand why, but you'd find out soon enough.

The three of you reached a large set of double doors, marked with some warning labels. This part of the base was deep underground, so no sun or outside sounds got in, which was already enough to upset you. 

Bucky had picked you up. Upon opening the door, it became clear why. The room was filled with machinery, a large blue cylinder teeming with wires and metal, and a dozen doctors. 

Their white coats filled your vision. Every one of them had the same distorted evil smile and the same empty eyes. Their pockets were teeming with chemical-tasting mixtures and sharp metal things, knives and needles, ready to poke and prod and experiment and zap and hurt and hurt and hurt. 

You realized you'd been scratching and thrashing only when Bucky handed you to Steve. Now you were back in the hallway outside. Steve was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around you partly to calm you down, and partly to keep your hands away from his face.

You whipped your head around to see where Bucky was, and calmed down once you saw he was nearby, wiping off a scratch on his cheek. He hadn’t been as quick as Steve.

“We've gotta remember to cut your nails,” he said, glancing over to you.

“I hurt you?” You asked, shocked. “I’m sorry…” Your lower lip wobbled, eyes filling with tears.

“It’s okay,” Steve reassured you, loosening his arms. 

“Yeah,” Bucky added. “I’m fine. It’s just a little scratch.”

“Lemme see?” 

He scooted over next to you, and you reached out a little hand to touch his cheek. 

“I think he’ll pull through,” Steve said, eyes lingering on his old friend’s cheek.

“I think so, too,” Bucky agreed.

The three of you stayed there, on the floor, leaning on the wall for a moment before the door swung open again. 

A young, frazzled doctor looked down the hallway, and only saw you three as he was turning to go back inside.

“Oh, hello! Is everything alright?” He asked, noting y’all were on the floor.

His white lab coat set you off screaming again. Bucky swatted him away, motioning for him to go back into the other room. He looked confused, but complied.

“You got her?” He asked Steve.

“Mhm, go take care of it.”

Bucky stood up, promised to be back in one second, and went into the room full of horrible labcoat-wearing people.

“Noo!” You reached out after him. Steve didn’t let you follow. You wriggled around and forced Steve to look you dead in the eyes by holding his face still. “They’ll hurt him.” 

“Bucky and I beat the evil scientists that used to hurt you,” he reminded you as he pushed your hand off his face. “He’ll be fine.”

You listened for the sounds of your dad beating them up. Instead, you heard him talking to – no, scolding – the doctors.

“... in an underground bunker surrounded by nothing but metal and Nazis in labcoats, so of course she’s fucking terrified of them! And…”

This went on for a few more minutes, you and Steve still sitting on the floor outside the doors. He looked so sad, just listening to his friend through the metal, and looking forlornly at your little frown.

“Dada’s not supposed to use that word.” 

“Hmm?” Steve said, as though he hadn’t been listening.

“The eff one. He’s not supposed to.”

“Oh, well, adults say things when they’re really sad or angry, even if they're not supposed to.”

“Why is he sad?”

“It’s… it’s because we might not get to see you for a little while, that’s all, and we’re gonna miss you.”

“Where am I going?”

“Somewhere really, really cool.”

“Where they’ll fix my heart?”

“Yeah…” he trailed off.

The doors swung open once more.  

“C’mere,” Bucky said as he reached down to scoop you up from Steve’s lap. He held you up by his face, and looked you in the eyes. “You’re gonna have to be brave for me, okay? Can you do that?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, determined.

“Good,” he nodded back, casting a glance at Steve to make sure he’d follow. 

With more effort than normal, Steve stood up. It was like he was carrying a heavy weight, like his bones had been turned to lead, or at the very least his heart. 

Bucky, who’d been doing a fairly good job at pretending to be happy today, also moved differently. He walked slower, as though he was dreading his destination. He paused before the double doors, and once more looked to Steve.

“It’s for the best,” Steve placed an arm on his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, as though he was trying to convince himself. “The best.”

They finally pushed the door open, and you hugged tightly to your dad’s neck, burying your face to avoid seeing any of the scary machines. You felt Bucky walking a few paces. 

“Y/n,” he said softly. “It’s time for me to show you something.”

You slowly looked up. You glanced around the room, and found not a single labcoat in sight. Before you towered the blue chamber. Now that you were closer, you could see it had a little seat-like thing, except for standing in. It was perfectly made for you. Unease growing, you remembered the other girl’s chair from all those years ago. 

Steve saw your eyes flicking around, and probably heard your heart rate pick up.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You just have to stand there for one minute. I promise we won’t let the doctors hurt you. Imagine this tube is another one of Stark’s new toys.”

“Yes,” you whimpered between small sniffles. “I like machinery. It’s not scary.”

“Brave, remember?” Bucky reminded you, voice wavering just a little bit as he walked even closer to the tube. He slowly lifted you up and into the seat. 

A small team of doctors descended to connect all sorts of little monitoring devices to your arms and head. Despite their labcoatlessness, this still freaked you out, and you jerked your arm away.

“It’s okay,” Bucky said.

Once they finished, a glass plating started to slide down between you and the outside world. 

“Dada!?” You panicked, “Papa?!”

“We’ll see you… soon,” Steve said, his voice breaking and going all husky on that last word.

The door sealed with a hiss. The temperature suddenly dropped, it was like ice rushing through your veins. A small puff of breath fogged the glass before it, too, started to crystalize. Your eyes stayed open just long enough to see Bucky break, start crying quietly into Steve’s shoulder, and Steve to pull him into a hug.

They faded away, and were replaced by images flooding your head. Little visions, thousands stacked on top of one another. Scenes swirling around you. 

It felt like you were only in there for a minute before the door hissed and began sliding upwards. The ice crystals were gone, and the tube wasn’t as cold as it had been a moment ago.

The room had changed. How did the room change? Bucky was gone. Steve was there, but in different clothes. A handful of doctors were hovering around you. One minute ago, there wasn’t a single labcoat in the room. Now, it was full of them.

Instinctually, you lunged away from them. Your body didn’t move right, it was slower than it was supposed to be. The floor tilted, pitching you forward, but you managed to scramble towards Steve. 

He said something – you couldn’t hear, like you were under water – but whatever he’d said didn’t matter. He crouched down to scoop you up, and held you tight. Rubbing your back soothingly, he spoke softly. 

Slowly, slowly the room stopped tilting. Just as slowly, the warmth returned. Finally, your hearing came back. 

“... We’re gonna be fine,” Steve was saying.

“Where’s Dada?” You asked.

“He’s not here right now.”

“Why did he leave?”

“He didn't want to, he'd never leave us if he had a choice…”

“I was only in there for a minute. How could someone make him leave?”

“It’s been a lot longer than a minute.”

You took in that idea as you looked around the room. It had changed quite a bit. The walls were a different color, a calming blue, and they weren't made of metal anymore. It was warmly lit, almost comforting if you could ignore the medical supplies at the ready and the child-sized freezing tube.

The doctors crept closer, as though asking permission to approach.

“So long as you take off the coat,” Steve nodded. In almost unison, the doctors shed their lab coats, and one stepped forward. 

She put a stethoscope against your back, and explained that she was making sure your heart was alright. She put a cuff around your upper arm.

“I'm supposed to tell you that this'll feel like a really tight hug,” she said. “But it doesn't. It just feels like a machine squeezing your arm. It's so that I can see how strong your heart is.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It's definitely not comfortable, but it shouldn’t hurt. Let me know if it does and I'll adjust it.”

She recorded the results, did a few more tests, took a few more measurements, and finally, Steve was allowed to take you home. You assumed you were heading back to camp.

Boy were you wrong.

He carried you outside, through different halls than you remembered, and out into a city. It was much busier than camp, or the main base. Short trucks zipped by, all different colors, and Steve hailed a bright yellow one. He spoke briefly with the driver, and buckled you in. He sat right next to you.

He told you about the city you two were in, Washington DC. He told you about cherry blossoms, museums, and giant statues. He told you about boardwalks and Rock Creek Park. He explained that you were in downtown right now, the place where a lot of people work, which is why the buildings were so tall and everyone was so busy.

He told you about a little two bedroom apartment, and a really good hospital. In a few days, you'd go there and they'd fix your heart. No more worrying about it getting worse, it'd be all fixed.

“After that,” he said. “I see no reason why you shouldn’t go to school. I think you’ll like it.”

“Maybe,” you warily agreed.

Steve wasn’t talking anymore. You kept looking out the window. As the city rushed by out there, only one question came to mind.

“Where’s Dad?”

@arctrooper69

[macfrog]

all three dogs

Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love. andrew kane, how to be a dog

inspired by this gorgeous post (good idea to read it before you read this), and this gorgeous ask (thank you @iknowisoundcrazy). also shoutout to @mrsmando for being the queen of character study. i am not sure what this is, exactly? is it about joel miller, or is it about some dogs? i do not know. but it was fucking cathartic, so here, i guess. here's how i see joel at his worst.

summary: "dog metaphors are all about devotion, devotion to a person, a concept, a place etc, to be a dog is to be devoted."

warnings: little graphic i guess? blood and guts. violent joel. sarah dies and joel shoots up a hospital to save ellie. angst. i think that's it

word count: 1.3k

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets with notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🖤

he loves you, sarah says, fork digging into egg.

he’s dependent on me, joel quips, not the same.

i think it’s the same.

when the first dog is born, he gives his heavy head a shake, and his ears flick to life. his fur is still damp from the blood and fluid of his mother’s body. he still smells like her – looks like her, too. he is still connected in some way to where he has been; the umbilical cord coiled and dripping.

she licks and licks and licks until he is clean. watches contently as he pads off into some distant future, where he will lose that boisterous gleam in his eye, the gentle wag of his tail. but for now –

for now, he is brown-haired. brown-eyed to match. he has a daughter. he is bright, and alive, and he makes jokes when they bubble up to his tongue. he is good. he knows love like a first language, as if each swipe of his mother’s tongue on his coat melded it into his makeup.

he does not know the warmth of another man’s blood on his hands. he has not drawn the screams and howls of pain from another’s throat.

she is the sun – his daughter – the most radiant part of his life. his life, which spins on its axis around her. always looking for her, to her, at her. vitamin c, she tells him, and he accepts the glass of orange juice. she tells him to swear and he says, on my life. she tells him he’s lame and he says, i know.

he trots faithful and pliant at her heels. circles her legs and passes over her shadow, waiting to be told different. waiting to be shooed away.

only – when he is told, he doesn’t listen. he can’t. what is a planet with no sun to orbit? what becomes of day, when its light begins to drain?

she digs her nails into his skin. pushes and scratches and begs him with shallow gasps to take his hands off her stomach. to let her go. to go away.

i know, baby, i know i know i know i know –

he tells her she’s going to be okay. because what the fuck else does he know? he’s just a dog. he’s just her dog. all he knows is her.

the sun is being eclipsed. the world begins to darken.

i’m just gonna get her killed, joel weeps, i know it. i have to leave her.

when the second dog is pulled from his mother, he wails in a collapsed heap on the cold tile floor. the world is dim, colorless. the sun is gone. he does not know how he ended up here.

love is akin to violence. it speaks the same language, inflection and cadence blurring between words. he is only as strong as his fists are able to break bone. he has run out of road – a panting, ragged, old dog, tongue hanging lopsided and jumping. ears dented with the pieces of him lost to fighting.

something quakes within his chest, a deep, unstable movement. a shifting of the tectonic plates that make up his bones. he shakes violently, feeling for the thrash of his heart against his chest wall. something in the darkness commands him to act – to move, though it never reveals where to or what from. just fucking move.

and then – the eruption of his temper. like waves on rocks, breaching in violent and unpredictable bursts. spray of black ocean on the jagged cliff edge. i made this decision for your own good, he reasons, stood in the pink-papered bedroom. the snow flutters silently outside. his hackles slowly furl. she scoffs. she knows as well as he does: he’s as good a liar as he was a pet.

but for all his anger, for all the fear he misdiagnoses as weakness – there is a glimmer somewhere on his back. a pale light catching in the broken face of his watch; lighting the kinks of his dark coat. it begins to push him; to stir him like the tide.

something is controlling him again. pulling on his collar. someone is lighting the way.

where is she?

fuck you.

it takes as little time for the dog’s ears to prick as it did for his lungs to suck in a breath. his upper lip twists, canine glinting in the trembling fluorescent light. shining with saliva and the rusted tinge of blood. joel thinks it over less than once. his eyes flood black.

i don’t have time for this.

when the third dog rips his way into the world, he tears everything around him to shreds, too. his teeth are already bared; his claws are already swiping. his eyes are black as ink; he cannot remember that soft-footed pup he once was.

there is nothing left to hide. not anymore. he has existed in the darkness too long to try. his shirt and skin are stained with dirt and sweat and blood. his fur is matted; his fangs are brown and rotten. if she saw him, if her light cast its golden spill onto his bloodshot eyes and mottled coat – she would never know who he is. she would not recognize her own father.

but he was always this way, it seems: he has always loved catastrophically.

everything is red. saturated in threat; a screaming, nauseating red. it turns his stomach just to look, to peer down the chamber of his gun. the blinking of the alarm light. the maroon stains on his hands. the metallic smell seeping from the slumped vests. the thick pools he steps through, the footprints following him around every corner. they will catch up to him eventually. they always do.

his paws hurt. pads skinned raw from all the running. his lungs ache, now, too. his throat lurches for breath, closes in on itself and then sticks, choking him. he cannot remember the heat of the sun on his arms. he does not know when he last said her name.

he doesn’t remember when he last said anything. he speaks in growls and barks and bites. when his mouth opens, his lips curl by instinct. he swallows his drawl and replaces it with something sharper. something poisonous. there’s foam lining his gums.

all he has – of this he is sure – is his brute force and the quick snap of his bite. the shattering of bone, the mauling of flesh. the brawn and breadth of his body; the squeeze of a trigger with one thoughtless pull. all he knows how to do is swing.

and so, one heavy boot steps in front of the other. crunching over broken glass and scuffing over bullet shells. whereisshewhereisshewhereisshe. it loops through his head like it used to when he could see color and feel the wind in his ears. like chasing his tail. catchitcatchitcatchit.

where did she go – the moon? which cloud is she hiding behind? how many men do his maws have to tear apart to find her?

and what will she think when she sees him again? his collar missing and his claws dripping crimson. when she feels the rips in his ears, sees the scar on the side of his head. what will she do, when she runs her hand down his dirty coat, and in place of a loving lick or nuzzle of the nose, he sinks his teeth straight into her wrist?

swear to me. swear to me that everything you said about the fireflies is true.

the dog lowers his head obediently. his ears fall flat. tail curls between his back legs. the wind pushes hard against joel’s chest, threatening to take him with it. i swear, he says.

ellie’s gaze falls. she nods once. tightens her fist around the dog’s leash.

okay.

-

lots of inspo drawn from:

how to be a dog by andrew kane

grit by silas denver melvin

monster theory: reading culture by jeffrey jerome cohen [seven theses]

[fanfiction-blep]

Ghost: Part Three. Na’vi Miles Quaritch X Na’vi Fem/Reader.

Part one / Part two / Part Four / Part Five

Thank you for waiting! Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Quaritch having barely any control over his tail at this point it has its own warning. Jealousy. Language. Unspoken tension. Mentions of violence, Talks of death, loss of a family member. This one is pretty chill. 

