#What Is Postmortem Staining

[forensicfield]

What is Autopsy?

Autopsy, when broken into two different terms, Auto means Self and Opis means examination, giving to the meaning self-examination. It is defined broadly as the examination of both external and internal contents of the dead body including the histology...

Continue reading What is Autopsy?

[goblin-jr]

PHASE I: BASELINE DISRUPTION 

Jason Todd x Reader

=============================================== CONFIDENTIAL – GOTHAM PSYCHOSOCIAL RESEARCH UNIT  CASE FILE #: JX-1989   DOCUMENT TYPE: Postmortem Longitudinal Trial Summary   TRIAL MASTERLIST: A Character Study in Grief   TRIAL DESIGN: Three-Phase Emotional Disruption Model   STATUS: Ongoing   SECURITY CLEARANCE: ALPHA+   ===============================================

Study Brief

Subject A and Subject B presented as co-dependent minors exhibiting high-risk behavioral patterns consistent with unsupervised urban survival. Despite socioeconomic instability and environmental precarity, both subjects displayed marked resilience, mutual protectiveness, and a shared nonverbal communication style indicative of long-term relational entanglement.

Disruption event occurred when Subject B was extracted from their shared environment following selection by [REDACTED] for advanced mentorship and housing. Subject A was not included in the extraction. Resulting separation was abrupt and unilateral.

Read full report below.

---

It is five a.m. in Gotham and already colder than yesterday.

Jason wakes up to the sound of Y/N’s teeth chattering. He blinks through the sleep in his eyes and immediately pulls her closer, tugging the threadbare blanket tighter around them both. They are curled behind a broken radiator in the corner of an abandoned building in Park Row. The radiator stopped working three nights ago, but the brick wall behind it still holds some heat from the pipes below. Barely. It is just enough to keep them from freezing.

They have no alarm clock. They wake with the city—sirens, trash trucks, the early hum of people too poor to sleep in.

Jason groans and sits up. “I had a dream we had heat,” he mutters.

Y/N snorts, voice hoarse. “I had a dream you didn’t hog the blanket.”

“Dream bigger,” Jason says. 

They sat up together, moving slow and careful, the way you do when your joints have been sleeping on concrete. Jason cracked his neck; Y/N shook out her hands. They worked in sync, not because they tried to, but because they had always been this way. Folding the blanket. Checking the stash. Lacing up shoes. Inventory of bruises. No questions, no orders. Just motion.

Jason pulled two crushed granola bars from the inside of his coat. “Look what I scored last night.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Stole or found?”

“Found on the back counter of a 24/7 deli while the cashier wasn’t looking.”

She took the one that was more intact. “Wow. Honest living.”

They ate without speaking, facing the open mouth of the alley like it was a window to something better. Jason kicked pebbles with the toe of his shoe while Y/N tapped out rhythms on the side of the dead radiator. It was freezing. It was loud. It was theirs.

“Okay,” Jason said after a beat. “Hear me out. The penthouse—”

“Oh god,” Y/N muttered, grinning.

“The couch is leather. Brown. Like, rich people brown. But not ugly. Real classy.”

“No. Velvet,” she said immediately. “Deep green. With gold buttons.”

“Velvet stains.”

“I won’t spill.”

“You’ll definitely spill.”

She bumped his shoulder. “You have no imagination.”

He nudged her back. “You want a velvet couch and a chandelier in the kitchen. That’s not imagination. That’s tacky.”

“Classy,” she corrected. “It’ll tie the whole place together.”

Jason gave her a look, one eyebrow raised. “It’s a kitchen.”

She crossed her arms, nose in the air. “A statement kitchen.”

“God, we’re gonna be the worst rich people.”

“We’re gonna be the best.”

They laughed into the cold, and for a second, it almost didn’t feel like winter.

–

They split after breakfast, like they always did. It was safer that way—less likely to draw attention, more ground covered, fewer questions. Y/N headed toward the church kitchen to try her luck at getting second servings; Jason turned toward the alleys near the pawn shop where delivery vans sometimes parked overnight. Their schedule wasn’t written down, but it was sacred. Meet again by sunset, always.

“Don’t pick any fights,” Y/N said as she pulled on her gloves, fingerless and hole-riddled.

“Don’t charm the lunch lady into giving you extra eggs,” Jason shot back.

“No promises.”

He started walking backward down the sidewalk. “Velvet still sucks.”

“Leather peels.”

“Not if it’s real!”

“Guess we’ll just have to make enough money for both.”

Jason smirked. “Guess we will.”

She watched him go until he turned the corner. Then she turned the other way, disappearing into the city.

Fifteen minutes later, Jason Todd crouched in front of the sleekest car he had ever seen.

It was parked half in shadow behind the pawn shop, all sharp lines and matte black finish. The tires were enormous—custom, obviously—and the whole thing looked like it could drive through a wall and ask for a tip after.

“Huh,” he says to himself, cracking his knuckles. “Nice tires.”

And that was how it started.

–

Jason was one tire away from a perfect score.

Three were already stacked beside him in the alley like trophies, steam rising faintly from the rubber. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his coat and crouched again, eyeing the final bolt like it had personally insulted him.

He should have walked away after two. Three was cocky. Four was just asking for trouble.

But Jason Todd never took half the prize when the whole thing was sitting right there, daring him to try.

Two tires sold clean could feed him and Y/N for a week, maybe two if they skipped dinner once in a while. But three looked better. Four? Four was a statement.

Besides, it wasn’t just about food. It was about doing something hard and stupid and dangerous—and winning.

The wrench finally groaned, metal biting metal. Jason grinned.

Then he heard the cape.

Not footsteps. Not breathing. Just the faint drag of fabric over brick. He froze.

“You know that car belongs to me, right?”

Jason turned slowly. His brain had already filled in the voice before the words finished. Cape. Armor. White eyes.

The Bat.

Jason raised both hands like he was about to be frisked. “Hey. Didn’t know you did your own parking.”

Batman didn’t move. “Three tires.”

“Yeah, I figured I’d build the fourth from scrap. Keep it honest.”

“You should’ve left after two.”

“You think I can’t count?” Jason snapped, dropping his arms. “Two doesn’t get you anywhere in this city. Four? Four buys time.”

Batman watched him. “You’re not scared.”

“I’m not stupid either.”

There was a pause. Jason could feel his breath in the cold air. Short. Sharp.

“What’s your name?”

Jason smirked. “Why? You gonna adopt me?”

Batman didn’t answer.

Jason hesitated, then jerked his head toward the shadows behind the alley. “Listen. I’m not the only one out here. If you’re gonna haul me off to wherever, at least let me bring my friend.”

Batman’s silence deepened.

“She’s smarter than me,” Jason said. “We run together. Always have.”

Batman’s voice was flat. “That’s not how this works.”

“Then it’s not gonna work.”

Jason didn’t flinch. “I’m not leaving her.”

Batman stared at him. Not at the bravado, but through it.

“…Fine,” he said. “Bring her here.”

They met Y/N under the bridge near the church steps, where she was digging through a backpack for clean socks.

She looked up, saw the Bat behind Jason, and didn’t even blink. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing,” Jason said, out of breath. “I mean—I got caught, but it’s fine. He wants to… I don’t know. Help.”

Y/N stood. “Help?”

Jason looked at Batman. “Tell her.”

Batman said nothing. His gaze moved over her—quick, analytical, unreadable.

“She’s got a temper,” Jason said. “But she’s solid. Smart. Fast. She watches my back.”

“She’s volatile,” Batman said quietly.

Y/N’s jaw tightened.

Jason stepped forward. “You said I had potential. So does she. If I’m going, she goes.”

“She’s not coming with us,” Batman said. “But she’ll be taken care of.”

Jason blinked.

“No,” he said, louder now. “It’s both of us or neither.”

Y/N turned to him, calm but firm.

“Jason.”

He looked at her.

“Don’t be a dumbass.”

“But—”

“You don’t get opportunities like this,” she said. “Not here. Not ever.”

He clenched his fists.

“You want the stupid penthouse?” she added, eyes bright. “Go get it.”

Jason looked at her, jaw tight. Then at Batman. Then at the ground.

“…Will you be okay?” he asked.

Y/N shrugged. “I always am.”

She smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“Go.”

== 14 hours since subject separation ==

The group home was louder than the streets ever were.

Kids shouted through paper-thin walls. Someone always had music on. The radiators clanged like they were arguing with the plumbing. No one listened to the staff unless they were yelling. It smelled like cafeteria spaghetti and cheap bleach.

But Y/N had a bed.

Not a mattress pulled from a dumpster. Not a pile of blankets behind a broken radiator. A real bed. Frame and all. A twin with plastic slats and a lumpy mattress and a blanket thin as tissue—but it was hers. Her name was on a clipboard taped to the wall. Her bed. Her corner. Her drawer in the shared dresser, where she kept the hoodie Jason gave her and a piece of paper they’d once drawn a map on for fun.

No one touched her stuff. Not because they were nice, but because they were too busy guarding their own.

Y/N lay flat on the mattress that night and stared at the ceiling, letting the noise rattle around her like static. Someone cried two rooms over. Someone laughed like they were choking. She didn’t cry. Didn’t laugh either.

Instead, she ran her fingers over the frayed edge of the blanket and counted the seconds between radiator clangs.

The window next to her bed didn’t lock, but it looked out over the city. If she pressed her cheek to the glass, she could see the edge of the Heights in the distance. The buildings were too far to make out clearly, but she could still picture it—Jason sitting by a window somewhere, eating dinner that came from a plate instead of a vending machine.

She closed her eyes.

It wasn’t home. But it wasn’t nothing.

And for now, that was enough.

== 7 days since subject separation ==

Jason showed up at their usual spot behind the library, looking like a walking ad for back-to-school shopping.

Clean jeans. Real sneakers. Hair brushed, like brushed, like somebody else did it. His jacket was too big and brand new, the kind with fleece inside and a logo on the sleeve. His face was still the same, but it looked different—scrubbed, rested. Fed.

Y/N took one look at him and burst out laughing.

She doubled over, nearly slipping on the ice, cackling so hard she couldn’t breathe. “You look like a kid who gets picked up on time!”

Jason rolled his eyes, fighting a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Get it out of your system.”

“Oh my God, you have shoelaces!” she gasped. “And they match!”

He smirked. “You done?”

“Never,” she said, grinning. “You look like you belong in a toothpaste commercial.”

Jason dropped onto the curb beside her with a dramatic sigh. “I missed you.”

That shut her up.

Just for a second.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”

They sat there for hours, knees knocking, trading stories like no time had passed. Jason told her about Alfred’s weird sandwiches, the million hallways in the manor, the gym bigger than their entire school. Y/N told him about her group home roommate who sleep-talked in French and how someone stole a whole microwave last night.

They laughed until their faces hurt.

It was cold. But it didn’t matter.

Jason still made dumb jokes. Y/N still shoved his shoulder when he got too cocky. They still fit, somehow.

For a little while, it was just them again.

Just warmth, and noise, and nothing to prove.

== 4 weeks since subject separation ==

Jason was buzzing with excitement the second he hopped the fence behind the library.

“I have something to show you,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Promise not to laugh.”

Y/N blinked. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m serious, this is, like—this is huge, Y/N.”

“Which means it’s definitely embarrassing.”

He unzipped the duffel bag like he was revealing the Ark of the Covenant. Out came red, green, yellow—spandex and utility belts. Jason shrugged the jacket on like it was armor.

“Tada,” he said proudly. “I’m Robin now.”

Y/N stared.

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Then she howled.

Jason’s face fell. “I said don’t laugh!”

“You look like a traffic light with anger issues!”

“It’s a symbol!”

“You’re literally a piñata for crime! Wait wait, where are your pants??”

Jason scowled. “You know what? Screw you.”

“Oh come on—”

“Nope. I’m out.” He zipped up the bag like it had personally offended him, spun on his heel, and stormed off down the alley, muttering something about taste and immature idiots.

Y/N called after him, grinning, “You gonna fight crime or star in a box of Crayola, Jay?”

He didn’t respond.

Exactly twenty minutes later, he returned, still sulking.

“You do kinda have a point,” he mumbled, flopping down beside her.

“I always do,” she said smugly, handing him a packet of crackers.

“I hate you.”

“You missed me.”

They bumped shoulders, and that was the end of it.

From then on, whenever he wore the suit under his clothes, Jason added a hoodie on top. Not because he cared, obviously.

Just in case she was around. To prevent further bullying. Obviously.

== 6 months since subject separation ==

Jason had started reading books with titles like Sense and Sensibility and Jane Eyre and The Count of Monte Cristo, and Y/N hated every single one of them.

They were too long. Too proper. Everyone spoke like they were choking on vowels. Nobody swore. Nobody even said what they meant—just walked around with umbrellas and feelings and secret letters. It made her want to throw something.

But Jason liked them. And Jason read them out loud.

So she stayed.

They sat side by side on the library roof, sharing a packet of M&Ms she’d lifted from the corner store, their backs leaned against the same ductwork. The city was buzzing under them, and Jason had a paperback propped open in one hand, pages dog-eared and corners bent.

“‘You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,’” he read, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Y/N made a gagging noise. “Gross.”

He didn’t even look up. “You just don’t get it.”

“I get that Mr. Darcy needs to calm the hell down.”

“He’s vulnerable!”

“He’s a weird man with no friends.”

Jason laughed—really laughed, the kind that crinkled his nose—and kept reading.

Y/N rolled her eyes and leaned back, staring at the stars. She didn’t care about the story. The words ran together in her head, all fancy and meaningless.

But his voice was warm. Steady. Confident in a way he didn’t always sound when he was just talking.

She liked how it filled the space between them. 

== 8 months since subject separation ==

The Wayne mansion looked like something out of a museum. Or a cathedral. Or a nightmare, depending on how long you’d been poor.

Y/N stood just inside the front doors, frozen in place like if she moved, someone would shout intruder and throw her back out into the snow.

The floor gleamed. Everything smelled like old books and lemon polish. The ceiling was so high it felt disrespectful.

Jason, meanwhile, was practically skipping down the hallway like he lived there. Which—he did now. Hoodie shoved in his bag. New boots. Big grin.

“C’mon,” he called, looking back. “It’s just a house.”

Y/N didn’t move.

“Jason,” she whispered. “There are statues.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, none of them bite.”

She tiptoed forward, hands in her pockets. Her sneakers squeaked on the tile. “Is the fireplace real?”

Jason shrugged. “We’ve got three.”

She looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

He led her through a maze of rooms until they hit what looked like the world’s fanciest living room. She sat on the edge of the couch like it might explode. Jason flopped next to her, legs dangling off the side.

Then he said, casually, “Hey, Bruce, you know Y/N.”

She straightened up so fast her back cracked.

Bruce Wayne looked up from behind the morning paper. Cold eyes. Crisp suit. Not a hair out of place.

Y/N tried to smile. “Hi, sir.”

Bruce gave a curt nod.

Later, as they left, an older man walked them to the door. “Master Jason,” he said. “Miss Y/N.”

Y/N blinked. “Miss?”