Turns out Quaritch loved to fly. Ships didn’t cut it for him anymore, nothing would ever compare to flying his Ikran. He wanted nothing more than to spend hours out in the open air, but he had a mission. That wasn’t going to stop him though, the Colonel was a slick man. He always ends up getting his way. That’s why he was making his way down the winding corridors, the General had stated that (Y/N) was not to fly unattended. Quaritch would be dammed if he let that opportunity slide, she was his link to this planet, a planet he no longer hated. Whatever the feeling that replaced that hate was, it was something he couldn’t describe. Whatever it was he didn’t like it, but she could help him understand it, that was all he needed, he just had to understand this feeling. At least that's what he kept telling himself. He rounded the corner and saw Lyle and Z-dog standing by the clear door of (Y/N)’s cell, laughing. 

“What ya think ya doin’?” The Colonel stopped in his tracks, he was out of (Y/N)’s line of sight. She could hear him clear as day though 

“Nothin’ boss, the freak is talking to herself.” Lyle sniggered. 

“Thought it was funny is all” Z-dog snorted, Quaritch had to restrain his reactions. He was able to stop his ears from falling back against his head, he could stop his teeth baring, but the word ‘freak’ in reference to (Y/N) made his tail swish and thrash irrationally. 

“Well, I need her for some lessons. So beat it” he nodded in their direction motioning them to leave. Both of the recom marines sharing odd looks before turning and walking away. He opened the door and found (Y/N) on her knees, palms facing upwards and speaking lowly under her breath. The only words that he caught were ‘Eywa’ and ‘Txum’. “Hey there” he placed his hands on his hips. She looked up at him and it took his breath away. She looked, calm. Peaceful, and it struck him, he wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but he wanted some of that calm she seemed to find so easily. 

“What do you want? come to mock me like your buddies?” She stood from her seated position and began adjusting her hair tying it back with a thin piece of twine. 

“No.” It was a complete sentence, he had no issues with their jokes about the natives before this. He rationalised his irritation with odd logic. She wasn’t a native, she used to be a human. So it wasn’t right for them to speak about her the way they were. Deep down he knew that wasn’t the case. “I want more flying practice, and ya can teach me more of that Na’vi stuff.” It was a demand. He had done this over the last few days and she hadn’t really protested, other than the odd eye roll. He was already half way out the room when (Y/N) hissed in irritation. He didn’t turn around he only turned his head slightly to look at her. “Problem?” 

“I am not one of your little soldiers that you can order around!” She snapped at him. He did turn around at her outburst. 

“That’s for damn sure.” He sneered at her, almost spitting out his words “A soldier would accept orders.”

“I am not the obedient type.” she snorted her ears pulled back only slightly, her eyes warning him not to push. Her tail curled around her leg as he leaned in careful to keep his distance, nose still injured from their last altercation. 

“That’s something ya should fix sweetheart.” His voice was low, threatening. 

“Or what?” she did her best to return his threatening tone. 

“Or, I’ll fix it for ya” the air was sucked out of her lungs, there was an unspoken tension between them now. It wasn’t a violent threat, she could tell because his tail was moving in a playful manner. They stood there for several moments, both their chest heaving slightly heavier than they should have been. It was his tail that broke the trance, ‘his damn tail!’ she thought, it stroked against her calf and moved its way up. Completely without his control, she didn’t know this. (Y/N) snapped into action, she pushed past him taking him off balance only slightly. 

“Are we leaving or what?” The taller man grunted in response and headed towards to exit. They quickly found their way outside, (Y/N) jogging ahead slightly calling out to her Ikran. She took it all in, she wasn’t allowed outside often. Anytime they let her breath the fresh air she would treasure it. (Y/N)’s Ikran arrived sooner than the Colonel’s. This was for many reasons, Loyey was always close by ensuring she was there when she was needed. The Colonel was yet to form that deep bond with his own Ikran. The two climbed on their respective mounds and lifted into the air, (Y/N) taking the leave. 

“You want ta tell me where we’re going?” he asked 

“You want to learn, then you have to trust me.” she called out over the wind. 

                                                              ~*~  

The two sat opposite each other, as they had so many times in recent weeks. Currently she was teaching him basic Na’vi.

“Sung?” it was more a question than a statement, he had gotten it wrong multiple times. 

“Srung! Skxawng” 

“Srung!” (Y/N) clapped pleased with his progress, almost proud of how quickly he was picking it up. 

“Okay so this one is important” she looked up at him and stared directly into his eyes. “Oel ngati kameie” She felt almost bashful saying the words.

“Oe-l nagati kamie”

“No” she lowered her gaze and shook her head. 

“What dose it mean anyways?” The space around them became slightly colder than normal, and the light from the sun began to dim. It was the best time of day, eclipse. She closed her eyes and took it in, breathing in the change in the environment around her. “(Y/N)?” she simply hummed in response. “What does Oel ngati kameie mean?” (Y/N)’s eyes shot open and smile covered her face. 

“You said it right!” she gripped his biceps in excitement. He smirked down at her raising an eyebrow. (Y/N) pulled back and angry blush littered her cheeks, she had to get a hold of herself. He wasn’t like Jake, he didn’t want to learn because he cared. He wanted to learn so he had an advantage that her family wouldn’t see coming. Her heart told her something different. He didn’t have to learn the language, he had Spider and her to translate if it was needed. He might need her to learn to fly better, sure, but he was a true natural, he didn’t need any pointers from her. Yet at least once a day he would go to her cell and demand the same thing, he wanted to fly with her and have her teach him.

“(Y/N)? I won’t ask you again” Something about his words sent a shock down her spine. 

“Right sorry. It means ‘I see you’” 

“Well no shit! Why is that one important then?” 

“Its not a literal statement, its spiritual. It means I see you, all of you, your heart, your mind, your soul. It means that I see you for who you are, respect and accept you in your entirety.” He was taken back, he was unsure of where to look. His eyes dancing between hers, his hands, or simply the forage around them. 

“Bull-” was all he said, waiting for her to argue, but she didn’t. When he looked at her again, ready to meet her gaze, she was looking up at him with her large yellow eyes, eyes filled with understanding. Once again he didn’t know how to feel. 

“You’re telling me you don’t feel it?” she asked. “You don’t feel how everything around you is alive? Aware?” He said nothing, and she took this as an invitation. “Come” she stood up and turned in the direction of the forest. She lead him in deeper and deeper. “I don’t trust you enough, to take you anywhere sacred.” 

“So where are ya takin’ me?” He was intrigued, and stared down in awe. It was still dark, but he could see her clearly, the playful flicks of her tail, the open mouthed smile that spread joy across her whole face, the small shining spots that covered her body. Her eyes sparkled with the very essence of her emotions. ‘Is this what she was talkin’ about?’ he thought, ‘I see you’ Because he had never seen her like this inside those metal walls, no. Out here she was different, she was open and free. He was beginning to feel the same way. By the time she stopped, they were deep in the forest. Trees stretching far higher into the air than he had seen before, large leaves littered the trunks, small gecko looking creatures spun in the air.  

She stepped backwards smiling at him and sat down, her legs crossed. She gestured for him to join her.  He sat, watching her intently as she pulled her Queue. Quaritch mimicked her movements, she held out the sensitive branches at the end of her braid and connected them to the ground beneath her. Again he copied her movements. And that’s when he felt it, he felt like he was bathing in light. He felt everything around him, the trees next to him breathing in the carbon around them, the animals that were landing on the branches or plants that were way out of his line of sight. It was too much. He jumped up, almost falling back in his shock. 

“What the-”

“Quaritch-”

“NO!” she flinched back from him stepping back ever so slightly. He had threatened her, he had manhandled her, but he had never yelled, no that was a scream. “What was that”

“You felt an echo, an echo of Eywa” he looked at her with nothing but anger and distrust. “You can try and say I am lying, but you felt it! something you could never have felt as a human. Everything is connected! You could connect with Eywa directly, but I don’t-” she paused. 

“Yeah, ya don’t trust me.”

“How can I? You are only now starting to ‘see’ the beauty of this planet, yet are helping to destroy it.”

“I-”

“I have seen the struggle in you Quaritch, you feel drawn to her. To Eywa.”

“Don’t try to tell me what I am feelin’!” he warned. Sympathy filled her eyes. 

“Please, just listen to me” He was agitated and distrusting. What he had felt made him question everything, everything that he had believed, everything that he had been taught about this planet was wrong. “I know your confused, It’s like a crisis of faith. I didn’t believe in Eywa, before-.” She paused swallowing hard. “Before Grace died, but her dying words were ‘she’s real, I am with her. I am with Eywa’ Grace was the most objective and fact ruled person that I have ever met, she was in her human body yet she connected with the great mother and she is with her now. I’ve seen her through the tree of souls” Quaritch rubbed his large hands over his face, he groaned. He couldn’t comprehend this. It was too much. He turned and tried retracing his steps back to the Ikran, he needed to get out of the forest. As he stormed away all he could think was if Jake Sully hadn’t helped kill him in his so called former life he wouldn’t have to contend with these emotions. He wouldn’t have to think about all this, feel this guilt or struggle. He hated him for this reason and this reason alone, his mission was a way for him to vent this anger without being questioned. (Y/N) said nothing, just followed behind him. He reached his Ikran and attempted to climb it, ready to head back to base. “Please, don’t make me go back yet” He paused, he had realised today just how painful it was for her to be trapped in that room. No connection to the world she loved so much and it tugged at him in a way that he wished more than anything it didn’t. He would sort that out later though. For now they would stay, he would give her this. He used the excuse mentally that he needed to conduct himself mentally before returning to his team. 

“Fine, two more hours, that's it. Then we go back.” She smiled at him, only slightly, but she showed her appreciation. Her ears raised and her tail curled slightly upwards. She walked over to a more densely grassed covered area, and laid down. She let out a long breath. 

“I wont teach you anything more today, I think I overwhelmed you, I am sorry.” He was sat down next to her not looking at her at all. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’ve dealt with worse.” She chuckled slightly 

“I do want ya ta teach me one more thing today” He looked at her then, expectedly. She leaned up on her elbow and stared at him with confusion. She hadn’t expected any of this. His eagerness to learn. 

“What is it?” She asked and he lifted up his Queue and allowed the sensitive ends to wriggle in the open air. 

“What is this thing? I know it allows me to connect to other things on Pandora but, I feel like there is more too it than that.”

“You’re right, the Na’vi use their Queue’s to bond with the world around them, the animals and Eywa. I’m sure the scientists explained how its connected to the base of the skull and brain?” She quizzed him unsure about how to approach the topic of mating with him. It shouldn’t be uncomfortable? It’s just information. 

“Yeah taught us it would be real painful if it was cut off” The women grimaced at his words.  

“That’s a very redundant way of explaining it”

“To cut someone’s Queue would be like cutting off a limb. It’s considered shameful for a Na’vi to be without his Queue, its his way to connect with the world around him and the people”

“People?” He was intrigued looking down at her own Queue. She held the end against her chest, almost defensively she could tell what he was thinking. His body language was easy to read. 

“Yes, to connect to another Na’vi is sacred. It’s how Na’vi mate.”

“Mate?”

“Yes” She laughed at him. “They really didn’t explain any of this?” It shouldn’t have surprised her. The military had one goal with the recons, have the advantage. Unlike the Avatar program they weren’t supposed to assimilate.

“They just told us it was sensitive and to keep it safe really, not to use it on anything...”

“Making Tsaheylu, the bond with another person would be the equivalent of two humans getting married.” Quaritch froze. “It’s for life” her words struck him to his core, he knew Na’vi lived their lives with partners but he didn’t realise it was something that was so deeply spiritual, but he couldn’t help the almost crude question that left his mouth. 

“So Na’vi only marry and have sex with one person for their whole lives” He scoffed. “Prudes” (Y/N) laughed and even rolled on her side from the laughter. She leaned up and sat up facing him bracing her weight on her hands. 

“They really taught you nothing” he raised an eyebrow, it was a taunting look. encouraging her to explain. “Sex is different to Mating. Having sex outside of a bond is frowned upon but not forbidden. However making the bond with another person is a serious commitment, it changes you. You become connected to that person in every way, you see them.” He was silent taking in the information. “And you can bond with several people but one relationship doesn't end to start another. Polyamory is a common practice amongst the people, but each mate is a commitment and you are responsible for them in every way. Each partner is responsible to make sure their mate is safe, happy, healthy all of the normal relationship stuff. It’s just that most Na’vi choose to be bonded to one mate. The first person you make Tsaheylu, well some people have said that that one person makes everyone else seem like background noise.” Quaritch had been quiet the whole time, he hadn’t interrupted her, until his next question. 

“Did Sully tell you that? The background noise thing?”

“Damn, you’re obsessed with him. Next you’re going to ask me if he’s good in bed.” Quaritch’s spine straightened and an unforeseen amount of shock was displayed on his face. 

“How would ya know that?” He was furious, he didn’t know why. The women began rolling around the grass laughing again. “Stop laughing and answer me” she didn’t “Don’t make me tell ya again or so help me i will throw you over my shoulder and we’ll head back to base.” she tried her best to calm down, raising her left hand in hopes that he would give her time. 

“I- Don’t” she gasped out “But I wanted to see you’re face.” she let out several long breaths and gasped in air. He watched her, her cheeks flushed, eyes closed, and chest heaving. His own face began to burn and he threw his head up looking away from her. 

“Not funny, at all” he said 

“It was a little bit” she indicated this with her thumb and pointer finger. He still wasn’t looking at her when he asked the next question, one that took her off guard. 

“So you’ve never slept with anyone in your Na’vi body?” she paused. This was rather blunt of him. It was an invasive question and she wasn’t sure how to respond to it. 

“That’s a personal question.” She started playing with loose fabric around her ankles. Not wanting to meet his gaze. 

“Ya right, I’m sorry” he then smirked “Guess I’ve got to call ya virgin now?” he was laughing trying to take his mind off the rage he felt from those two seconds where he thought she had slept with that man.  

“Really?” she gaped at him in shock and slapped at his biceps. “You’re one crude, crude man” 

“Well ya ain’t denying it”

“Is that what you want? me to tell you whether or not I've slept with someone in this body?” 

“You don’t have to tell me nothin’ princess, but I can tell either way, you haven’t been fucked right in a long time” she was stunned, she had no idea how to respond. 

“Is that so” 

“Yep” He was curt, and didn’t want to press any further. 

There was a silence between them, somehow his words kept having this effect on her the way he spoke sent shivers down her spine, and she liked it, but she didn’t know what to say. So she blurted out the first thing that came to her mind. 

“I slept with Norm” Quaritch’s head snapped to look at her, he was furious again. 

“The limp dick science major that tailed ya, Sully and ya sister?” His anger thrilled her, she wanted to respond with. ‘Not so limp dicked’ but she knew she would push him too far and she didn’t know how to respond. He shook his head, he was muttering under his breath, but he refused to meet her eye. 

“It was a one time thing if that means anything to you” (Y/N) tried to act casual shrugging her shoulders. 

“Okay?” he stood up “Ya gonna tell me you mated with the idiot as well?” he turned around and started walking over to his Ikran. (Y/N) scrambling to keep up with him. 

“No? of course not, that’s not something I would do casually.”