The man smiled. “Alfred Pennyworth. A pleasure.”

No one had ever called her Miss anything. Not nicely.

She didn’t know what to say.

So she said, “Thanks.”

And meant it.

== 1 year, 1 month since subject separation ==

The mansion didn’t scare her anymore. Now it just made her feel small.

She came often. Jason always asked. Alfred always smiled, handed her a cup of tea with a little saucer like she was someone worth serving. Sometimes, she forgot what it felt like to flinch.

Jason showed her every corner. The library. The gym. The rooms with doors she wasn’t allowed to open. He showed her his bedroom too, like it was proof he really lived here. That he belonged.

It wasn’t until she met Dick that she realized how much she didn’t.

He walked in like he owned the air—laughing, sweat on his forehead from a run, gym bag slung over one shoulder. Jason lit up the second he saw him. They bickered. They joked. Dick ruffled Jason’s hair without asking and Jason didn’t even punch him for it.

Bruce entered the room a minute later. Calm. Composed. Looked at both boys and asked about patrol like he was asking what time dinner would be. Dick answered. Jason nodded.

Y/N stood in the corner, holding her tea like a prop.

She opened her mouth once—Hi, Mr. Wayne—and Bruce barely glanced at her before responding with a polite, “How’s school?”

“Good,” she lied.

She’d failed three tests that week. One teacher asked if she even wanted to pass. She hadn’t answered.

Bruce nodded. Already looking away.

Later, Jason tossed popcorn at her and called her a nerd for picking the boring movie. She threw a pillow at his head.

She laughed. But the couch felt too soft. The lights too warm. The room too perfect.

She’d seen the picture now.

A dad. Two sons.

And her, just out of frame.

== 1 year, 8 months since subject separation ==

The rooftop had no railings, no lights, and no real reason to exist. Just four rusted vent pipes and a wide stretch of gravel. But it was theirs.

Jason said it had the best view of the Gotham skyline. Y/N liked that you could see the water tower two blocks over. It made the city feel small.

They met there every other Friday, like a ritual. Jason usually brought snacks—chips from Alfred or protein bars from the Batcave. Y/N brought nothing except herself and a collection of bruises she never explained.

Tonight, the sky was clear. Gotham didn’t get many of those.

They lay side by side, staring up at the stars. The gravel dug into Y/N’s back. Jason’s arm rested just close enough that their hands almost touched.

“Do you ever think about kissing people?” Jason asked suddenly, like he was asking if she believed in aliens.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

He didn’t look at her. “Like… just in general. I don’t know. I was thinking about it.”

“You?” she said, mock scandalized. “Thinking?”

“Shut up.”

She laughed softly. “I mean, yeah, I guess. Not, like, all the time. Why?”

Jason shrugged. “Never done it. Was just wondering if it’s, like… worth the hype.”

Y/N snorted. “Most things aren’t.”

A pause.

Then he looked at her. “Wanna try?”

She blinked again. “What, like, right now?”

“I mean. Science,” he said, dead serious. “You’re the only person I trust not to make it weird.”

“That’s a lie,” she muttered, sitting up.

Jason followed, crossing his legs in front of him. They were inches apart.

“This is so dumb,” she said.

“Yup.”

And then they kissed.

It lasted maybe three seconds. No fireworks. No music. Just wind and skin and nerves and the sound of someone’s stomach growling.

When they pulled apart, Y/N scrunched her nose. “Mid.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “Incredibly mid.”

They both laughed—loud, messy, a little breathless.

“I’m hungry,” she said.

“I have Oreos.”

They didn’t talk about it after that.

But later that night, curled in her too-small bed under a blanket that barely covered her feet, Y/N smiled into her pillow. Just a little.

She thought about how warm his palm had been against the rooftop gravel.

And across the city, in a bedroom with blackout curtains and a skylight, Jason lay awake with his arms folded behind his head.

He thought about how her hair had smelled like smoke and cheap shampoo.

He smiled, too.

== 1 year, 11 months since subject separation ==

The first time Y/N ever stepped into the Wayne study, she knew she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Jason had gone to grab snacks—something stupid, like mango slices and imported cheese. “Alfred’s got a stash,” he’d said, winking. “Classiest midnight snack you’ve ever seen.”

She’d wandered, not far. Just to the hallway.

The door was open.

It was late, the kind of late that made big houses feel haunted. She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. She just... paused. Something about the voices made her stop walking.

It was Bruce.

His voice was calm. Low. Precise. Like everything he said had been practiced in his head five times before it left his mouth.

“I don’t like her being here.”

There was a silence. Then Alfred, gentle: “She means no harm, sir.”

“I know that,” Bruce said. “But she’s volatile. Unstable. She drags him backwards.”

Y/N didn’t move.

“She’s the last piece of the life he’s supposed to be leaving behind.”

More silence.

Then Bruce added, almost as an afterthought: “She’s going to ruin him.”

Y/N stood in the hallway for a long time.

When Jason came back with two plates and that stupid smile, she took one, smiled back, and said nothing.

She never went back to the mansion after that.

When Jason asked to meet, she always had a reason to go somewhere else.

“I like rooftops better,” she said. “Alfred scares me,” she joked. “It’s just a house,” she insisted.

But the truth sat in her chest like a cold stone.

Because she knew Jason. Knew his heart. Knew he’d throw away everything for her, if she asked. She saw it in his face every time he looked at her.

And that terrified her more than anything Bruce had said.

So she left before he could.

She chose to ruin him by not ruining him at all.

== 2 years, 3 months since subject separation ==

Robinson Park was half-frozen. The trees looked like skeletons and the grass crunched under every step. The pond was iced over, sharp and grey. They used to call it their "winter lake" when they were kids, back when pretending helped.

Jason was already there, sitting on the back of a bench, legs folded, exhaling slow plumes of breath that disappeared into the air like ghosts.

Y/N walked up quietly, hands buried deep in the sleeves of her hoodie. She hadn’t found gloves this winter. Or a scarf. Or boots. Her shoes were damp at the toes, and her socks were already stiff.

Jason smiled when he saw her. Not the big grin—the quieter one. The one that used to mean I’m glad you’re here.

She sat next to him without a word. Close enough that their shoulders brushed.

For a while, they just watched the pond.

Then Y/N reached out, slow and tentative, and wrapped her fingers around his.

It was instinct, more than anything. Something muscle-deep. When they were kids on the street, they used to do that all the time. When it got cold. When it got scary. When they needed to know the other one was real.

But now—

His hand was warm. Too warm.

Not body heat. Insulated.

Y/N looked down at his outfit. Wool-lined coat. Gloves tucked in the pocket. Thermal undershirt poking out beneath the collar. Expensive. Thoughtful. Dry.

Jason followed her gaze.

And his smile dropped.

“Shit,” he said, already pulling off the coat. “Shit, why didn’t you say anything—”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, letting go of his hand. Pulling her arms back into her sleeves.

“You’re not—your hands are freezing.”

“I’m fine, Jason.”

He held out the coat anyway.

She didn’t take it.

He left it there, folded across the bench between them like a line they weren’t allowed to cross.

They talked about stupid things after that. Shared a pack of gum. Argued over a movie. It should’ve been like always.

But it wasn’t.

Y/N walked home that night with her arms wrapped tight around herself, and the ache wasn’t just from the cold.

Jason watched her leave, coat still in his lap, and cursed himself for not noticing sooner.

== 2 years, 8 months since subject separation ==

Y/N had started getting into fights.

Not big ones. Nothing that made the news. Just hallway shoves and bathroom brawls and a week’s suspension here or there. Her knuckles were always bruised. Her cheek had a split that hadn’t fully healed.

Jason noticed it right away. Not just the injuries—the shift.

She showed up later. Talked less. Laughed like it hurt. The space between their hangouts stretched longer and longer. It was harder to pin both of them down.

He hadn’t seen her in almost three weeks when she texted: library, back alley. 4pm.

Jason was already there when she arrived, hoodie up, hands in her pockets.

“You look like shit,” he said, because he was worried.

“Nice to see you too,” she said flatly.

“I’m serious, what happened?”

“I told you, I got jumped. It’s not a big deal.”

“You’ve been disappearing.”

“So have you.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Too busy to answer a text?”

Jason didn’t respond.

“Right,” she said. “Too many family dinners to slum it with your old friend, huh?”

He clenched his jaw. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what? Remind you that you left?”

“I never left you.”

“You kind of did.”

Jason laughed, bitter. “Jesus, Y/N, you’re unbelievable. I show up. I check in. I bring you food—”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“Well, you sure as hell need it.”

That was the first knife.

Y/N’s eyes went sharp. “Screw you.”

“You’re out here getting into fights like it’s your job.”

“At least I’m doing something.”

“Oh yeah?” Jason snapped. “What, making yourself harder to care about?”

Second knife.

Y/N stepped closer. “You think you’re better than me now?”

Jason didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it, either.

“That’s what I thought,” she whispered.

He threw his hands up. “I don’t know what you want from me anymore.”

“I wanted you to stay,” she said, voice cracking and furious. “I wanted you to fight for me.”

“I was twelve!”

“You were mine!”

They both froze.

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Jason looked at her like he didn’t recognize her. Y/N looked at him like she’d just realized she was standing alone.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she muttered, turning away.

Jason didn’t stop her. “Maybe don’t text me next time.”

“Maybe I won’t.”

She didn’t look back. Neither did he.

== 2 years, 10 months since subject separation ==

It had been two months since the fight.

Y/N told herself it was fine. Jason needed time. She did too.

One week passed—normal. They’d gone longer before. Two weeks. Still nothing. Probably just busy. Four. Okay. He was really mad.

Seven.

Something was wrong.

She wore her best clothes. The jeans with no holes. The sweater with the stitched-up cuffs. Hair brushed three times in the mirror of the group home bathroom. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She took a bus across town. Used almost all the cash she had. Pressed her forehead to the window the whole way, rehearsing what she’d say.

I’m sorry. You were right. Please don’t shut me out.

By the time she reached the gates of the Wayne estate, her stomach was in her throat.

She knocked three times.

The door opened to Alfred.

He looked surprised. Tired. His mouth twitched like he wasn’t sure what expression to land on.

“Miss Y/N,” he said gently.

She blinked up at him. “Hi. Um. Is Jason home?”

A beat.

“Come in.”

He led her through the hall like he always did. Past the too-clean floors and the silence that clung to everything. He took her to the sitting room and gave her a cup of tea, hands moving slower than usual.

Something in the air felt off. Too still. Too quiet. Like the house was holding its breath.

Then Bruce entered.

He stood in the doorway. Jacket folded over his arm. Eyes sunken. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

Y/N stood.

“Hi, sir,” she said, her voice barely holding.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said.

She blinked.

“Jason died.”

The words didn’t hit all at once.

At first, they just sat there, hanging in the room like a wrong note.

Then they crashed.

Y/N couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. She stared at Bruce like he’d said the weather was bad.

“When?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

“How?”

Still nothing.

She looked to Alfred. Pleading.

Alfred looked down.

They weren’t going to tell her.

Her knees gave out before the tears did.

The cup of tea hit the floor and shattered.

---------

END OF PHASE I — Baseline Disruption

Lead Investigator’s Note: Subject B deceased. Subject A was not informed immediately, nor provided with contextual data. No support protocol initiated. No grief counseling offered. No access to the body. No funeral invitation. No closure.

Subject A received the event as an interpersonal rupture, not a fatal one.

Observable response: shock, followed by silence. Psychosocial deterioration predicted.

Proceed to Phase II – Observation Period

[galacticgraffiti]

A Borrowing of Bones (4)

This work is a collaboration with my most beloved artist and friend of all time Blumi. All text was written by me, all illustrations were designed and painted by them ♡ A sidenote for this chapter: Soap's diary pages were actually drawn by me!

Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish Rating: Mature (for heavy themes) Chapter Wordcount: 2.6k

MCD, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat// Heed also the Masterlist for general warnings. CW: death, grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms, postmortem invasion of privacy, confessions of love (postmortem), selfharm, blood, passive suicidal ideation.

A/N: The Chapter titles are taken from different poems. The poems will be hyperlinked for those interested! Blumi's artworks will be added to the end of each chapter.

Read on AO3 ✧ Taglist Signup for this fic ✧ Fic Masterlist

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Four: Nobody Heard Him, the Dead Man

Simon’s hand touches the page softly, like it will turn the ash the second anyone but Soap looks at it. Who knows? It just might.

Ghost doesn't even feel conflicted about opening Johnny’s diaries. Not as much as he probably should, anyways.

Just gathering information, is what he tells himself. Being thorough.

Simon hates it. Hates that this is all he has left, hates every word on the page for the fact that it won’t be enough. Won’t bring Soap back in the ways that matter. Will only be enough to crush his heart into sand and flood him with pain anew.

“Oh, Johnny,” he whispers, eyes barely making out the words on the page. All he knows it’s that it’s Soap’s familiar scrawl, letters tilted a little too much to the left, entangled with each other, too inconsistent to be pretty. Coffee stains and smudged ink and dried out scribbles entwined around the letters. And from between it all – there is Ghost. Over and over again, his body, his scars, his hands, his eyes, his mask. All of it Ghost. Ghost staring up at himself from between Johnny’s letters.

Ghost’s fingers shake when they touch the page.

“Johnny, what have you done?”

He let me call him Simon today. I don't know if he noticed- maybe he didn't realise. But I did, and he didn't correct me. Simon. I think maybe he didn't hear me. Helo’s loud as fuck, barely got the name from my lips either. Was scared he’d clock me in the face right then and there.  Simon. Caught a glimpse of his neck, too. Forbidden, that felt. How do you love someone like that? Never touched him, either. Never felt his skin on mine.

I hear him say my name and the whole world goes quiet. His voice in my ear and I know I’ll make it back alive. LT always got my six. Always watches out for me. Always makes sure I come back. He likes me alive, he says. I like him alive, too. Love him alive. Don't think death would stop that. Don’t think I could ever stop.

...

I shouldn't be saying this. Shouldn't be writing this down, for fuck’s sake. But I have to tell someone, and I can't tell anyone. Least of all him.  Simon. I never get to say his name the way he says mine. Can’t do it. Would break me clean in half.

...

Price says they found Makarov. We’re leaving today. I’ve been dreaming about Simon. Don’t know how to look him in the face. Don’t know how to stop. Barely function when he’s right there, and his hands his fucking hands. His finger on the trigger making sure I’m safe. How do I love him? It’s easy. Easier than breathing, even if it kills me. ________

With trembling fingers, Simon turns the page, goes backwards in Johnny’s life. Takes it all in, tries not to hate himself for it. Tries not to let his tears stain the yellowed paper. Stares and stares, and lets his heart go still and quiet.

He looks at what Johnny’s hands, his too large, too rough hands, have created. Each glimpse Johnny ever got of Simon’s bare skin banned onto paper. He stares at the words next to it, like the art is not enough to know what Johnny was feeling.