“Well clearly there’s a lot ya do casually, like taking men into the woods, is that how ya did it? Snuck into the woods and let him fuck ya?” She was hurt by his words. It didn’t matter how or why it happened, he was humiliating her and shaming her for it, and that wasn’t okay. She wanted to scream at him ‘fuck you’ but she knew that he would say something worse. He was already in the air flying in the direction of the base when she found herself on her own Ikran. Not a word was spoken when they arrived back, night had fallen by this time. He simply stomped behind her. When they reached her cell, he didn’t say goodbye or make a comment like he normally would, he simply locked the door and left her there in shock at his behaviour. Why was he so angry? Even he didn’t know, and he hated not knowing. On his way back to his own quarters he ran into Lyle and was greeted with jeers and laughter. Lyle has spider held tightly in his grip

“Did you have a good time out there Colonel?”

“What?” He knew what they were implying but he needed them to say it, he needed to hit something

"What are you doing with the kid?" He quizzed.

"The General had some questions, since you were busy" He threw a wink at Quaritch, the act grinding down on his already thin patience . "So we interrogated the kids" He looked down at the boy, his head was hung low. He looked tired and filled with anger. "So did you?" Lyle asked, slightly confused at the Colonels behaviour.

"What?" He asked again.

“Did you get some ass? Cus if you can than any of us have a chan-” Lyle was cut off by a strong angry blow to the face. One, that is all it took. And the recom was laying on his ass, hands to his face. “What the fu-” The blow had caused Lyle to drop Spider from his grasp. Quaritch catching him before he hit the floor.

"Show some fuckin’ respect lieutenant, I am your superior” Lyle nodded in response. "Take the kid back to his room, Not a scratch. Understood?" Lyle nodded again and moved out of the way allowing the Colonel to walk into his room, slamming the door in anger. Sitting down on his bed changing into his sleep cloths. As he laid there trying to sleep he realised. That what he felt wasn’t just anger it was jealously. He didn’t understand why, and Lyle? Well he realised that Lyle was saying in no certain terms what he had said to her face. And hearing the words repeated back to him he was pissed. He had acted like and ass and he needed to make amends. Groaning Quaritch rubbed his hands over his face. His now not causing pain at contact, He needed to figure out why the fuck the idea of her sleeping with someone pissed him off so much. He wasn’t the kind of person to judge people for being sexually active, he knew that wasn’t the case. After a period of time, he gave in and admitted to himself what he didn’t want too. The idea of her sleeping with anyone let alone Norm enraged him, because he wanted to be the only one. The only one to touch her. But he knew she would never have him, she would never see him.

Tag list: @perseny @ensique @bothersome-anon-pt2 @liadamerondjarin @katkat1918 @dakotali @kristinavane28 @scarletpines @confusedmuggle @confitxre @turningemo @gremlinfuck @rosiepetalss @capitanostella @the-wandering-pan-ace @secretnerd00 @aleshyaaaaa @gayschlatt69 @kacchasu @julielightwood @nat-the-geminini @alidemour @bloodyymansworld @altara-noodle-dergg @rdeville @exactlygroovyking @themedsaintworkin @capitanostella

As always let me know if you want to be tagged, I take my time to make sure I can tag everyone who asks. And don't be afraid to comment! I love seeing what you guys think.

[forwhump]

a/n; :’) I was actually looking for smth caretaking (@ chi if you see this I deleted your ask but I won’t forget I promise !!!) but I found this instead & tbh it’s just kind of a banger so here we are (I also found a fun one that’s just wren literally holding silas’ head onto his body but is that postable ??? I guess we’ll see)

I forgot how much fun the wren pov folder is so big shoutout to the anon who asked for it im having a great time !! & obviously thank you all of y’all you who read my nonsense for coming along for the ride :’)

(fun fact !: the reason Point is called Point is because of the cane he has in this one that I don’t know if I’ve posted about before LOL in the big grand scheme of things it’s almost a reoccurring character)(he calls it “little debbie” if you were wondering)

tw/cw: implied noncon, graphic depictions of violence, caning, skinning, grievous bodily harm, mutilation, misgendering, transphobia, dehumanization, slut shaming, humiliation, point’s daddy kink, major character death (but he dies all the time it’s kind of a thing)

living weapon whumpee, creepy whumper (it’s point again idk he’s not NOT creepy)(he makes wren call him daddy)

There isn’t a lot of Silas that’s still human.

It haunts Wren more than he’s willing to admit.

It sits on his chest, a dead weight. He dreams of getting out of here, of seeing the sunlight again, his mother, his friends, and it’s hard to superimpose Silas into those dreams; Silas, who shares more in common with Michelangelo’s David than any human man.

He’s a weapon crafted from violence and stone, but the parts of him that are still human are so human that Wren aches for him. He thinks of himself as a violent dog, but Wren knows him better than that — he’s reactive. He’s protective. He loves with a ferocity that Wren barely understands.

The way he bleeds is human.

Silas thinks of his own blood as tainted, but Wren knows better than that. His blood is all human. His pain, as well.

He roars and it’s an animal sound, but the look on his face is entirely human. The way his chin drops to his chest and he shudders with blood loss is all human, nothing else.

Wren tries to scream but Gore has a gloved hand clamped firmly over his mouth. He shakes against Wren’s back every so often, bouts of laughter at his expense.

It’s inhuman, is what this is. There isn’t a lot of Silas left that’s still human, but he’s still so much more human than any of these men, these soldiers. They crowd Wren’s room, they block the doorway, they have Silas on his knees in a puddle of his own blood, growing too quickly, covering too much of the floor. They hold a buck knife to Wren’s throat so Silas doesn’t fight them. Not once.

He kneels on the concrete. Point has this cane, long and crafted from iron, heavy and barbed lethally on one end. He swings it again, and the barbs snag the sensitive flesh beneath Silas’ Adam’s apple and tear it right out of his throat.

Silas doesn’t roar this time, he just gurgles, low and pained. It makes Point laugh — that rasping, dead leaves sound that somehow passes as laughter. Almost jovial, he swings his cane around to point the end of it at Wren, but then he isn’t smiling anymore. “Whore,” he says, and he enunciates very carefully. He whips around to swing at Silas again and the jagged hooks of metal catch on the puckered hollow of his empty eye socket. Silas makes a rasping sound, probably as much of a roar as he can manage, and Point grins like a cartoon supervillain and rips Silas’ eyelid off his face.

Wren thrashes and Gore’s chest rumbles with laughter as he holds him a little closer.

“I warned you,” Point says, and he’s speaking to Wren but he throws his cane at Silas again, rips a chunk of flesh and muscle off his chest, “no dogs on the bed.” The barbed end of the cane sinks next into the hollow beneath Silas’ sternum. A noise is knocked out of Silas like nothing Wren has ever heard. Point has to brace a boot against his chest to pry the cane free, and he’s particular about shoving it deep into the skinned meat of his ribcage as he wrenches it out of his flesh with a sound like suction.

“But you just can’t keep your legs closed, can you, cowgirl?” Point asks, sickeningly conversational as he swings his cane again, peeling the muscle of Silas’ bicep clean away from the bone in his arm. “You just can’t help yourself. You’ll even let the dog fuck you.”

The heat burns in Wren’s face, blistering.

Point grins at him, grotesque. “Good girls don’t fuck dogs,” he says. “Whores fuck dogs. What does that make you, baby?”

Silas makes a low noise, kind of groan, still disturbingly wet. Point looks down at him quickly. Sometimes the way he moves is sickening, unsettling, too jerky to be human. It’s cruel, but it’s also just unfair; this evil marionette, wearing the skin of a man, gets to carve a place for himself in the outside world, and Silas doesn’t?

Point’s grin stretches across his face, each time more grotesque than the last. “What was that, boy?” He asks, and cups a hand behind his ear. “I think Lassie’s trying to tell me something.”

Silas makes another rumbling groan of a sound and Point leans in a bit closer. “Your girlfriend’s a filthy whore?” He mocks. “I think so, too.”

His one arm, bicep severed, is limp at his side, but his other arm is still functional, and Silas is strong. Wren doesn’t think he can even quite grasp how strong Silas actually is. With his other hand, he grabs Point by the windpipe with so much force Point’s face changes colour three times in less than a second; red, then blue, then purple.

Point croaks, which makes Silas grin. Wren sobs.

Letting the cane start to slide through his hand, Point curls his fingers around the middle, sturdy, before he cracks the barbed end into the inside of Silas’ elbow with all his weight. It sinks all the way through flesh and viscera, and when Point pries it free again, he peels the skin off his forearm, a flap of bloody tissue that sways at Silas’ wrist.

Silas snarls as Point quickly covers his bruised throat with his other hand. That marionette grin is gone, replaced by the simmering rage he always keeps boiling just beneath the surface. “Fucker,” he spits.

He doesn’t kick him, not really, so much as he cracks the bottom of his boot into Silas’ face and puts all his weight into it. Blood sprays from Silas in an explosion of clotted red mist and Point spits on him, fuming. “No dogs on the bed,” he snaps. “I won’t keep repeating myself.” He swings his cane back over his shoulder, looking at Wren, too close and too intense. The way Point looks at him has always made him shudder. “And you,” he says, softer, in the sickly sweet mocking he reserves just for him, that rage flickering on his face. “Why won’t you just behave?”

Wren scowls at him from beneath Gore’s hand, but he’s crying and he’s helpless and it only makes Point grin, wide and mean.

“If you don’t smarten up, cowgirl,” he says, “I will put your dog down. I’m not playing with you anymore. I will put it down, carve it open, and fuck you in its carcass. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

He scowls again, but his eyes are burning.

Point lifts his chin at Gore, who’s hand slides from over Wren’s mouth to around his neck. Point grins at him. “Say it.”

Wren doesn’t. He opens his mouth and the best he can do is a sob.

Point raises his eyebrows. “What did I just say?” He asks sharply. “Say it.”

Wren tries to look away but Point grabs him by the jaw, forcing his face up, forcing Wren to look at him as he whispers, just barely, “yes, daddy.”

Point pats his cheek twice. “Giddyup.” He motions at Gore, who drops Wren into an ungraceful pile on the concrete. With a whistle, he angles his head towards the door, and his men start to file out of the cramped space of Wren’s bedroom. Point lingers last in the doorway, watching Wren pull himself up from the floor. “If I find out you fucked this thing again,” he reminds him, “I’ll fix it, and I’ll make you swallow its testicles. Y’hear?”

Wren doesn’t consider himself a particularly violent person, especially not amongst such violent people. Point, though — Point brings out something in Wren that Wren is almost ashamed of. Point makes him violent. Wren had never wondered what it would feel like to crush a human head until he met him.

But Silas’ blood is seeping through Wren’s joggers, warming his skin, so he’s good. For Silas’ sake, he’s good. “Yes,” he whispers, “daddy.”

Point winks at him as he leaves. Wren wants to watch him die.

Before the door has even closed completely behind him, Wren lurches closer to Silas, kneeling in a pool of blood so thick it isn’t red, but a sickening, shimmering black, an oil spill.

“Hey,” Wren breathes, cradling Silas’ face, almost impossibly gentle. “Hey.” Carefully, he lifts his chin from his chest.

Silas looks like a scene from a horror movie. Half of his face had been stripped to raw meat and his empty eye socket is leaking a sick, yellow fluid. The bone of his cheek and his jaw on one side have been stripped completely of meat and muscle, a sickening flash of bone beneath the gore, a bit too white to be entirely natural. He looks at Wren, and he looks dazed.

Wren thumbs slowly over a bloody cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Silas opens his mouth like he wants to speak and vomits blood all down the front of Wren’s chest and his lap. Wren makes an involuntary sound, something panicked, a hiccup. Silas must mistake it for disgust, because he tries to pull away, he tries to lift his head on his own. “M’sorry,” he slurs, so wet Wren can barely understand him, “m’okay,” and he isn’t, his skin is hanging from his meat in bloody ribbons and he can barely hold up his own head, but he’s speaking, however wet, he’s breathing, his heart is beating, he’s alive. He’s bleeding and he’s hurting but he’s alive. He’s okay. He’ll be okay.

Wren is gentle as he bats away Silas’ hands, reaching back up for him, cradling his face. “Silas,” he says softly. Silas blinks down at him, something dazed, maybe dizzy, and vomits again with a pained, gurgling cough.

They’d come in the middle of the night, Point and his favourite men, all his most cruel soldiers. Wren doesn’t need to guess to know exactly why they’d come to see him, or why Point was so furious to find Silas already there. They’d been sleeping — Wren can’t sleep if Silas isn’t with him, and Point is the reason why. He’s more scared of Silas than he likes to admit or than he wants his men to realize, and it makes him deranged. It makes him violent.

He’d woken Silas in the middle of the night by opening his gut with the barbed end of his cane. Silas, who didn’t do anything wrong. Silas, who didn’t do anything but indulge Wren and sleep beside him.

They can’t get to medical in the middle of the night. There’s nobody at the door to let them through. Point and his team have watch tonight, and if Wren were to hit a panic button, nobody would answer him. They’d punished Silas and left him alone to bleed.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes again.

Silas has his good cheek leaned hard against the palm of Wren’s hand. There isn’t a lot of Silas that’s still human, but there are parts of him that are, and Wren can see one of those parts in his face, in the very slight crease of pain between his eyebrows. Silas would never complain, and especially not to Wren. For a long time, Wren didn’t think he was even capable of feeling pain — it was Medic that told him otherwise. Silas feels pain, and the way he feels it is almost entirely human. He has no special tolerance. He’s desensitized.

But his head is leaned hard against Wren’s palm and Wren can’t imagine how heavy it must be. He can’t imagine what it’s taking for Silas to hold himself up.

Still, Silas slurs, “m’okay.”

He isn’t. He vomits again, blood that’s getting darker and darker in colour. His head kind of sways against Wren’s hand, and he doesn’t open his eye before he throws up more blood, too dark, too quickly.

“Silas?” Wren breathes.

He coughs, and he throws up more blood. Too much blood.

“Hey,” Wren says softly, touching his cheek, a little firmer.

There’s just enough of Silas left in him that he lurches away so he doesn’t crush Wren with his weight when he collapses, face first, to the concrete. His blood is everywhere, pooling on the uneven ground, and Wren can hear the way it bubbles, sickening, beneath Silas’ face as he gurgles for breath and vomits more blood, acidic amongst the oil spill, dull amongst the shimmer.

“Hey,” Wren breathes, and his voice breaks. He kneels quickly next to him, putting a hand at his back, slick with blood. “Silas.”

It happens really quickly. It happens so quickly. Silas stops heaving. The pool beneath him stops bubbling. His back stills beneath Wren’s hand. All at once.

“Silas?”

And he dies, skinned, on the floor of Wren’s bedroom.

He’s dead for all of three minutes before Point returns. He’s grinning.

[blue-little-angel]

hello!! i wanted to ask if u could do a lee!dazai x perhaps ler!chuuya?

maybe dazai is bothering him one day and since (as dazai said, he knows chuuya’s moves FAR too well) he dodges an attack and the short king accidentally touches his *side?* and finds out dazai’s ticklish c:

sorry it might be a bit too much… but anyways, i hope u have a TREMENDOUS day/night & dont overwork urself please!!! <3

haha sorry it took me so much time, I have some trouble keeping everything in check lately 🥹🫂

°•|Hope your day is as great as you are|•°

Fandom: Boungo stray dogs

Lee: Dazai Osamu

Ler: Chuuya Nakahara

It was a sunny afternoon in Yokohama. Dazai was sprawled on the couch of the Ada's office, bored out of his mind as usual. When an idea struck him - why not go torment his favorite partner, Chuuya?

Soon enough he was in front of the feared Mafia's headquarters, ready to break through the intimidating place.

Dazai strolled into Chuuya's office without knocking. "Chuuuuyaaaa, entertain me!" he whined, draping himself over the smaller man's desk. Chuuya glared up at him irritably. "Get lost, you parasite. I'm busy, and you shouldn't even be here!"

But Dazai was not to be deterred so easily. He started poking and prodding at Chuuya, twisting a lock of his hair around his finger or poking his cheek. "Chiiibiii! Don't ignore me~ Play with me!" Chuuya finally snapped. "That's it, get out of here before I throw you out myself!"

He lunged at Dazai, flinging him off the desk and cocking his fist back for a punch. But the suicidal knew Chuuya's moves all too well - he dodged gracefully and landed neatly behind Chuuya's desk chair. Unfortunately Chuuya's momentum carried him too far, his flailing arm brushing against Dazai's side.

Dazai let out an un characteristic squeak and flinched away violently, stumbling over his feet. His sudden loss of balance had Chuuya staring in shock. Then a devious smirk spread over the red-head's face as realization dawned. "Why Dazai...are you...ticklish?"

The tallest opened his mouth to deny it but Chuuya was too quick, advancing on him with wiggling fingers poised. "No! Stay away from me you demon!" But Dazai was no match for Chuuya's speed and accuracy. Within moments he was collapsed on the floor, squirming and giggling helplessly under Chuuya's merciless tickling.

"Chuuuyaaaa ha-stop! I c-can't breathe!" Dazai choked out between peals of laughter. But the executive showed no signs of letting up, enjoying having found one of Dazai's rare weaknesses at last. It seemed the tables had well and truly turned - all thanks to an accidental brush and Dazai's ticklish secret being uncovered.

Chuuya continued his tickle assault on Dazai, who was curled up on the floor desperately trying to protect his vulnerable spots. "Please *haha* mercy!" Dazai begged, tears running down his cheeks from laughing so hard. But Chuuya was having far too much fun to stop just yet.

He redoubled his efforts, wriggling his fingers under Dazai's arms that proved to be an extra sensitive spot. Dazai shrieked, thrashing wildly in vain attempts to escape the onslaught. "You're e-evil Chuuya! No respect f-for your dear partnehhHEHrr !"

Chuuya simply laughed at Dazai's misery. "Consider this payback for all the times you've annoyed me, you pest!" Still he took some pity on his partner after a few more minutes, ceasing his tickling attack. Dazai lay there limp and panting, face flushed.

"You really are...too much fun to tease like this," Chuuya admitted with a grin. He offered Dazai a head pat, brushing his dark fluffy locks away from his face. "Next time I think I'll go for your neck, yeah that sounds like a great plan..."

And Chuuya didn't need anything more to make the lovely detective's blush deepen.

[horseshoegirl]

Damn Those Dog Tags - Part 4: Long Cool Woman In a Black Dress

AN: I won my battle with writer's block! (Thank you, @tinytotontheoversizedpony!)

It's a little self-fulling to use this song as a fic title, but hey, it fits the vibe.

I think you're going to like this one 👀💛

______________________________________________________________

❗️18+, strong language, alcohol mentions, sexual themes, godmother reader/original female character, Original child character.

#4.7K Words

Part 3 | Masterlist | Part 5

Fridays seemed to be the worst day of the week. That was your current mood as you smoothed down the corners of your dress and straightened your leather jacket, making your way up the steps of the Child Protective Services building. 

They told you they wanted to meet to review some information, whatever the hell that meant. With the paperwork, or there was a stipulation in Ridley’s Will or worse, someone wanted to take her away from you. The nerves in the pit of your stomach were on fire with the idea something was wrong.  

And you received the request on one of the few days you could actually pick Sadie up from school. The minute you hung up your phone and pressed the edge of it to your forehead, you thumped lightly against your skin, thinking it would will away the uneasiness settling in your stomach. 

“Ah, pity, I was hoping Bradley was picking Sadie up today.” 

‘Oh, please tell me you didn’t, Bradley, ’ you thought upon hearing that voice. Forcing a smile, which you were sure looked more like a grimace, you turned to face what you believed to be the Regina George of all elementary school moms. 

“Hello, Courtney.” 

Courtney Slack, the one mom in the school who made it her business to know everyone’s business. A blonde bombshell always dressed to the nines, who always had a comment, a thing or a statement to say about everyone and everything thing. The leader of the PTA association and the mom of the girl who bullied Sadie on her first day of school. 

You’d be having words with Bradley the next time you saw him. 

“Still single, I see?” she snarked. “Shame Sadie doesn’t have a strong father figure to look up to.” 

Oh, you’d already be thrashing her into the pavement if you were a violent person. You were about to make a remark about Sadie’s numerous Uncles who literally risked their lives to make sure someone like her could live out her days being a bitch, before someone came up beside you. 

“Still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Courtney?” Alyssa suddenly pipped up next to you. Alyssa, a single mother of a boy named Will around Sadie’s age, was one of the first people to introduce herself when Sadie first arrived at the school. Sadie instantly took a liking to Will, and you liked Alyssa the second you met her. 

She was uncaring of what people thought of her, pulling up in punky Doc Martins and patched-up jean jackets to student-teacher conferences and school events. She saved you from what you both liked to call Courtney’s group, the “Vanderpump Vulture Moms,” on your first school bake sale, Bob and Nat helping you stay up late one night to frost the hell out of a few dozen cupcakes. 

“Can’t I take an interest in who my children go to school with?” 

“Well, it looks like you need to go collect your spawn,” She coughed, “I mean, child from the playground. I believe he’s interested in shoving a stone up a kid’s nose.” 

Failing miserably to hold in your snickers at the look on Courtney’s face, you watched as she turned frantically to find her son before calling his name and running off in hysterics. Alyssa gave in first, barely hanging on to her resolve and toppling over in laughter. You couldn’t help but join her, lulling your nerves for a moment with being able to laugh. 

After a few seconds, she touched your shoulder, “I heard your phone call. I’m sure it’s nothing, maybe a follow-up to ensure everything is okay.” 

You shook your head, looking at the kids exiting the recess doors. 

“I just got her. It could be anything from a check-in to a notice of whatever they want to do with her. Rarely do they care about the kids.” 

You spied Sadie’s lime green backpack amongst the crowd. Will was not far behind as they searched for the pair of you. They liked to race each other out the door to see who could get to you first. When she did reach you, she almost always knocked you flat onto the pavement, hugging you. You eagerly returned her hug but frowned when she kept burying her head into your stomach when you went to pull back.

“What’s wrong, Bug?” 

“We have a surprise project due on Monday,” Will sighed next to you. Sadie pulled back, nodding at him, clearly upset at the thought she might have to do homework over a weekend. 

“We’re going to miss our last hike, Aunt Liz,” She pouted. 

This weekend was your last chance for a hike until the Spring. While Miramar didn’t really see snow, the weather had started turning slightly cooler. Soon enough, the bugs wouldn’t be out for Sadie to find. With the unexpected visit to CPS, she would no doubt have to miss it. 

“And my hockey game,” Will echoed, dropping his head with a frown.  

Alyssa ruffled Will’s hair, smiling down at Sadie. “Why don’t you come over tomorrow after school? You can set up at the dining table and do your project with pizza.” 

You gave Alyssa a grateful look, mouthing ‘Thank you’ as Sadie and Will excitedly started planning how they would tackle their assignment so they could do their respective activities. 

Alyssa shrugged, waving her hand. “Go figure out what they want, and don’t worry about her. We’ll ensure that assignment gets done for your hike and Will’s Hockey Game.”

So, while Sadie worked over at Will and Alyssa’s to finish her project, you tried to calm your nerves as you waited at the reception desk to check in for the appointment. 

They made you wait for what you thought was hours, but it couldn’t have been more than 15 minutes. You did everything from bouncing your leg to circling your thumbs to scrolling aimlessly on your phone until they finally called your name.

You were ushered into a stuffy office room, papers hazardously placed in manila file folders strung across the room. An older woman, Mrs. Kirkland, from her nameplate, had several precariously stacked on top of one another on her desk. She reminded you of your old high school librarian, peering at you over the top rim of her glasses when you coughed under your breath to get her attention. 

“Ms. Beck,” she gestured to the fold-out chair in front of her. You quickly removed your jacket, hooking it on the back of the chair before sitting down.  

She smiled at you before glancing at her laptop, asking, “How’s Sadie doing?” 

“Better. She’s adjusting well to her new school and seems to love science.” 

“That’s wonderful,” She didn’t bother looking up as she spoke, typing something away at her computer. You watched her type, suddenly meeting her eyes as she peered up at you, looking up and down your body before inquiring, “And yourself?” 

“It’s been hard without my sister, but my friends have supported me.” 

“Hmm,” she replied. “No man in your life?” 

Ugh, why did every older woman you meet like to comment on the fact that you were still single? 

“Just the two of us, I’m afraid,” you smiled politely. “What is it you wanted to speak about?” 

“Right,” she said, reaching down into her file cabinet to pull out a small folder. “A request was made to look into Sadie’s file.” 

The ball forming in your throat for the past twenty-four hours dropped into your stomach. “What does that mean?” 

“Well, our review process covers everything from the legitimacy of her birth mother’s Will to the handover of her guardianship. We have no complaints against you as her guardian, and we have on record you cared for Sadie greatly while you lived with your sister.” 

You swallowed hard. “Yes, that’s correct.” 

“So, this is just to ensure everything is in order and nothing was missed. Generally, the process takes a few weeks, but upon looking at this, I suspect our auditors won’t find anything out of place.” 

“Why would someone request this? Is it something internal you guys do?” 

Ms. Kirkland shuffled a few papers in her hand, reading what was on the page before replying, “I’m afraid this was external. Your sister was very thorough with her paperwork, so we did not need to do an internal review.” 

Everything about this was odd. You had no family left. What was the point of making sure her paperwork was in order? Ridley always wanted Sadie with you and nobody at the time, and after her death, wanted to challenge it. 

“I’m assuming you cannot tell me who requested you look into her file?”

“I’m afraid I cannot say who, only that the request came in two weeks ago.” 

Ridley’s townhouse sold two weeks ago, you thought. This was screaming more was going on than just a simple review. 

“As we have no more concerns, you are free to go. We just needed to inform you of the request.” 

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you dug your nails into your legs instead, reaching to grab your bag off the floor. “And you couldn’t have explained this over a phone call?” 

“I’m afraid it’s our policy to do these things in person to avoid miscommunication.” 

You sighed, standing up and grabbing your jacket from the back of your chair. “Can you let me know when this is resolved?” 

“Of course.” 

You resisted the urge to slam the door as you exited the office and the building. While you knew deep down they wouldn’t find anything wrong with the paperwork or Ridley’s Will, you were still worried about who exactly put in the request.

Even with the anxiety racing through your veins as you raced back down the front steps to your car, eager to escape the miserable place, you couldn’t help but grumble out, “Policy, my ass.”

_______

Seeing you at the Hard Deck outside of work, unless you were with one of the Daggers, was unusual. But your nerves were on fire, you were dying for a drink, and you desperately wanted to confide in Penny. 

It wasn’t as busy as it should have been for a Friday after four, but the music playing from the Jukebox did wonders for the atmosphere.  You spied Jake and Coyote at the back by the dartboard in their service khakis as soon as you walked in, Coyote attempting to throw a few darts while Jake was off to the side chatting with a brunette in just too tight of a light blue dress.

You couldn’t fault her for the blush staining her cheeks as she peered up at him. Jake used his looks to his advantage to get what he wanted. Arms flexed, cocky smirk, getting up and close into her personal space. She was buying it, given how close she angled herself toward him. 

Women really did fall into the palm of his hand, you thought.  

She embodied everything you figured you weren’t. The type to have it all figured out, not juggling school events, sports games, and pick-up times. She didn’t have long nights closing at the bar or trying to find someone to watch Sadie every week. Not that you would trade it for anything in the world. 

She was the type you’d imagine someone like Jake would finally end up with. Even if he was chatting her up to be the next name on his bedpost, you struggled to force out the idea that they looked good standing next to each other. Hot people went out with hot people, right?

You didn’t know whether you wanted to roll your eyes or pay attention to the ache in your chest. 

Penny smiled as you sat down but frowned upon seeing your face. 

“Can I get a glass of Whiskey, Penny? Neat, please.” 

She eyed you concerned, reaching down to grab a bottle of Jack Daniels and a glass. “You're not one to pop by for a drink?” 

“Somebody requested Sadie’s file to be looked into at CPS.” You threaded your fingers through your hair, locking them behind your head as you rest your elbows on the bar. 

Penny widened her eyes, placing the glass down in front of you. “Please tell me she’s staying with you?” 

You looked up and nodded. “I’m fine. They needed to notify me it happened.” 

“Can they tell you who?” 

“Nope,” you replied curtly before reaching for the glass and bringing it to your lips. The liquid burned, and you resisted the urge to cough. 

“I bet it's the school. Or one of the parents at the school.” 

Courtney’s face briefly popped into your head at Penny’s words, but you quickly shot it down. While she might be horrible, she wasn’t capable or invested in causing trouble. You shrugged. 

“Or Sadie’s bio Dad?” 

You frowned. Ridley always admitted getting involved with Tyler was a terrible idea, save for gifting her Sadie. He was, for all pretense, a dick. You had yet to meet someone who was his equal. From the stories you heard about how he was before they became a permanent team, not even Jake could top this guy’s attitude on a bad day. Tyler was pure malice. 

He wanted nothing to do with Sadie the moment Ridley found out. She had ensured you were listed as Sadie’s guardian the moment she was born, Tyler and his family written out of any responsibility or entitlements. You wouldn’t be surprised to learn if they tried to buy her off to save Tyler’s chances of making a career in Football, not that he really had any. 

“He wanted nothing to do with her when Ridley was pregnant, and I doubt Cathy and Dean want to be caring grandparents this late in the game.” 

They were some of the worst people in the world. You could gratefully count the number of times you had to deal with them on one hand. Sadie would never have to, not if you had your way. 

“Either way, I don’t think he’d get anywhere near Sadie if he wanted to.” 

Penny smiled fondly. “Bradley would be first in line to throw a punch.” 

You shook your head. “Don’t forget about Nat.” 

“I think Pete might try to get one in too.” 

You giggled with Penny at the thought. Mav would go to bat for Sadie in a heartbeat. 

“Lizzie!” 

You turned around on your bar stool to see Coyote waving you over, the leggy brunette gone, and Jake taking Javy’s place throwing darts. 

“Be careful with those two,” Penny said with a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Resisting the urge to frown, you simply picked up your drink while standing up, throwing over your shoulder, “You know I can take care of myself.”

________

“Yo, there’s Lizzie,” Coyote said, tapping Jake’s arm while watching you enter the Hard Deck and walk towards an empty stool. Jake turned his head in the middle of his conversation at the mention of your name, catching the side of your face as you greeted Penny.

The two of you had finished the dishes discussing your shared taste in music that night. You credited Ridley as the one who got you into 80s music - telling him the Jean Jacket had been hers, sharing how the three of you got lost coming home from a hike while she was visiting with Sadie, stumbling into that thrift store hoping for directions. He could recall you laughing when you told him she freaked out so hard in the store the owner practically gave it to her for free. 