“Johnny,” he says, like it doesn’t kill me every time to hear him say it. “Johnny,” he says, and I feel like a fucking person again. I haven’t in so long. It was always the job, and that was fine. But when he calls me Johnny, I want to be more. I want to have more. Have a life, so I can have him in it. Fuck’s sake, is that stupid? It’s so stupid. _______

Back another page and another, and another. To the very first page. Simon is trembling all over, choking on air. Trying to hold in the sobs that make his chest shake. Ghost takes a steadying breath. Clenches his fist, digs his fingernails into the fresh wounds in his palm. Wants to light a fag and is glad he hasn’t any with him. He won’t stain the air in Johnny’s home with stale cigarette smoke. It has to stay as it is. Exactly as it is. An altar to lost love.

Johnny’s letters are rushed, even less legible than usual. The first entry. Ghost wonders distantly if this is the first notebook. If it’s the only one, or if there are others. Older ones. When did it start?

Did it start here?

I shouldn’t say this. Shouldn’t even be thinking this to be honest. If anyone finds this christ knows i’m fucked.

I can’t stop it though. Cannae stop thinking about him, and if I don’t write it out, if I don’t say it, don’t put it down somewhere I’ll go insane.

When he lets me touch him I don’t know how I could possibly be okay without more. How I’m ever supposed to stop. It’s never… it’s never anything. Not really. It’s a bump to the shoulder, a sliver of exposed wrist when we spar. His neck, one time, when someone put a knife to him. Killed that bastard. Took care of him. Dress the wound, Johnny. I nearly kissed him then. Over the mask, right then. Wouldn’t have cared for the fabric or that we were still under fire. Keep it tactical, Johnny. 

His bare skin- he’s so pale. Pale like a ghost. My own personal one. Scarred as shit. He’s perfect. I know I shouldn’t be feeling this. Not about anyone, least of all him. He would never- could never feel the same. Could never act on it even if he did. Which he doesn’t. But fucking Christ if I don’t want to.

Dress the wound. Keep it tactical. 

I think I’ll explode if I don’t tell him. Think I’ll die if I do. When did I get so soft? Fuckin hell. So sweet for him.

My Simon. My Ghost. ___________

Something wet drips onto the page, red and heavy. Ghost hisses when all of a sudden, feeling rushes back into his body.

He was floating, pleasantly detached from the world, floating in a world of Johnny’s making. One where he was so close to him he could fucking taste it. Pain brings him back, and he feels all of it: The softly pounding pain of his broken skin, the splinters of his heart slicing into his chest, ripping him apart from the inside out with every beat. The aching of his clenched jaw, biting down so hard he can taste blood.

“What the fuck, Johnny.” Ghost’s – Simon’s – chest shakes with heavy sobs. He can’t breathe, and the world blurs. “WHAT THE FUCK, JOHNNY?”

Told ye.

Simon’s voice breaks. The floor is sudden and hard beneath his knees.

“You didn’t tell me shit, Johnny. Didn’t open your fucking mouth even once, did ya? Fucking bastard, you are. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

Are ye mad at me?

“You are not real.”

Aye, suddenly I’m not real, is it? Keep tellin’ yerself tha’.

Ghost pulls his knees to his chest. Lets his head rest on them. Tries to catch his breath even if there is no air in the room at all.

“You’re not real,” he mumbles to himself. “You’re not real, Johnny. You’re not. Not here, not real. Dead in the ground, you are. Buried. Fuckin’ rotting. ‘s why I came here in the first place, innit? Should never have come, should never have come…”

Ye missed me.

“Not enough to bear this.” The words are heavy and metallic on Ghost’s tongue. “Too much to bear this. Don’t you get it?”

Ye’ll never be alright withou’ me. Ye know tha’, Simon. You had tae come get me. Isn’t this what ye wanted? What ye needed? Thought ye were askin’ for mah permission.

“Not like this.” Simon is rocking back and forth, trying to calm himself, trying to catch his breath, because the room is still oddly fuzzy around the edges and he can’t seem to stop the sobs in his chest long enough to catch his breath. “Not like this, Johnny, not like this. I can’t- I can’t do it, not like this, why did you have to do that? Why did you have to go write it down? Had to go and compromise it all, didn’t you? Stupid cunt. Fuckin’- you bloody bastard. Did you hope they would find this? Tell me about it? Did Price know, that why he sent me here? Did you know back then? Did you know you wouldn’t be coming back from Makarov? Why else would you leave it out in the open like that, why else would you-”

Had mah reasons. Guess ye’ll never know, will ye?

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny.” Ghost presses his thumbs into his eyeballs until it hurts so much he can finally breathe again. “Just- fuckin’ hell.”

Soap’s voice is soft, is impossibly close. Like Ghost could feel his hand on his shoulder if he focused hard enough. Could remember how Johnny’s fingers touched his neck, way back when, on that stupid, fucked-to-hell mission he wrote about. Because of course he remembers. He remembers everything.

Remembers the glittering handle of his own knife  in Johnny’s hand, leaving a trail of red in its wake as Johnny stabs the man that tried to kill Ghost. Again. And again. And again.

Violence, that’s something they both know. Something they’ve always known. Ghost had thought, way back then, that maybe Soap had gotten lost in the blood frenzy of battle. It happens. Had happened to him before. But that wasn't all, apparently. It was for love. 

“What the fuck, Johnny- what the fuck- why did you never-”

Soap’s voice is gentle, like a parent calming their child. It buries itself deep, embeds itself in Ghost’s entire being, as if he hadn't been there before. Impossible to let go of. 

And why didn't ye tell me, then? Does it matter? Now ye know. Now ye can do what ye came here tae do, aye?

Simon stays quiet. Hates himself for it. Already knows what he is going to answer. Simon is weak. And because, when it comes to Johnny, Ghost is just as weak, Ghost says,

“Aye, Johnny. I’ll come get you.”

_________________

Simon dreams of Johnny that night, when he lays on the kitschy couch in his dusty living room, and buries himself in a blanket that still smells vaguely of Soap’s aftershave and sweat. He doesn't dare sleep in Johnny’s bed; is afraid he’ll wake up to a corpse rotting next to him, watching him sleep with Johnny’s dead eyes.

In Simon’s dream, Johnny is everything, is the sun itself. Is alive. He looks so happy out of gear, his nose speckled with faint freckles, his scars pale against his tan skin. Johnny smiles and Simon’s heart implodes.

“Ye goin’ soft on me now, Simon?”

“I think I deserve it,” Simon says, a light smile in his voice. “If anyone gets to see me soft, it should be you.”

“Ach, away an’ bile yer heid.”

Johnny is laughing, teeth shining white.

“English, Johnny.”

“Yer a smart lad, LT. Sure ye’ll figure it out.”

Simon hums and pulls Johnny closer. Soft lips meet his own, warm hands wrapping around him, caressing the scar tissue of his face, kissing the scars of his smile especially. Healing him one soft touch at a time, tearing at his heart until it’s fluttering in shreds. Simon doesn't care. Doesn't need it anymore. He’s got Johnny’s heart, that’ll keep him breathing. Keep him alive.

Johnny’s lips move against Simon’s when he speaks in ways that feel as familiar as the pain of a blade.

“I love ye, ye daft cunt.”

Simon smiles into the kiss, melts beneath Johnny’s hands.

Words rise up his own throat. Simon tries to push them down, tries to stay like this just a little longer, but it’s no use. Ghost takes his tongue, and all the light drains from Johnny’s eyes. Flesh pulls back to reveal bone, teeth knocking against Ghost’s flesh, blood running from Johnny’s empty eye sockets.

Ghost’s voice is thick with it, coppery salt on his tongue when he speaks.

“Why did you never tell me that when you were alive, Johnny?”