While he’d never get the chance to, he wished he could thank Ridley for finding that Jacket. You didn’t judge him for his call-sign story as he suspected you would. Instead, you listened. You emphasized. You gave him credit for trying. And as everyone went to leave, you didn’t protest hugging him goodbye like everyone else. 

Deep down, a part of him was grateful you gave him a clean state. 

When the woman he had been talking to realized his attention had been drawn elsewhere, she scoffed and quickly returned to her friends after he didn't continue the conversation. He didn’t seem to care, wandering over to where Javy had resumed his stance.  

“What’s she doing here on her day off?” Coyote placed the darts into Jake’s hand, not removing his eyes from you. 

“She doesn’t normally come here on a day off?” Jake asked, starting to line up a shot. 

“Not unless she’s with one of us. Maybe she has a date.” 

Coyote took a swig of his beer, missing the way Jake dropped his hand and spun his head, eyes tracking the bar to see if anyone was joining you. But you were bowing your head, on the verge of pulling out your hair, staring at the top of the bar before replying to whatever Penny asked.

“What did you guys talk about that night?” 

Jake turned back to Coyote, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head while he raised his hand again. “Nothing I haven’t told you before.” 

Jake let the dart go, watching as it landed just above the center mark. “She thanked me for the flowers, for helping Sadie, and then we did the dishes.” 

“Just like that?” Javy questioned. “So you didn’t pull any of your insensitive shit around her?” 

“I wasn’t going to make her call me out twice. Not since you left me to deal with Phoneix and Rooster chewing out my ass.” He threw another dart, this one striking just above the last one. 

Coyote ignored the dig, watching him throw two more before asking, “So the flowers were..” 

“An apology, nothing more.” 

Javy eyed Jake skeptically, “And why do you suddenly care about saying sorry to someone you hardly know?” 

“Hey, I happen to like Sadie and Liz. And if the Daggers are spending Saturday nights over there, I’d like to improve my chances of being invited back.” 

Javy went to collect the darts from the board before turning around to stand in front of Jake, proceeding to square him up. 

“Be careful with her, Jake,” he said, placing the darts into his hand. “I’m not like the others, but you cannot fuck with Lizzie. She might put on a big show, but she’s more fragile than she looks. And Sadie’s a part of the equation too.” 

Jake regarded him briefly, thinking about the note Sadie gave him that he tucked into his wallet, before finally answering, “She told me she wasn’t interested in that.”

“Interested in a tumble in the sheets or being your friend?” 

“Shut up. I just want to be there for her and Sadie.” 

“Oh, so you wouldn’t mind if I called her over here to join us then?” 

“Javy!” Jake reached for Coyote’s arm, failing to stop him from lifting his hand. 

“Lizzie!” 

Jake grimaced as Coyote waved at you, quickly reaching up to throw another dart, this time half in frustration. It landed next to the metal circle encasing the center dot. 

You called out to greet them, and Jake couldn’t help but take note of how your dress lightly swayed as you maneuvered yourself between pulled-out chairs to get to them, leather jacket zipper straps swinging as you walked, and a pair of brown aviators dangling from where you had hooked them between your breasts.

He caught a glimpse of Penny’s glaring stare from behind you, and his conversation with her the week before meeting you played in his head. 

“She’s off limits, Hangman.” She had said as she thumped his beer bottle onto the bar. “You don’t go anywhere near this one, and I don’t care how many people you’ve helped throw out of this bar. I’ll never welcome you back, so help me. Not her.” 

The second it appeared you would look back up, he turned to throw another dart, this time Coyote holding up his hand to block his view. You watched Jake land the dart directly in the middle, slightly impressed. 

“So, this is your party trick?” you announced with a grin.

Coyote wolf-whistled as he approached you, holding out his hand to spin you in a circle, your dress swirling as you laughed. “You clean up nice, Lizzie. You meeting some special?”

Jake’s hand wobbled as he threw another dart, this time hitting the outer rim. 

“What? Oh no, I had a meeting with CPS.” 

Jake’s ears picked up at the statement, dropping his hand heavily to face you. “Is she okay? Are they threatening to take her away from you?” 

You shook your head, warmth spreading in your chest at his concern.  “It was harmless. They just wanted to pass along some information.” 

Jake turned to Coyote as you suddenly stepped towards the dartboard, seemingly interested in his score and leaving no room to continue the conversation.  Coyote looked at you with concern before glancing back at Jake, shaking his head. 

“You know how to throw?” Jake asked, not taking his eyes off Javy and tilting his head toward Penny. Javy nodded, quickly approaching the bar to see if Penny knew anything. 

“Oh, believe me, sharp objects and I do not mix,” you remarked, looking at his score before passing him as he went to collect the darts. You lent against the nearby pillar, pressing your glass to your chest. 

“You can’t be that bad,” he glanced over his shoulder, pulling the last dart from the board. 

“You’ve clearly never seen me on a good day. I’m a natural klutz,” you said, sipping your drink. Jake moved away from the board only to stop in front of you, holding out the darts in his hand.

 “Prove it.” 

You looked down, apprehensive of grabbing them. You accidentally drew blood the last time you threw a dart in Penny’s bar. You still felt horrible thinking about it, managing to skim an Admiral’s forehead. To this day, you swore you’d never touch the things again. 

But then you took in Jake’s face, amused and assured, as if you were just being modest about being a bad shot. He clearly wasn’t going to let it go, shoving his hand out again to emphasize he was dead serious.

“I warned you,” you offered, placing your glass next to his bottle on a side table, shedding your jacket and glasses before grabbing a dart from his hand. 

You attempted to line yourself up with the center of the dartboard. At first, you stood sideways, cocking your arm back several times in an attempt to let the dart go. The angle felt too awkward, and your hand started to cramp from how long you took. Then you completely turned to face it, fiddling with your grip while trying to fix your eyes between either the dart or the board. 

You managed to fake out three throws before deciding to give up.

Sighing, you dropped your hand, “Jake, I’m going to hurt someone if I throw this damn thing.” 

Jake tried to hold in his laughter, watching you struggle while leaning against the same pillar. He pushed himself off, uncrossing his arms before gently reaching for your wrist.

You looked at him, unsure, taking a step back,  “What are you doing?” 

Jake shook his head, reaching out again for your wrist. “Just trust me.”

You let Jake bring your hand up. His whole hand, warm and rough, engulfed yours as he positioned it where he wanted. You sucked in a breath through your teeth when you felt his fingers, barely grasping at your hip bone, pull you closer to him.

“Loosen your hand,” he squeezed, forcing you to attempt to calm the tension in your wrist. It was hard when you could only concentrate on the feeling of his chest lightly bumping your back. With each touch, you could feel yourself resisting the urge to lurch forward with a shiver racing up your spine. 

“Relax your shoulders.” He spoke, before tapping the heel of your boot with the top of his, making you take a step forward a bit. You gulped when you heard him say, “Widen your legs.” 

You breathed in through your mouth, forcing the exhale to drag your shoulders down. It was a few seconds before he murmured, “Close your eyes.” 

“Jake,” you warned. 

“There’s nobody around. I won’t let you hurt someone.” 

You sighed, closing your eyes and dropping your head slightly. Jake moved your hand again, softly squeezing once more. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you felt the heat of his breath travelling towards the left side of your jaw. 

“Throw it,’ he rasped into your ear. 

Jake loosened his hold on your wrist, feeling his calloused fingers trailing down your arm before lifting them off. The second his hand left your skin, you flicked your wrist forward as if his touch burned you. You refused to open your eyes, scared you might have hit someone or something old and well past its years on the wall. 

“Look.” 

You sharply breathed through your nose before opening your eyes to glance at the board. 

The dart had managed to hit the center. You couldn’t help but smile. 

“How’s that?” he squeezed your hip. “Not as bad as you thought.” 

“No blood is a first,” you said, proud of yourself. 

Turning around to thank him, the words died on your lips as you felt his breath warm your face. Jake had yet to let you go, his hand still clutching your waist and his nose a few inches from grazing yours. 

The decision you made, standing in your front yard last Saturday while face to face with Jake, about never putting yourself in a position where he could break your heart, was far from your mind. You took in everything about him. His sandy hair, his jawline, his eyes which then met yours. 

Jake’s stare brought you back to standing with him in your kitchen, washing dishes, and seeing his soft smile for the first time. Facing off in your backyard to guess music, him twirling one of Sadie’s pencils in his hand while helping her with homework, handing her the yellow tulip in your hallway. 

Jake could no longer hear the chants of Penny and the rest of the Daggers saying to leave you alone in his head. They were being replaced with the pump of his heart, a feeling he only experienced while pulling Gs. And then your eyes, wide and bright, drew him in. 

They were kind and soft. The type to have experienced laughter and the type of smiles that would make someone’s face hurt. You were looking at him like he was more than the metal wings pinned to his shirt. More than the good-looking pilot from Texas. More than just Hangman. 

His eyes dropped to your lips, feeling your warm breath on his and noticing the subtle scent of the Whiskey you had slipped prior. Could he still taste it, he thought, if he just tilted his head a little further down? 

And then the barbell rang. 

Three times. 

Jake immediately stepped back, head turning towards the bar with the healthy fear Penny had rung the bell for getting too close to you. But she and Coyote were standing off with some unlucky guy whose face had turned beat red at the bar. He had no cell phone, so either he disrespected the Navy or a lady and was not pleased about buying a round. 

He squeezed your waist, winking at you with a grin, before letting go to join Coyote at the bar. You bit your lip, watching him pat the man on his shoulder before hooking his arm under his, easily carrying him off to the side door with Javy. 

“You okay, Liz?” Penny called out, your eyes snapping to her as she raised an eyebrow.

Despite not knowing what the frick just happened, you called back, “Yeah, I think so,” while gripping the corner of the pillar with one hand. 

If she asked you why your legs were wobbling, you'd blame the whiskey.

Tags:

@blue-aconite @tinytotontheoversizedpony @djs8891 @caitsymichelle13 @startrekfangirl2233 @emorychase @ereardon

@dempy @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @daggerspare-standingby @phantomxoxo @formulapierre @eli2447

@fulla02 @blckgrl-sunflower

Please let me know if I missed you or if you want to be added!

Might be a little bit before Part 5, as I suddenly got swarmed with work stuff before my work conference at the end of March, but I will try my best!

Wickett ;)

[kiraman]

Killing Strangers PART II, must read PART I. first. Read them back to back if you can for the full experience.

JOHN WICK AU. death/blood/violence cw / Mizu x female oc

wordcount: 3,905 / soundtrack

People don't understand the word ruthless. They think it means 'mean.' It's not about being mean. It's about seeing the bright, clear line that leads from A to B. The line that goes from motive to means. Beginning to end. It's about seeing that bright, clear line and not caring about anything but the beautiful fact that you can see the solution. Not caring about anything else but the pure, absolute, unbridled perfection of it. – K.A Applegate.

No one's expecting the girl who burned to rise from her ashes. She is not her; she is neither here nor there, she's a ghost, he's smoke smoke smoke, it slips through your fingers; ashes and embers; consuming and resuming herself. They do not know they have been promised death by her hand. But she does. Smoke does. And a promise made, Must be honored.

She does try to stay in the shadows at first. There are 10 million dollars hanging heavy over her head, and she will not fill anyone's hands with them; blood money. Stained by fear; weakness; desperation. She does not care that the world is hot on her trail, death dogging her every step. Like smoke, she slips through the cracks, filling their lungs with her death; a pistol cold in her hand, silencer on, bullets flying; precision; effectiveness. No witnesses left. They come for her, and she takes down five men in a back alley, stitches half torn open, snarling fiercely, growling her rage; she does not shed blood with her knife this time, only with her gun. She does not stop to watch who's chasing after her shadow.

She knows where to find him now; and that is all that matters to her.

It's New Year's Eve and the Cellar, (what they call the obscenely large space Violet uses to throw sinfully lavish parties at his mansion where he lives with his wife and daughter, half way across New York where the core of his group operates. ) is thrumming with life, packed full of people,  all flushed, decadent exuberance and loud techno music blaring through the night, filling the air with its hollowness.

Mizu stares through the windows, letting the flickering strob-lights blind her until it's time to move.

With swift, controlled movements she pulls her jacket on, black, slick, bulletproof. She readjusts the holster of her dagger, strapped at her hip. Neon light glints off her sunglasses, neatly arranged onto her nose as she moves.

Like a shadow, she delves into the depths of his lair, unassuming, swift, like smoke, like the wind, unfathomably quick, unerringly, expertly infallible in her calculations.

Crowds throng her way, pulsing with music, swelling, swaying in the rhythm, the low, droning sound of it. She pushes her way through the throng, the grimy light of the club casting her in silhouette as she ascends the stairs to the second level. Unarmed, no guns are allowed here, in the club; still, she takes down the man guarding the door to the second floor; he grunts, a vicious, wounded sound torn from his throat as she wraps her arm around his throat and squeezes the life out of him; he thrashes violently against her, but she calmly covers his mouth with her other hand and squeezes viciously against his nose, not giving way, until he slumps over, heavy with death. She tosses him aside, and reaches for his gun, frowns when she notices it doesn't have a silencer.

Fuck it. So be it. Loud it is.

When she shoves her way onto the second floor, she sees him; sitting across from her. The strobe lights overhead cast his face in strange half-light. He is here, alive; throbbing darkly, darkly; she cannot see past his hand, curled around some young girl's waist; that same hand, stroking her hair; Mother dead in the bathtub, drowning in her blood; she cannot see past his face, dark, head thrown back in laughter, and everything around her fades away.

Smoke— ?

a man snarls somewhere near her, surprised. She looks his way, hand on her gun; his eyes fall to her hand. — You working?

Everything around her freezes, becomes smoke, fades away with her breath.

No. Not tonight... You?

Yes.

They stand, like this, motionless, stiff, breath thick in their throats, something dark trembling at the very edge of the room, and for a moment, the whole world seems to stop spinning, comes to violent halt to stand right in front of her.

She is faster than him, gun flashing under the lights as she lifts it and fires, shot after shot piercing the air, cold, metallic. Glass shatters, an explosion of metal and light as she shoots at the glass ceiling overhead, bullets riddling the mirrors flashing under the strobe lights, smashing them onto the floor and onto the bodyguards guarding the stairs leading to the third floor. Pure adrenaline washes over Mizu, and she is at her feet, growling as they hurriedly carry Violet away; his name poison in her mouth as she calls out to him, amd he looks back, pure terror in those dark eyes before he's ushered away to safety. There are throngs of people screaming around her, scrambling for the exits, but she does not even see them, her eyes, dark and terrible and dark, honed in on him; she kicks out powerfully at a man running towards her, swings and disarms him, ferociously snapping his wrist and twisting his hand towards himself, emptying his own gun into his stomach, then with a sharp, sudden twist of her torso, plunges the last of its bullets into the head of a second guard launching himself towards her.

The rasp of a door breaking open on its hinges crackles in the air, and metal floors squeaking from the men rushing in. Mizu quickly stands and turns, viciously collars the woman running by her, Violet's daughter, with her left hand and lifts her out of the grasp of her bodyguard clean into the air, unhesitatingly shooting him in the face. Snarling breathlessly, she hoists her in front of her body and turns towards the door, kicking out and ducking, shooting at another man at her left, kicking him back down and crashing his skull with her boot, and then the men from downstairs are flooding in, their rifles pointed in at her and the first man pauses as he comes through the hysterical crowds around them to take in the sight of the girl hanging in the air in front of Smoke and in the moment of his hesitation Mizu, unflinchingly, shoots him dead. She uses her body as a shield, relentlessly firing round after round until the dance floor is littered with bodies, sticky with their blood.

Another one she recognizes as one of Violet's right hands rushes in, and she throws her dagger at his chest, unerringly piercing it open. The man’s legs collapse from under him and Mizu drops the girl into a swing and launches her into the air at the other man taking aim with his gun and the man recoils in horror as the daughter of his boss flies towards him, drops the weapon to catch her as she crashes into him and Mizu is already on top of him as they fall to the ground and she smiles into the man’s eyes and fires the last round left into his head. She looks up towards the stairs leading to the third floor, and takes the man’s rifle, swings it smoothly upwards on the ball of her foot and then she is out the door and after Violet, leaving his daughter behind, unconscious but alive.

It's dark in the hallway, the low drone of the music coming from underneath, vibrating through the floor. She holds her gun tighter, loaded and cocked. It is so quiet she can only hear her own heartbeat, a distant humming, static, electric, the fan overhead, whirring in the smoky air. The walls that line the hallway are made of glass,  reflecting the light pouring in through the windows back onto one another, a narrow strip of low-light. She walks, noiselessly, ears pricked, until the slightest motion pierces the dam of the silence surrounding her, and she is furiously ducking, flying onto the floor as she expertly fires a bullet through two of the men laying in wait for her around the corner, sending them smashing through a glass wall. Glass shatters all around her, and she groans, blood streaming down her face and into her mouth, but she does not feel it, she can't feel anything past the rage in her blood. She is angry.

She cocks her rifle and empties it into the vague shape of a figure that she can see running along the hallway on the other side through the glass, and the wall shatters, shards of glass exploding, raining down onto her head; she tosses the empty rifle aside and quickly, too quickly, turns around, gathering a fistful of glass, sharp shards of it that she unerringly throws into the throat and neck of a second guard running down the stairs towards her, shooting blindly. With a cry derived far more from anger than pain, she head butts the other bodyguard that comes pouncing towards her from the shadows -shattering his nose, his face instantly crimson with blood- before slashing the last of the shard of glass in her hand wide, severing the bodyguard's artery. She reaches for the gun of the first man and loads it; she is angry; she can't see past the blood trickling down her cheek, beading at her neck. She throws herself onto another man, swings her legs around and wraps them around his throat, squeezing until his spine breaks as she uses his body as a shield, expertly shooting another five men dead with no more than six bullets; shot after shot after shot, she sends them all crashing into the glass walls, each with a neat bullet hole through their spines and the arteries lining their thighs. Spitting out blood, she is on her feet and ducking behind a marble statue just as she hears more men running up and down the stairs; she is angry; she reloads another gun she took from one of the dead men while running over their bodies, and stills her breathing to near motionless, laying in wait, blood pounding at her temples; silence. Shards of glass crashed under the heel of a boot; her breath, slow, tight in her throat; pulse beating in her neck;

This is death hanging on an infinite number of miniscule mischances.

Anything could tip the world around her, here. Someone coughing in the dark, a distraction. A variation in the low light filtered through the glass, a deceptive shadow.

She is angry. She lifts her gun and waits, silent, invisible, unseeable; they round the corner and with a twist of her body she powerfully, flawlessly swings onto her feet around the marble statue and riddles their backs with her bullets; blood sputters and stains the glass, streaming down the walls; one of the men, growls, furious, and pounces, throws himself at her from the dark, she had not seen him, and Mizu, gasps, shocked, ripping her shoulder away from his hand and furiously punching her elbow into the side of his throat.

Having already thrown her empty gun aside, her hands are free and her fingers, extended in a leap, dig into the edge of his jacket. The man loses his balance; the tug bends him backwards, forcing him to totter back. He struggles furiously, violently rips the jacket off his shoulders and frees himself. Too late. Mizu spins him round by hitting him in the shoulder with her right hand, then immediately strikes him in the neck under the ear with her left. The man - Violet's highest ranking assassin, she realizes; the Jackal- reels but does not fall. She is furious; her eyes, flash, a low growl of pure, uncontrolled rage thrumming in her throat; Jackal digs his fists low into her ribcage where her stitches have torn and she groans, anger flaring up inside her like a flame that explodes, shattering the world around her. Mizu grabs him by the front of his shirt, spins him violently and throws him to the ground. She clenches her fist and thumps him from above. Straight in the mouth. His lips split like blackcurrants, blood filling his jaw and chin, teeth smashing. She growls, moans against the sting of his fingers still digging into her side; one of her hands holds him down by the throat, viciously, like a hammer, like a knife, the other one breathlessly reaching for the gun thrown near them, spinning around and shooting another five, six, seven men down, a bullet through two lungs, a bullet to the side of a neck, then right through a skull, one, two, three shots, a bullet to a thigh, then chest, ripping it open; blood spatters, splashing her face. She reels around, draws her hand back from his throat and punches him again.

She is punching him, over and over, her hands a flurry, a black blur. His face is hot and stinging as boiling water. She is angry; she sees him, black suit, black coat, black sunglasses, a black tiger tattooed on his wrist, emerging from the fire. Mother dead in the bathtub, drowning in her blood.

She punches his face into a pulp, then draws back, groaning, clutching her side. She wastes no time; with an almost frustrated groan she pulls herself to her feet, and staggers down the hallway.

The shattered glass walls shake, vibrating with the distant music coming from down below. She bends and picks up the dagger she had thrown to a man's throat, cutting it open, finds a gun amongst the guts and blood.

She walks slowly down the hall; her face is covered with blood, and her lower lip is split open. Blood is spilling through her shirt where her wound has been ripped open. She does not care; she does not feel the pain.

She's close so close; her hands are cold, precise, calmly, furiously, ruthlessly holding her gun.

And then, she sees him, there, black suit on, immaculately pressed, sat at his desk under a glass ceiling, and she is sunk for a few seconds in the strangest calm of her life. There, within her reach, sits him; him who has violently ripped her life away from her; he, who has plunged her into that fire that still burns inside of her with a rage that nothing could ever snuff out.

His eyes are open and stare back at her with something frighteningly calm in them. Except for the irises, which are of flecked grey so that they seem smokey like the hoar mist on a winter's morning, his eyes are dark. Black. It takes Mizu a few seconds to realise that they have no expression at all.

She steps forward, her boots, slick with blood, making soft, strange noises as she walks towards him slowly, her mouth twisting into a terrifying snarl. Blood trickles down her chin. She licks it away, eyes unblinking, piercing him through with their rage.

"you won't make it out alive... kill me, and then what? you think you'll somehow walk away from this unharmed?"

Mizu does not answer. She cocks her gun.

"there is more coming..."

"—let them." she snarls, calmly, a dark edge to her voice.

She is furious. Her pulse shatters in her throat.

He blinks, and she can see the fear rising in those eyes; he looks behind her, into the hallway, the floor littered with bodies. There's no other coming.

He huffs, reaches for the bottle of whiskey set somewhere near him on the desk, pours himself a drink, then another one, presumably, for her.

Pathetic.

He gulps thickly, his left hand twitching.

She is furious; her blood is pounding at her ears, each beat bringing her closer to that fire, that flame that burns everything inside of her to ashes and from it, rises only smoke, smoke, smoke.

Silence; the clink of a glass against the bottle; his breath, hard, riven with fear. Her heartbeat, furious, dark, thrums in her throat.

Mother dead in her blood. Fireworks lighting up the sky, exploding into flames.

"no one, not even you, can kill everyone. you are not God." he sneers, a hideous glint in his eyes. His fingers twitch.

"I am your God." she coolly drawls.

Silence. Her breathing stilled to near motionlessness. She hears him swallow and the sound makes her sick.

He reaches for the whiskey, his ring clinking against the bottle.

Mizu pulls the trigger.

His head jerks back violently, splattering the desk with blood.

Mizu stands in the blackness that surrounds her and watches his head loll to the side, the glass of whiskey slipping from his hand, crashing onto the floor.

Blood from her nose spatters the floor nearby.

Outside, fireworks explode, lighting up the sky.

The year must have changed.

Silently, she turns around, and walks away.

She does not look back; she does not look back again until she's at the door, reaching for the knob;

A bullet comes whizzing right past her left ear, and she turns around, furiously, hand on her gun, cocking;

There is a boy stood at a door, near her. He can't be more than seven. His hands, tremble as it raises a gun he's taken from one of the dead guards upstairs, no doubt, and aims it towards Mizu.

Shock floods her system; she did not know Violet has a son; had a son.

Mizu's hand curls, twitches. She hesitates; she hears his little breath, sharp in his throat; hears his feet scuffle against the floor. She feigns a smile, says, it's alright... it is alright, then pounces, easily removing the gun from his hand. She calmly, too calmly, pulls back the slide, locking it all the way to the rear, and empties the chamber, pouring the rounds out onto her open hand, before tossing the magazine aside. She lets the boy watch her, lets him look into her eyes as she loads her gun. Lets him memorize the shape of her face, sharp and horrible in the shadows; she blinks at him for a moment, blankly, silent, not seeing him but his father in those small, dark eyes of his, and, then, without so much as a second glance, walks away and into the night.

Into the cold night air, the wound in her side is continuously sending sharp jolts of pain right through her. She clutches at it, hissing, walking away swiftly, in control, slick, dark jacket soaked with blood. Distant sirens pierce the silence, and there is police crawling all over the streets around her. She turns a corner, heaving for breath; her steps are calm, measured, but quick, hurrying away. There’s an unmarked car idling in the alley—there always is, she doesn’t know where she gets them—

Mizu blinks and suddenly she’s beside her, a warm shape in the dark. 

"Took you long enough." Geraldine says, breathless, her cheeks scarlet with rouge, cold from the wind lashing against her as she stands in the night, waiting for Smoke, and then, "come on- hurry..."

Mizu pours herself into the backseat, groaning. When Geraldine leans over to click her seatbelt into place, her hair—loose and spilling over her shoulders—falls against Mizu's torn cheek. She shuts her eyes, a pained sound dying off in her throat, breathing in the faint smell of warm skin and her perfume, something sour and sweet; smoke and lilacs.

When she opens her eyes again, Geraldine is sitting in the front, furiously driving away. The light of the GPS casts her face in strange half-light, occasionally sliced-through by the flash of the streetlamps through the window. She could be carved from marble, impossible and cold under her hands.

Not that she has ever touched her.

“I thought I defrauded more money for you than this,” Mizu says archly, feeling the car speed up dangerously. “No, Smoke." Geraldine sighs theatrically, exasperation in her voice. “No. You did not. shame on you. Hold on.” she shifts gear, and the car flies down the street, like a bullet, piercing the night.

“Right,” Mizu says, and lets her head loll back against the leather. She can feel the beginning of an ache, behind her eyes— her blood is hot in her veins, it's lava; live coals; she is still burning. “Yes.”

She stares out the window, letting the flickering street-lights blind her until she falls back into uneasy sleep.

Her phone rings, tearing her from her sleep.

She blindly reaches for it and answers, but does not speak.

She blinks through the pounding in her head; she is still in the car, it's still night outside; Geraldine is still driving.

She can't have been out of it for more than, what? Half an hour?

This isn't over. a cold, sharp voice on the other side of the line growls low in her ear.

Mizu does not answer. Geraldine flicks her eyes over to her, watches her through the rearview mirror. Her eyes are so bright; burning with something furious; fierce beauty and hunger,

Mizu does not know why she notices right then; she stares right back at her through the mirror, blindly, listens to the man on the other side of the line breathe, waiting for her answer;

when she does not give it to him, he says, fury in his throat, you think I'll let you walk away from this? you think we won't come after you with everything that we've got?

As she listens to the voice on the other end, Mizu remains still... stoic.

Yeah. Yes... I would not know how to respond to this either.

Mizu does not react. Geraldine's eyes in the mirror reflect the light; like flames, dark, carnelian; she blinks, a frown lining her face.

The man on the line is cut off by an intercom which squawks to life in the distance, a screaming voice reduced to panicked static. He laughs, and there is nothing in that voice; it's dead, cold. Empty.

Fowler. Can't be anyone but him.

But you betrayed him-

...and she betrayed us.

They are not our friends - Geraldine had said, laughter in her voice; silk; smooth, tickling her ear; no one is our friend.... everyone is our friend.

Why? What could we have possibly —

Realization washes over like a tidal flood, adrenaline bursting through her veins, ears ringing. Mizu cuts him short, hanging up; the line goes dead.

There is fury in her eyes now; and she says, move over, and Geraldine screams, says what the fuck, Smoke? as Mizu climbs her way into the front and hurriedly makes her switch seats with her so that she can drive down the harbor, furious, enraged, a hurricane, tearing the veins of the city open.

When they park outside the Cabinet, the flames have already consumed it whole, floor to ceilings, and Geraldine pours out of the car in shock, screaming her throat raw, sinking to her knees amidst the ashes. Her father looks down on them blindly, throat sliced open, hanging, dead and heavy, from the rooftop, swaying in the air.

And for a moment, only for a moment— Mizu forgets how to breathe.

[circus-complex]

Burnt Out Stars

Rating: Teen+

Relationship: Yin Yu/Qi Rong

Tags: Emotional Hurt, POV Alternating, Angst, Ambiguous/Open Ending, there isn't a nice conclusion but its sad :<, qi rong has a breakdown, Pining

Yin Yu tends to Qi Rong's wounds, Qi Rong falls for him immediately. Cue Qi Rong having a breakdown. Yin Yu has no clue.

Also on AO3

Full work under the cut

“Yin Yu. I’m sure you’ve seen our new…guest,” Hua Cheng said.

“Yes, Hua Chengzhu. It would be hard not to hear his screams,” Yin Yu replied.

“Well, in all the effort it took to get him here, I’d prefer him to stay alive. Could you treat his injuries?”

“...Of course,” Yin Yu grumbled. He dragged his feet as he left the room, displeased. He trudged through Paradise Manor before turning into a rarely used wing of the house. Shining, white walls quickly turned dull and dusty. It was where Hua Cheng housed his unwelcome guests. A prison, for lack of better words. Before long, Qi Rong’s screeching could be heard. They really needed to update the silencing talismans. Finally arriving at Qi Rong’s “room”, Yin Yu began to carefully undo the array holding it shut.

Yin Yu swung the door open. Qi Rong was bound with ropes in the center of the room. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the Waning Moon Officer.

“Pah! Are you here to kill me?” Qi Rong spit the words onto the floor. “If you’re going to do it, make it quick!”

Yin Yu didn’t reply. He tested Qi Rong’s bonds – they held firm. Qi Rong’s robes were bloody, with gashes up his arm and his torso.

“Hold still,” Yin Yu said. As if Qi Rong would ever follow instructions.

“Yeah yeah, like I can move. Your boss is real generous with his prisoners.”

“You aren’t a prisoner.” He pulled bandages from his robes, and set to work on Qi Rong’s wounds.

“Then what am I? I know I’m only alive because it would hurt His Highnesses’ feelings if I died.” Qi Rong put no respect into the title. But it wasn’t spoken with malice, “As if. My dog fucked cousin holds no kindness towards me. And why should he?”