_________

It’s Ghost who wakes up from Simon’s dream, with cold fingers and sharp nails digging into old wounds. Ghost who breathes until the sobs in his chest calm down, who presses the heels of his palms into his eyeballs until he thinks his brain might explode. Ghost who tells himself that it’ll all be better once it’s done.

That he won’t feel so empty anymore. So alone.

It’ll all be better once he has Soap with him again. It’ll all be better once Johnny is warm again.

A familiar voice seeps through the ringing in Ghost’s ears. He can’t help it- looks up, sees Johnny sitting across from him, in the old, worn-out armchair, almost as pretty as he was in Simon’s dream. Almost. Soap’s eyes are hazy with decay, but Ghost can’t look away from him anyways.

Johnny’s voice is laced with fear, terrified and small when he speaks, so different from Simon’s dream that Ghost has to remind himself that this isn't real either. None of it is.

Will ye take something of mine with ye, Ghost?

"I will take you."

What if tha' ain't enough? Once they burn the flat, there'll be nothin' left. No' mah books, mah art, mah coffee, not even mah dirty fuckin' underwear.

Ghost pauses, hand pressed against his stomach. He feels sick. 

There’ll be nothing left.

Like a sleepwalker, he gets up, stalks the few steps down the dark corridor to Johnny’s bedroom. The wood of the doorframe  is warm beneath his palm, like it's been sitting in the sun all day, even though it's been nothing but rain since Ghost got here. Even though it’s the dead of night, and there is nothing here but ghosts and the agony of lost love.

Ghost closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, Johnny's reflection stares back at him from the glass pane of the door, not bloody, not rotting, but pristine and cleaner than he ever was in life, with eyes so blue that Ghost's red ocean of pain turns cerulean for a moment.

Take somethin' of mine, Simon. The urgency in Soap's voice is palpable, thick and sweet. If yer takin' me for mah own sake, then take somethin' of mine fer yers. Ye know I wouldae wanted it like tha'.

"Do I know?" Ghost's hand shakes when he pulls away from the doorway, stuffs his useless fingers into his pocket to keep still. "How do I know?"

Ye knew me, LT. Ye've read mah bloody diary, haven't ya? Go on then. Take somethin'. A memento, a keepsake, a token of love, whatever makes ye feel good. Please. Do nae leave all these parts of me behind.

And Ghost gives in. Because it's Johnny asking, with his perfect bloody eyes, and his raspy brogue, and his dark brows drawn together and a strand of hair in his eyes because he hasn't cut his stupid mohawk in way too long.

Come on, LT. Fer me.

A sign of weakness, maybe. A sign of love. Same thing if you wait long enough. Always leads to misery and destruction.

Simon gathers Soap's diaries: Finds more of them in the desk. Three total. Wraps them in a shirt that still smells like him, and walks out the door without looking back, just leaves the house behind.

If he didn’t, his own blood would join Johnny's on the floor, where it's dripping from his head into a small puddle at the edge of the bed. If he didn't, his own blood would soak Johnny’s dusty sheets until nothing ties Ghost to this miserable life anymore and he can finally go.

Johnny never asks for it, but Simon can still hear the quiet whispers of the dead. He always has, even before the end of the world and the death of his sun, has always heard them whisper:

Come join us.

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Yeah Johnny. Why'd you never tell him when you were alive?

@ulchabhangorm @purgetrooperfox @captav @kimiheartblade @gibsalotdoodles @staygoldnimoy @blinca

[mt-oe]

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡—modern mizu

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Hey dears!

So sorry for not doing requests much! I'll be deployed into a hospital known for being super busy ;; I'd like to get my ideas out before I become buried with work again.

This one's inspired by my favorite artist. They recently followed me back here and I melted ///// Every time I see their art, I always get so giddy and happy. They honestly make my day <3

I'll link them here: @winnie-illustrator / ig: winnie_illustrator / twt: babydollproject

Specific art that inspired me is linked here: link <3

Also, I feel excited because I want to try incorporating my field into my writing too. It won't be completely accurate to give it a sense of readability and because that would be hell to write www

Hope you enjoy! Mwa mwa :*

warning/s: not proofread, reader is older than mizu, autopsy, slight violence, reader thinks mizu is a man (pronouns used will be mostly he/him), implied afab reader

note: I am more than willing to take this down if the artist wants me to, especially if they are not comfy with reader inserts. I respect your decision, which ever it may be. I will still love your art regardless <3

Nothing but the soft sound of metal being placed on metal and the vent fans spinning resonated among the cold tiled walls. An occasional cracking sound from a rib being opened or the soft, slimy 'thud' sounds of organs being placed aside could be heard. The air smelled like decay, formalin, or xylene depending on which area you stood. An eerie atmosphere lingered with an unsettling feeling, enough to be suffocating. Even the lights flickered, making the grayish tiles appear colder. Scalpels, forceps, and saws lined up neatly on the counter, shiny and sterilized as opposed to mess of organs and body fluids you had on your tray.

This place looked gloomy, empty, lonely.

It doesn't matter. That was how a morgue was supposed to be.

You sighed as you removed your dirty gloves, the latex producing a loud crispy snap. It was bloody and probably covered with something else like bile or whatever was left of the decedent's last meal. Stains weren't allowed on your reports anymore. Don't know why. It wasn't like what you were writing was legal anyway. The head's son must have touched a shit stain while handing it to his daddy.

Removing your mask, you placed a cigarette between your red-painted lips before lighting it. The smell of burning tobacco filling up the room as you rolled the cigarette to get an even burn. Your hand picked up the pen and started writing out the autopsy report for the recent corpse, taking hits from your cigarette in between. You hated writing autopsy reports. It was a waste of time considering the lawlessness of this goddamn place.

No one cared if you died. They'd step over and desecrate your corpse.

Name: unknown Age: est. between 30-40 years old Length: 175cm Weight: 73.3kg General appearance: fair skin color, appears of good nutritional status Other findings: Livor: appearance of postmortem lividity most prominent on left side of the frontal region of the head, left hypochondriac region, and the epigastric region; decedent exhibiting tache noir Rigor: whole body exhibiting rigor mortis, rigor still easily resisted. -blood vessel dilation found on upper and lower mucosa of the eyelids -nails and fingertips exhibit cyanosis -irregular-shaped bruising found on the left occipital region measuring 6cm x 3cm -laceration measuring 3cm x 0..2cm located on the right infraorbital region -linear fracture on right parietal bone -depressed fracture on left occipital bone, depression measuring 4.7cm x 2.6cm -several linear abrasions located on the upper palate (palatine raphe) measuring between 1-3cm x 0.2cm -crush laceration resulting in rupture located on the right lobe of the liver -traumatic fracture of left ribs (7-10) and xiphoid process resulting in partial decimation of xiphoid process

'Poor man,' you thought as you drew out the location of the fractures and lacerations on the poorly printed out piece of paper.

No, you weren't taking pity on him. He was a fool that probably had mouths to feed and was tricked by the enemy into thinking that he could handle the life-threatening, high-risk-high-reward job of being a spy for the enemy organization. They must've gotten him so drunk on fantasies of amassing a fortune, getting high on drugs he can't even pronounce, and women hotter than his wife. This fucking idiot probably thought sneaking in and poisoning your subordinates was an easy job.

Now his wife would have to live wondering where her husband went off to.

With a few more words and one click of your pen, you finally finished writing the report. You'd have to culture and assay the samples from his body later for any substance or biological weapons that he might have left. Your back rested on the cushion of your seat, a hand over your eyes as you closed them. "Fuck.. finally," you groaned out before sitting back up again to grab another cigarette and lighting it up, allowing the sound of the vents to take over the room.

...

It was quiet here.