Yin Yu paused. “So you’re aware.”

Qi Rong barked a laugh. “Yeah? Who isn’t? Do you really think I’m that fucking dumb? Ha! You truly underestimate this ancestor.”

“I don’t think you’re dumb,” Yin Yu said. As annoying as it was, the more Qi Rong talked, the less he thrashed around.

“Really? Bah, of course not! After all, I’ve managed to become a ghost king!”

Yin Yu stood up. He’d finished cleaning Qi Rong’s wounds. He picked the vial up from behind him and scanned Qi Rong.

“Are you going to fight me if I make you drink this?” Yin Yu asked bluntly.

Qi Rong blinked. “Probably.”

Yin Yu sighed, defeated. He was already bruised enough.

“Open your mouth.”

Qi Rong glared at Yin Yu.

“Come on, I’m not going to poison you or anything.”

“...Fine.”

Qi Rong shot daggers at Yin Yu, but begrudgingly drank the healing elixir. He grimaced as it went down his throat - slimy and bitter. Not entirely unlike some people Yin Yu knew.

“Blech. That was the worst shit I’ve ever tasted. Are you trying to kill me?” Qi Rong spat on the ground. But his voice, usually grating and sharp, had been dulled and softened.

Yin Yu didn’t respond. He picked the glass vial up and turned away.

✦✦✦

“Yin Yu,” Hua Cheng called.

“Mn?” Yin Yu entered his office.

“I hear that Qi Rong refuses to see anyone but you.”

“...Oh,” Yin Yu replied. He was taken aback by that, considering Qi Rong seemed to hate him.

“He’s … ah … particularly violent towards anyone else. You wouldn’t mind continuing to care for him, would you?”

“No, Hua Chengzhu. I’ll deal with him.” Yin Yu felt another weight added to his daily burden. It seemed heavier than the rest.

Yin Yu returned the next day, and the day after that. It became part of his daily routine.

At some point, it turned from simply taking care of Qi Rong, to Yin Yu wanting to see Qi Rong. When he wasn’t screaming at the top of his lungs, he was pleasant to be around.

Ok, fine. Maybe not pleasant to be exact. Tolerable. He wasn’t dumb, and he was surprisingly observant.

Yin Yu stopped leaving right after he tended to Qi Rong’ wounds. He started to linger, to become reluctant to leave. But every step he took closer to Qi Rong, Qi Rong would hesitate and step back.

✦✦✦

God, what was the deal with Yin Yu? He kept coming back, he didn’t seem bothered by Qi Rong’s brash attitude, and was being kind.

No, what was the deal with Qi Rong? Why did his heart skip and dance when Yin Yu looked at him?

He didn’t feel any overwhelming anger like he did with his precious white lotus cousin, or that dog Crimson Rain. He felt no malice towards Yin Yu.

And Qi Rong hated it.

To want something, to want to be close with Yin Yu, it terrified him. To not feel the hot, burning rush of anger, but instead cold, cool water. To have it snuff out his fire and replace it with cold, dead, ashes.

So Qi Rong doubled down. He snapped and snarled and pushed Yin Yu away. Because Yin Yu cared, and everyone that ever cared for him ended up dead.

And the ones who hate him, who loathe him, who leave, live wonderful lives.

Even his own cousin, his family, his blood. He was the last thing they cared about, abandoned at the first sign of trouble.

Blood might be thicker than water, but both would dry eventually.

And one would stain, leaving Qi Rong with a constant reminder of the fact that no one loved him.

Because even when Yin Yu healed the cuts on his skin, the gashes in his heart still bled. They scarred over, rough and messy. But with every smile Yin Yu directed his way, another opened anew.

And it hurt.

God, it hurt so bad.

He wanted to claw his heart out of his chest to make it stop. To pour acid in his eyes so he couldn’t see Yin Yu anymore. To rip his voice out, so he wouldn’t be cruel any longer.

And oh, oh he so desperately wished for Yin Yu to kiss his forehead and say it’ll be alright.

But no matter how many stars Qi Rong wished upon, their fire was always snuffed out before they could grant him joy.

So he would just keep staring at the night sky, wishing and hoping.

But the sky would run out of stars before Qi Rong could truly smile.

[mwebber]

seb/mark/horner after mti 21..... the vibes would be RANCID i want to see it

LESSONS IN SELF-DEFENCE.

in determining whether the act committed is reasonable in the circumstances, the court shall consider the relevant circumstances of the person, the other parties, and the act...

mark doesn't mean for christian horner to see, is the thing.

he's pretty sure seb doesn't want it either, but what seb wants doesn't particularly matter at this moment.

through the cracks of his fingers, just barely able to escape the white-knuckled grip mark has over seb's mouth and chin, seb makes a horribly pitiful sound. he's not unlike a dog being browbeaten into submission, with the way he scrabbles weakly at mark's arm around his waist, leaving pink lines anywhere he can reach. he's not trying as hard as he could, though; between his legs, he's spilling wetness at the tip of his tiny cock. with every attempt to thrash out of mark's hold, he spurts onto the floor, only narrowly missing the fireproofs and overalls crumpled around his knees.

the oddest part is that horner doesn't say anything, not at first. mark has his teeth in seb's shoulder, biting hard enough to draw blood, while he ruts dryly along the crack of seb's ass—his attention isn't fixed on the door until horner casually remarks:

"so this is what you boys get up to when i'm not looking."

and mark imagines that he looks something like a beast, his head snapping up immediately to see the other man in the doorway, his canines bared and dripping with what should be golden ichor, but really just looks and tastes as red as any other person in the paddock.

"get out," he says. he sounds monstrous too, his voice stripped of anything intelligibly human. but he's choking on iron and skin; it's par for the course.

beneath his hands, seb shudders violently, and pushes his ass back against mark's cock, whining and keening all the while.

"i think sebastian would like to say something," horner responds coolly, before strolling into the room like it's a team meeting and not a PR disaster in action. behind him, the door shuts quietly.

he crouches in front of them the way angels descend to earth to mete out punishment.

reluctantly, mark gives seb some slack, shifting his hand until the blond is able to draw in a deep breath and form words.

"mm," he manages, all but vibrating like an engine about to explode, "m-messe' uh."

mark ruts harder against seb's ass, just to hear him squeal.

"what's that, baby." the old petname draws deeper lines in the trenches between them. sometimes, it feels like the earth will fall in two.

"messe'—duh." the last word is a forced sound, a primal one ripped out of seb's vocal cords.

things take a turn for the worse: horner leans in close, and gently draws seb hair out of his eyes.

"you messed up, did you?" his voice is as soft as his touch, tinged with something inscrutable. "put yourself above the team?"

with a sudden, obscene moan, seb comes untouched. the faint splatter of his ejaculate against the laminate floor is a sound that'll be etched in mark's ears for the rest of his life.

he can't help it, the purely animal response to having his lover fall apart in his arms—he pushes seb's pliant body down, and with his hands freed, squeezes the soft flesh of seb's thighs tight around his dick to fuck.

horner doesn't even blink, simply standing and stepping to the side to avoid collision.

"or maybe you mean you've made a mess of yourself," he sniffs.

the silence is broken only by the wet, snapping sounds of mark against seb, and feels all the more suffocating for it. mark can only watch as the blond shakily snakes his hand back, and leaves it holding mark's wrist.

"not sorry," says seb eventually, and he sounds like the asshole that mark knows and hates again.

that seems to be the right answer for horner. "wouldn't have signed you otherwise," he states, matter-of-fact.

and fucking finally, he turns to leave. he walks out of the room as casually as he made his way in, only pausing in the doorway as if to say some grandiose, parting word--but he wisely chooses not to. any other thing out of his mouth would probably result in his guts getting clawed out by mark's perfectly maintained fingernails. a person is not guilty of an offence if the act that constitutes the offence is committed for the purpose of defending or protecting themselves—

but all the adrenaline seems to leave mark's body in an instant. his hips still, and disgust threatens to upend the contents of his stomach.

of course their golden boy gets forgiven, despite it all. of course. what does mark think he's even playing at, trying to batter seb into submission? a stronger, better man would ignore the siren's call, would steer his ship to safer waters.

around his wrist, seb's grip tightens, ever so slightly.

"mark." he twists in place to meet mark's gaze.

like this, with his blue eyes wide and pleading, with his bottom lip out in a helpless pout, he looks every bit like the boy he was from 2009, whose kisses tasted like sunshine and strawberries.

hastily, mark stumbles away, the vision cruel enough to tear his eyes from their sockets. he comes to a stop at the wall—claimants must retreat to the wall before they can kill their assailant—and leans against it heavily. it's an embarrassing position to be caught in, awkwardly balanced on his aching knees with his dick out and limp. there's not a thing a lesser man would do differently; mark is at rock bottom.

"forget about it," he mumbles, clumsily pulling his own fireproofs and overalls up.

but seb's not done, his voice gaining strength as he gathers himself together, gingerly avoiding the wet mess around him. "i didn't mean to—"

"forget about it." mark repeats, harsher this time, and finally finds it in himself to stand.

"if it wasn't you," seb bites. there's desperation in it, something crazed in his eyes.

mark can't look at his face without wanting to do something that'll land him in jail with charges for second-degree murder on his record.

"but it was," he says, with more care than he'd thought possible of himself.

across from him, seb shuts his mouth, allowing the earth to settle firmly on the lines between sebandmark and seb and mark. it feels not unlike dirt poured into a grave.

... including, but not limited to, the following factors:

(a) the nature of the force or threat; (b) the extent to which the use of force was imminent and whether there were other means available to respond to the potential use of force; (c) the person’s role in the incident; (d) the nature, duration and history of any relationship between the parties to the incident; (e) any history of interaction or communication between the parties to the incident...

[saiakv]

Cont from x. / @distortedkilling

In the very distant past, the onmyoji can faintly recall a time when curses had been a topic of ever expanding interest. Those days were part of a different world, at a time when their understanding of life was so frugal; for they were still tiny, as a snake after its first few sheds. And their first incarnations had palmed at the concept in an exploratory fashion as instinctively as the newborn cradles its own limbs. On one part of the scale, a cursed spirit was much more potent than mundane creatures to explore — and yet they were so limited in every other way. So they would invest in prying, prodding, stretching them thin as a thread and weaving them anew until one day, they had exhausted every plausible outcome.

Curses were just a byproduct, in the end.

And yet Kenjaku noticed the skin they wore reflexively shiver with this one's manifestation. That hunch prompts them to move aside; but it is a step that was never taken. To the onlooker, it happens within seconds; a bundle of hair and flesh taking form out of the nothingness and then the hungry palm reaches out to steal life from god's grip. A sudden lunge forth has the disheveled spirit close the distance between them. And for once, Mahito's touch connects.

The robes scrunch around his fingers, giving shape to Geto's form. Unmoving, the sorcerer lets him feel hard skin under the fabrics, lets him relish in that glimmer of hope ; he touched him! A resounding silence falls heavy over the scene. The seconds afforded to broaden this poor creature's understanding of the situation ( Kenjaku considers it generous on his part ) stretch between them in what feels like an eternal staredown; tranquility swimming in that amethyst gaze and Mahito staring back like a rabid animal thrashing itself against the cage.

And then— a palm rakes through unruly tufts of grey-white and settles on the spirit's head — in the same way one might pat their dog. As if pulled up by invisible threads, the corners of his lips curl, until they pull back to reveal the wolf's teeth. Kenjaku's smile is as carefree as always.

❝ What's the problem, Mahito? You can't possibly be that upset over something you had foreseen. ❞ The tender touch is a stark juxtaposition to the gravity holding Mahito down like an invisible anchor around the neck. If he wanted to be honest, the sorcerer had not predicted this reaction. Every curse in the user's arsenal is perfectly subdued and non-violent towards its captor. And albeit that smidgen of surprise was perfectly concealed under mock affection, Kenjaku was intrigued.

❝ I have removed your autonomy when it comes to transfiguring others by curbing your cursed energy to about ten percent of the output you reached after fighting Yuji Itadori. ❞ The explanation is almost blatantly dry. His gaze lingers on the curse's face for a moment longer, wondering if Mahito would keep testing his patience. ❝ You can still alter the shape of your soul, though. ❞ Subtly, his fingers curl around a strand of hair, knowing the curse can do naught but stay prostrated and at most resist the pull when he gently urges him to turn aside and witness the lock on that box.

❝ Turn yourself into a key for me. ❞

[miceysfandomstuff]

Leftover Fried Rice with Eggs and Oyster Sauce, Denji x Reader

Summary: You invite a boy and his dog(?) into your home.

AKA: In which I worldbuild and call out my cooking habits.

Also posted on ao3 here

Was written based on a prompt from @phen0l

Turn on the stove.

Pour vegetable oil into it. Not too much, because according to your school's food and nutrition education, oil is bad. But not enough oil means things stick to the pan. As well as wasted soap for scrubbing everything off. 

Add extra vegetable oil. Tilt the pan around to let the oil spread.

Check-in on the boy and his dog who saved you on the street.

You didn't expect to welcome Denji and Pochita to your home one fine sunny morning. But you also didn't expect to get attacked by the Exams Devil on your way home from school. 

An attack was expected. Your school wasn't the type to hire devil hunters to patrol around when exams rolled in. One moment, you were walking down a shortcut in one of the seedier neighborhoods, devastated by the Gun Devil attack so many years ago, and the next you were on the ground, convinced you were having a heart attack. No, worse than a heart attack. 

Something viscous had started to crawl from the inside of your chest to your throat. Your entire body shook and burst into a cold sweat. Thoughts of failure burst into your mind. Of failing your exams and of everybody knowing, of getting rejected by universities, parents, and friends. Of being unable to support yourself and ending up dead in a dumpster. That's when you knew it was the Exams Devil.

You recalled in your haze hearing about it on the news. How the devil hides atop a school and spreads its spores. That's why everyone's been having the urge to vomit lately. You thought it was just stress.

Killed by not a devil, but one of its spores. Your thrashing grew weaker, and you thought of your school, too cheap to think of its students. Your death might get published in the newspaper among the other devil victims. Your parents would cry. Your vision grows dark. The thing in your throat stops and starts to spread outwards.

And then a foot meets contact with your ribs. Violently. 

"Sorry!" A voice yelled.

After a minute of what can be generously described as someone stomping on your chest repeatedly, you hurl a saliva-covered lump up. It looked like a wadded-up bundle of exam papers with featherlike tendrils sticking out. You stared in morbid fascination. One of the tendrils twitched and your savior crushed it under his heel. It burst in a bloom of blood and intestines. 

You looked up at the person who saved you from the ground. He seemed around your age. There was something boyish about him, even with his tattered clothes and an eyepatch. The sunlight hit his blond hair in a way that made it glow. You met his eye, and he smiled a sharp-toothed smile at you. You smile back and checked your ribs. "Thank you," you said, "you've saved me." You've heard nasty stories about what the Exams Devil did to students. Your ribs didn't hurt. They felt quite numb, actually.

"No problem!"

He then turned towards a…dog? A rotund dog with a chainsaw sticking out of its head and gestured to the mess of test papers on the ground.

"Hey, Pochita! Ya think we can eat this?"

That was how you invited the boy Denji and the dog Pochita into your home.