No one ever went to your morgue...laboratory..whatever. Dead bodies lined this place up, a new face everyday. If you're lucky, maybe a new one will roll in every hour. A gut-retching, unnerving feeling never left this place. A feeling that someone or something was always watching you would linger; and somehow, to you, it was the most peaceful feeling. Like a tiny cove hidden amongst the mess where all you had to do was open people up like a treasure box, get a bunch of samples to perform tests on, then sew them shut.

It was your haven. Your little territory. No one wanted to go here.

...

...

...

"Impressive. I take it you're done?"

Well except for this little shit.

It was that blue eyed demon that had somehow made a name for himself allover the scene. An assassin who steps into the scene wielding only a blue katana. The only person who was crazy enough to bring a knife to a gun fight. His eyes striking terror to who anyone who saw them. Even your allies had chills running down their spines whenever they saw him.

Rumors quickly spread about how he took down a whole unit on his own. Stepping straight into enemy territory alone only with pure seething rage behind his sharp eyes, coming out covered in the blood of his own enemies. They say he only joined to kill the don of four particular groups. His presence screamed anger and bloodlust.

An onryo.

That's what they called him.

Despite only having graduated from training, he currently possesses the highest body count in the whole organization—and we're not talking about sex.

And luckily or unluckily, you had the privilege of instructing him when he was still a trainee. You had no intention of teaching anyone, your plate was full as it was. But one faithful day, he appeared in front of your morgue. His presence undetectable until he was right in front of you, sending chills down your spine.

Your eyes met blue, staring at it with a deadeye stare, not even bothering to hide the irritation you held. The blood in your veins was running cold, the tips of your fingers tingling from how nervous you had become. You accidentally left your revolver in your laboratory which was now blocked by this stranger.

'How the hell?' you asked yourself in thought, eyes breaking contact to glance around the hallway.

It was a simple hallway with only two doors on either side, one leading to your office and the other back to the lobby. There were no windows, no cubbies, no anything. Absolutely nowhere to hide. And yet somehow, you couldn't even detect his presence.

Sound always echoed around the gray tiles, capturing any sound no matter how quiet. Even the soft pitter-patter of water dripping from the ceiling echoed like a drum within this hall. However, no sound nor sign of footsteps could be heard. He was like the wind, suddenly appearing before you.

Your eyes went back to him, stare turning into a glare. Every part of your body was silently screaming at you to run, telling you that this person was dangerous. That one wrong move would kill you. "What the hell do you want?" you seethed out, eyes watching for any sign of aggression. Even with your vigilance, you couldn't win this without a gun.

No.

Even with a gun, something in your gut was telling you that you wouldn't win.

His cold emotionless eyes continued to watch over you before his hands reached into his pocket, pulling out a picture taken using a polaroid camera. It was a picture of a recent autopsy you performed, corpse laying on the cold metal table, all stitched up. "How did you obtain this..?"

The decedent was an instructor known for being cruel to trainees. Everyone knew of his behavior but he was too influential within the organization to get rid off. Until one day, his body was rolled into your laboratory, multiple lacerations over the body, a few missing teeth, signs of struggle evident. No one knew who killed him. Too many people held a grudge with him to be traceable. It didn't matter, it wasn't your job to find out anyway.

"This..cut," he started, voice husky as his finger pointed to the picture, clearly referring to the cut you had made on the corpse. "Its clean. Exquisite. Clearly made by someone skilled." He looked up at you, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. "Its you."

A clear look of confusion painted over your face. This boy sneaked up on you because of a cut?

You took a look at the picture again and rolled your eyes. "A y-shaped cut. Every examiner and coroner in this world knows how to do one. So what?" you groaned. The blue eyed man seems intrigued by your answer, eyes glancing around in thought. As you moved over to the side to head towards your laboratory, the man stepped back and blocked your way again, making you let out an exasperated sigh.

"Teach me," he said, handing you the picture. "Or at least show me how you made that cut."

Another exasperated sigh escaped your lips as you glared at him, hands shoving the picture back to him. "No. Get out," you scowled. No matter how oddly unnerving this man's presence was, there was no way you'd waste your time taking in a trainee. Your hands shoved him away from the door before going to the handle.

Before you could twist the doorknob, his hand immediately gripped your wrist. "I'm not leaving until you agree," he said, pulling your wrist to keep yours hands off of the knob. The look in his eyes told you that he was serious. God, this man was stubborn.

Your eyebrows scrunched together in annoyance as you pulled your wrist away from his grip, crossing your arms. "Then make it worth my time. What do I get for teaching you?" you asked, raising a brow at him inquisitively.

His gaze shifted around the hall in thought before landing on you. "I'll tell you who killed this man," he replied, showing you the picture yet again. Your eyes softened for a moment before glaring at him again. "As if I care. My job is to provide evidence, not convict someone."

No, maybe you did care...or was it because you already knew who.

The man let out an audible huff before looking around again. Now his vision was focused on you. Looking over your features, observing every detail of your clothes and body. Anything to convince you, to force you. "You're missing a gun, aren't you?"

Your eyes widened slightly, the unsettling feeling returning to your throat. "And why would I tell you?" you said cautiously. He chuckled darkly before looking over you once more. "A model 57, am I right?" he asked, slowly approaching you with soundless footsteps.

As he approached you, you took a cautious step back, following his steps. Something was telling you that he was not so keen on negotiating anymore. Soon enough, your back collided with the wall, effectively trapping you between the tiles and his body. There was no use struggling. Both were equally immovable.

Rough calloused hands lifted your chin up, forcing you to stare at his face. His thumb running across your lips, smudging the red lipstick against your chin, staring at it before his gaze went back to your eyes.

He was reading you, observing the fear as it ran through your body. Once again, he took out the polaroid picture and showed it to you, now with a sense of satisfaction as he felt your breath. "You're not an idiot. You probably know who killed him," he said in a low tone. The look in his eyes hungry as if he was a predator hunting and you were the prey.

You gulped and turned your head away the best you could with his hand still holding your chin. Your actions neither confirming nor denying his statement. Numerous large lacerations, clearly made by a sharp object. The cuts were clean too. It wasn't hard to figure it out. At least not to you.

He chuckled at your stubbornness, knowing full well that he had trapped you. "Now," he proceeded, pressing your body further against his as he loomed over you. "Teach me." His hand slowly slid the picture into the breast pocket of your lab coat, fingers tracing the stitches carefully and tenderly. The threat sent chills down your spine. Your body was telling you to run, to scream at least. You were trapped between a wall and a killer.

"Fucking shit...Fine!" Your eyebrows scrunching together at the feeling of being defenseless. The threat of losing your life wasn't what bothered you the most. It was the fact that this cocky trainee waltzed into your spaces, wasting your time and disturbing your peace; and yet, you felt utterly helpless under him.

It was unnerving. It pissed you off.

Finally, he lets you go, face emotionless but his blue eyes told you that he was more than satisfied. Clicking your tongue in annoyance, you opened the door to your morgue before craning your head to glare at him. "Oh and never touch me again."

But this bastard never got lost. In fact, he came back every single day. At first he had the decency to wait for you to get back whenever you went out to submit your reports, standing in front of the door like a good little boy. Now he just waltzes in like he owned the place.

Sometimes he'd just sit around and watch, the blue in his eyes shining particularly whenever you cut up a corpse that died from something peculiar. Sometimes he'd dirty up the place, walking in after a mission, covered in blood and smearing it allover the chairs and tables. Most of the time, he'd walk in just to annoy the shit out of you, moving around the reagents and inspecting them. Like what he was doing right now.

"Didn't I just replace the lock?" you asked, raising an eyebrow and taking a long drag out of your cigarette. His hand reached into his pocket before presenting to you a bent up hairpin. This little shit picked the lock again. "You did," he affirmed, voice sounding a bit smug.