You peeked in on them from the kitchen door. They had raided your pantry. Chips, dried seaweed, and multicolored KitKats littered your table. Pochita sat on a chair opposite Denji's and gnawed on beef jerky straight from the bag. Denji had wrenched open a ramen packet and was shoving raw ramen into his mouth like someone was going to steal it. You made eye contact with him again as he dumped the flavor packet in his mouth. He waved at you, and you waved back. He blushed. You had held his hand on the way back after convincing the two not to munch on the spore-like it was French toast. His grip was like iron. You should really get back to cooking.

You stepped back into the kitchen and dumped leftover rice, straight from the fridge, into the stove. It sizzled on contact with the oil. With one hand on the panhandle, you used your spatula to break up the rice chunks and lulled yourself into a trance.

You hadn't realized your house had so much junk food. Most were probably stale and old. Wasn't it unhealthy? To eat so many preservatives and sugar right after a period of starvation? You read somewhere that famine victims should be treated with lots of hot water and soup to prepare their bodies for food again. Should you have made miso soup for them instead? You ran out of flavoring a while ago, and you already got your leftovers out. Denji and Pochita should be fine, they seemed fine when they began picking flies off the exam spore's twitching corpse.

Add the leftover chicken stir fry. There was just enough to not overfill the pan. You watched the chicken, carrots, broccoli, and white chunks that should be yam hit the rice. 

Mix everything together.

Everything sizzles, a wonderful sound.

Kenji from the class next door had his arm torn off by a rogue devil. Your old teacher got caught in the middle of a devil fight and lost her sight. One day, one of your seatmates didn't come to school. You learned a week later they were eaten by devils. 

Did a devil take Denji's eye? Was it Pochita? Pochita seemed too nice for that. When you first saw him, you assumed he was a sentient marshmallow or stuffed animal. But no, the most realistic assumption was that Pochita was a devil. That meant you can't hug him no matter how soft his fur looked. Denji was able to pet Pochita just fine, but it's probably just the nature of his contract. 

You remembered a childhood rumor that a girl from a neighboring school vanished because her father sacrificed her to a devil to woo the homeroom teacher. And the rumor that certain devils will do anything for you if they are fed enough of their favorite food. 

You remembered when two Public Safety Devil Hunters came to your classroom and lectured on devils to a bunch of elementary schoolers. You remembered a conspiracy theorist who raved about how all important government officials and high-power CEOs had secret devil contracts, which is how they escape the atrocities committed by devils every day.

You remembered how Denji carried Pochita up all the flights of stairs on the road to your house, even though the boy seemed nothing but skin and bones.

The stir fry looks heated and properly mixed with rice. Take the jumbo jug of soy sauce and dash some into the rice. Mix.

Grab the half-empty bottle of oyster sauce. You want to put something other than pure sodium as a flavoring. Even though you're pretty sure oyster sauce is just soy sauce with extra ingredients. Dump some in. Mix. It smells wonderful.

Check the fridge to see if there are any leftover diced green onions. None. A shame, they made everything smell good. Add it to meat dishes and trick yourself into being healthy.

You don't have any sesame oil either. You'll have to buy it next week.

The rice is done. Turn off the stove. Get the plate out. Get some eggs out. Wonder if Denji and company like their eggs over easy. 

"Denji? How do you guys like your eggs?"

"I dunno! Soft and not raw!"

Do over-easy eggs count as raw? Should you make scrambled eggs instead?

Before you had come to a conclusion, a searing pain danced through your ribs. You clutched them and collapsed in pain. Shock. It must have been shock that had silenced your ribs long enough for you to go home and cook. A much more likely answer than you having a healing factor.

You hit the floor in a thunk and Denji rushed into the kitchen, Pochita at his heels. He knelt down over you on the kitchen floor you hadn't cleaned when your parents left on their trip. You had curled into a ball. "Shit, shit, I'm sorry! And I'm sorry for not apologizing earlier, it didn't seem like I hurt ya that much!" He tried to ruffle your hair in what you assumed was a comforting gesture. On a better day, you would've appreciated how gentle his touch was compared to the roughness of his hands, but today was not that day.

"Denji…just carry me to a chair…I need to rest." Pochita scampered over to your face. He licked your tears of pain. His tongue felt like that of a normal dog's.

"Right, okay." Denji tucked his arms under your shoulders and legs slowly, as if you had been targeted by the Porcelain Devil, and lifted you up. His arms shook when they touched you, but Denji had strength that belied his scrawny silhouette. 

"You're really strong Denji, I wouldn't be able to do this."

He flashed his toothy smile at you again. "Didn't I tell ya? Pochita and I cut trees for a living, and hunt devils too!"

You didn't remember the last part. Probably because you were busy thinking about the devil attack earlier. 

Denji took you to a chair in the dining room and set you down there. He disappeared into the kitchen and Pochita crawled on your lap. You read somewhere that cat purrs could regenerate tissue. Dogs cannot purr, but Pochita isn't an actual dog. Perhaps devils could purr, you didn't know. The field of Devil Studies mainly concerns itself with how to kill devils, not keep them as pets.

Pochita didn't purr but was very warm. You reached a hand out to pet him, taking care to avoid the chainsaw. Pochita was as soft as he looked. His fur felt like velvet. 

Denji clambered into the crumb-filled dining room. He carried the entire stove like a plate. "I forgot to say this, but thanks for everything," he said with a smile. Denji settled down to the chair opposite yours, and Pochita used your lap as a springboard to scramble over to him. You sniffed the air and felt pleased with how savory it smelled. 

Denji and Pochita ate out of the same pan with their hands-slash-paws and faces. You had quite a bit of leftovers, and your guests plowed through them in between cries of "So good!" and approving dog noises. 

You were content to watch and marvel at how bottomless their stomachs were until Denji shoved a handful of leftover rice in your face. "Don't ya want anything? If I were making this, I'd eat it all up the moment I stopped cooking!"

You stared at the handful. The sauces you used browned everything perfectly. It had a fair amount of rice, some carrots, green things, and a single chunk of chicken. You didn't think Denji washed his hands, but you also survived a devil attack today. Fuck it, you deserved this. "You know what, why not." You accept Denji's handful into your hands and ate it. It was delicious. The right amount of salty and flavorful. The parts you think were yam crunched beautifully under your teeth. The chicken wasn't too dry and held on to the flavor from when your parents made the stir-fry a few days ago. The meal had that hand taste too, and you're not sure if it was from Denji or you. Probably both. Would it count as indirect handholding?

By the end of the hour, the boy and his dog had finished the pan down to the last piece of chicken. Which Denji took, scraped it around to get the rest of the sauces and oil, and fed it to Pochita. Pochita swallowed it in one bite. "Dang, I dunno if you feel it too buddy, but for the first time in a while, I feel…full." Denji patted his abdomen. Pochita flopped over in agreement and showed his bloated belly.

Your ribs felt better now too. Maybe your cooking had healing powers, based on how happy and relieved the two looked. "Okay," you said, "I'll have to put the eggs away now."

Denji shot up, salivating, and Pochita followed. "Oh right, I forgot about the eggs!"

Three hideous over-easy eggs sprinkled with oyster sauce later, Denji leaned his head on the table and moaned, "okay, now I'm full. Thank you for the meal."

"Sorry about the eggs, normally the yolk parts aren't as spread out," you said. Turns out your ribs weren't as healed as you thought, and that affected your egg-breaking abilities.

"Who fucking cares about looks as long as it tastes good?" Denji reached a hand to pet Pochita, who had similarly collapsed on the table. Like man like devil-dog. "From the bottom of my heart, thank you."

"Where will you go next?"

"Back to my place. Sorry, but you can't visit there, I don't have video games or anything."

"Cable?"

"No."

"Heating?"

"There's heating in a convenience store nearby, but they kick you out if ya don't buy anything."

You looked at his tattered clothes and remembered how desperately he and Pochita shoved food in your mouth. You didn't want to speculate anymore on his home life. "Denji, I'm making pancakes tomorrow. Do you want to stay over? My parents aren't home, and we can watch TV together."

Denji looked at you and smiled, "Pancakes and TV with you? Of course I'll say yes."

[divineruler]

TOO WEAK ~ Kit Walker

He was always too weak.

!GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE!

WARNINGS- hurt/no comfort [kind of??], violence, forced stripping [non-graphic], canning, blood, trauma

WORDS- 1.6k

[This is a vent post lol]

Kit grunted as he was pushed down against Sister Jude’s solid oak desk. He tried to struggle. He tried to fight back against the guards holding his shoulders and head down, but he was too weak. He was always too weak. It was deplorable, demoralizing even, knowing he would never be strong enough to fight back. He would never be strong enough to protect the people he loved. They had already taken everything from him, his home, his work, his wife. His wife. Tears pricked his eyes as the guard held the side of his face down against the desk. His jaw shifted unnaturally out of place and black spots clouded his vision as the pressure increased on his soft temple. 

His wife. He tried desperately to think of anything but her. At this point she existed as an increasingly painful reminder of what he had lost. It made his head spin. He hated what this place had done to his memory of her. His isolation had corrupted his memories. Thinking of the time they spent together, the long nights and the lazy mornings, they brought him nothing but misery. So he tried not to think about her. He couldn’t let this place take his memory of her. They had taken everything from him, they had revoked his personhood like a dog in a mussel. He was nothing more than a name on an intake sheet. Twenty years of life, stripped away in seconds. This would be his legacy. That was something he had come to accept. But he couldn’t let them do that to Alma. She deserved to exist in peace and tranquility, in the back catalog of his mind. He wouldn’t let them take her too. He had to preserve the last piece of her he had, and if that meant pushing her from the forefront of his mind, then that’s what he was going to do.  

Kit winced as a loud voice pierced his ears. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. He craned his neck, eyes frantically scanning the room until they landed on Sister Jude’s cold dead stare. Her voice penetrated his consciousness, noise echoing around in his empty head. He tried to focus on her words, but he was too far gone. His brain was corroded like a dead battery. He couldn’t even remember what he did, but it must have been something bad. Judging by his swollen, bloody knuckles he probably punched someone. Hopefully it was the guard sitting several feet away from Kit, holding an ice pack to his black eye. Kit felt a spark of justice spread warmly through his chest. He almost gasped as the warm feeling swirled in his gut. Was it pride? Was he proud of his outburst? Of course he was. That guard had it coming. Drunk with this new surge of passion he fought again against the guards. He yanked one arm out of their grasp, swinging his fist wildly. He was blind with rage, violently thrashing in their iron grip. Right as he thought he had gotten the upperhand, a hard batton to the back of his head sent his world spinning. His vision blacked out as he was slammed back down onto the desk. Kit groaned as the pain finally caught up to him, his brain buffering like a broken disk drive. His ears began to ring with every heavy pulse of his lagging heart. He almost didn’t feel the cool metal of the handcuffs pinning his arms behind his back. 

The world began to piece itself back together little by little. Kit felt his face begin to flush. He felt embarrassed. Why did he think he would be able to take on three guards and Sister Jude with nothing but his injured hands. He couldn’t believe he let his adrenaline exceed his decision making. He was still weak, too weak to fight back. 

His vision began to clear as he scanned the room. The world around him had been reduced to a blurry swirl, but he could just make out Sister Jude opening the door to her old oak cabinet containing her assortment of woven canes. At this point he didn’t even care which one she chose, he had been beaten with every one of them at one point or another. They all hurt the same. Judging by his violent outburst, he knew she wasn’t going to have mercy on him. Mercy, he smirked, mercy isn’t a word in Sister Jude’s vocabulary. 

He felt the strong hands holding his body against the desk shift, making room for sister Jude to untie the back of his hospital gown and pull down his paper-thin underwear. He felt his face flush, squirming against the desk as his nakedness was out on display for the whole room. He thought by this point he would have gotten used to being stripped; modesty was a privilege in this place, not a right. The cold air stung his naked skin, the scars littering his ass and lower back growing an angry red, like they knew what was coming. His face began to flush with embarrassment, red creeping down his pale chest as he tried to close his legs to save himself some modesty. That didn’t last long as sister jude yelled an incoherent threat before kicking his legs apart once again. Fine. It wasn’t worth fighting back. Kit closed his eyes, gritting his teeth as he tried to take deep breaths. He tried to prepare himself for his punishment. They weren’t going to break him this time, he was going to stay strong, he wasn’t going to give them the privilege of seeing him cry. 

Kit felt sister Jude’s cold, clammy palm against his middle back. He took a shaky breath in through his nose, exhaling in a sharp cry as the cane came down upon his pale skin. Pain crept up his back and down his thighs, making his legs shake. His breath caught in his throat as he tried to find his footing, only to be interrupted by another whip, and another, and another. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, screaming through clenched teeth. He felt blood sting his tongue as his teeth pierced through the soft flesh of his lip. It was almost enough to distract him from the lashes, almost enough. Each lash of the whip left a trail of fire in its path. His backside was a swirl of color as the old lashes began to bruise a deep, dark purple. His broken skin glowed furious and inflamed. Sister Jude was not letting up, at this point, he didn’t even know how long she had been beating him, but it felt like an eternity. His knees shook as he took another lash, making his vision swim. He felt his consciousness begin to slip away little by little. He could hear the vibration of the Guards and Sister Jude talking around him, but he was too far gone, he couldn’t make out a single word. Kit felt his chest vibrate, was he screaming? The burning in his lungs and the dry tickle creeping up his throat answered his question. He was screaming a deep, guttural, broken scream. A sound that would make your stomach churn. With each crack of the cane against his raw skin, he screamed. He fought against the handcuffs pinning his arms behind him as he felt a familiar warmth settle in his chest. His nose began to run and he could feel hot tears pricking his eyes. No, he was not going to cry. He was stronger than that, he wasn’t going to give them the pleasure of seeing him cry. But there was something comforting about this feeling. It was a feeling of warmth, the feeling of something familiar. A particularly brutal whip knocked Kit out of his daze, he felt the pressure building up inside him break as the cane split his aching skin. Warm tears leaked down his face as blood spilled from the wound, oozing down his thighs. He gasped, his body feeling paralyzed and stiff. Another lash from Sister Jude caused Kit to choke out an anguished noise, something between a scream and a cry. A cry. He was crying. There was no stopping it now. Blood bubbled down his chin from the puncture in his bottom lip, splattering onto the desk as he cried. He was quickly losing control. More tears began to pool beneath him as he cried and begged. His “strong-man” facade began to crack, as another lash split open his lower back. The pain was almost too much to handle, his shaking legs gave out from under him sending a crushing pain through his ribcage as his chest caught the weight of his body. He tried to regain his footing, but his bare feet slipped in the puddle of blood leaking down his legs onto the floor beneath him. Kit sobbed, his breath becoming short and shallow as he choked on his own spit. Suddenly his world began to swim. His vision became blotchy and his hearing began to falter. All he could hear were his own sobs, reverberating through his hollow body. He gasped as the pain began to numb, soon all he could feel was the thick blood trickling down his legs and his own hot tears staining his face. It was over. At least, for now. As his body began to slip into a state of unconsciousness, he thought of Alma. He could almost see her, in his imagination of course. He could see her smiling face, and her warm hands running through his hair. His bloody lips almost cracked a smile back at her. For the first time, Kit felt at peace, even if it was only a dream. As his fragile mind finally allowed him to slip into a state of unconsciousness, his body went limp in the guard's hands. They let go of him, letting his broken body fall to the floor.