His footsteps echoed around the room as he approached you, sitting down right next to you on the smooth varnished wood of your desk. "You should consider having cameras in this place," he commented, tilting his head to look around as if he hadn't for the past years.

You rolled your eyes at his suggestion, exhaling the smoke through your nostrils in a deep huff. "Oh please, as if you won't find a way to break them and sneak in. You'd carve a hole on the ceiling if you had to."

He hummed in agreement, eyes closing while he nodded. For a moment, silence once again enveloped the place. His eyes looked over to the cigarette you were holding, blue orbs eyeing the red lipstick on the filter, gaze lingering on it in particular. "Did you like the corpse I gave you?" he asked, taking the autopsy report from your desk and reading it.

"You could've gone easier on the man," you replied, tapping your cigarette on the ash tray and snatching the report back from him. "Really. Blunt force trauma? What did you use? The back of a gun?" you chuckled, scanning over the report as well. "Just when they've handed us a new batch of rifles, you just had to use it like a machete."

The shrug he gave you was more than enough to affirm your suspicions. Raising an eyebrow at him, you put your half-finished cigarette out on the ash tray before walking over to the corpse, putting on a new pair of gloves, and zipping up the body bag. "A ruptured liver too," you sighed, bringing the tissue samples you took to another table and placing them in formalin.

"He deserves it," he replied nonchalantly, taking the lighter from your desk and standing up, striding over to where you were. Snaking his arms around your hips, he peered over your shoulder. Your body went rigid as you tensed up from the contact. Suddenly, the feeling of something firm being pressed against his shoulder made him step back a bit. His eyes trailed down to see the barrel of a revolver pointed at his shoulder.

Your eyes narrowed at him, warning him to back off. A clicking sound could be heard as you turned to face him, jaw clenched. "Touch me again and I will shoot," you warned, vexed expression evident. His gaze switched over to your gun then to his shoulder before he took another step towards you. It seems that your threat was ineffective towards him.

"Go ahead," he replied, pressing the barrel of the revolver against his shoulder before placing his hands on both your sides, resting it on the cool metal. "At least aim at a vital organ. A hit on the shoulder is easy to fix." Sharp blue eyes staring at your lips once again. The red on your lips fascinating him. It was like he was hypnotized.

You rolled your eyes at him, eyebrows knitting together as you realized that your threat was not working at all. "Oh and maybe I should remind you that I'm the only doctor here," you snarled sarcastically. He laughed softly, tilting his head down to look at you. "Aren't you a pathologist?"

"Exactly. So back off unless you want to be the next thing I cut open," you threatened but it was no use. The man in front of you stayed unmoving with his eyes fixated on your lips.

The more he stared, the more he pressed his body against you. Yet somehow, you couldn't bring yourself to pull the trigger. Instead, you raised a knee up before swinging it towards his crotch. However, upon impact, your eyes widened in realization. You stared at him dumbfounded, lips parting as you finally spoke...

"You're a woman."

At your statement, her gaze hardened, jaw clenching in sudden aggravation. Suddenly, her hands grasped your wrist, pinning you down on the table as she loomed over you. Your revolver now on the floor with loud clack, a heavy foot over it. Her eyebrows scrunching together in an irked expression. "Speak of this to anyone. I'll kill you," she threatened, face moving closer towards yours.

You couldn't believe it. All this time, the blue eyed demon was a woman all along. He who brought fear into his enemies, leaving them either dead or permanently incapacitated, was not a he. The little shit bothering you and messing around with the stuff in your laboratory was a woman.

The lack of reply irked her even more, her glare now directed towards your lips. Fuck. Maybe if she wasn't so distracted by your lipstick, she would have seen this coming. The longer she stared, the more her body grew hot either from infuriation or from something else.

Suddenly, her hand entangled itself within the locks of hair at the back of your head, pulling on it and smashing her lips against yours. Your lips opened slightly from surprise and she took the opportunity to slip her tongue into your mouth. Her tongue explored the cavern of your mouth, not caring if you returned the kiss or not.

Your body trembled under hers, breathing becoming shakier as the kiss continued. A small groan escaped your lips at the feeling of her hand pulling on your hair tighter. Eventually, you allowed your tongue to move with her's, dancing together with your groans and soft mewls as the melody.

A thin string of saliva connecting your lips together upon pulling away. Your red lipstick smudged over your cheek and allover her lips. You could see her chest rising and falling as she panted through her nose.

"Fine...I won't," you breathed out, looking away to hide the warmth crawling up to your cheeks. The heat of the atmosphere taking all the snarky remarks out of your mouth. Her gaze softened before she leaned down, placing a trail of kisses from your lips down to your collarbone. She lifted her head up once again and let your wrists go, helping you up.

Before you could speak, she slipped her hand into your breast pocket and took out the carton of cigarettes, taking one out and placing it between your lipstick-smudged lips. Reaching into her pocket, she took the lighter she picked up from your desk out and flipped it open, lighting the cigarette for you.

Her blue eyes scanned over your figure before chuckling, all the anger she had earlier completely gone. "I know you won't" she whispered with a sense of sincerity. "I'll leave."

You watched as she headed towards the door, footsteps quiet and quick. Upon reaching the door way, she turned towards you with a slight smirk.

"Mizu," she said suddenly.

"H-Huh?"

"That's my name, so don't forget." She turned back around and left. The sound of the door closing echoing around the morgue. Your eyes stared at the door, stupefied from the turn of events. Your fingers slowly touched your lips, tracing where she had placed hers.

There was no way you'd forget it.

She'd come back every day to remind you of it.

[jbk405]

I watched The Residence over the past few days, a murder-mystery series showing the investigation of a death at the White House during a state dinner.

It's a generally competent and enjoyable series, and I recommend it to others who like the genre, but there's one fundamental problem that bothered me from the very first episode: This is not a complicated murder that requires the World's Greatest Detective to investigate.

A normal criminal investigation -- if they had carried it out -- could have figured this out.

Oh it's complicated for the viewer, absolutely. I don't claim that I figured out the killer early. But that's because we're watching a TV show where they present information in an entertaining but also confusing and needlessly complex fashion for maximum engagement.

In an actual investigation, an autopsy of the body would have confirmed ALL of the original first-impressions that indicated the blunt-force-trauma to the head was the cause of death. Forensic examination of the environment would have shown that the body was moved from room to room. And a thorough search of the building -- which would be very easy to arrange BECAUSE IT'S THE FREAKING WHITE HOUSE -- would have turned up the other blood stains and eventually the original crime scene. After finding the crime scene, the clock would have been found and determined to be the murder weapon, and boom everything is wrapped up.

This doesn't even require the super-CSI sci-fi technology of modern police procedural TV shows. I'm talking basic investigation.

I get what they were going for, and I understand that they showed powerful people didn't want an investigation so they were throwing up roadblocks from the beginning, but that's a political story. Not a murder-mystery story. Yet people kept talking about "impossible" mysteries.

Again to be clear I did enjoy the show. It's just….I noticed the lack of blood from the supposed "suicide cuts" even before Cordelia Cupp arrived on-scene. It doesn't need the World's Greatest Detective to point out that they were postmortem injuries, and therefore this death was not a suicide.

[reynahendrix]

┊ ┊ HELLTOWNFMS EVENT: TWO

┊ ┊ N I G H T M A R E : S L I P P I N G ....

you should save your eyes. a thousand voices howling in my head. speak in tongues. i don't even recognize your face. mirror on the wall...tell me to stay away.

┊ ┊ BLACK OUT DAYS... I DON'T EVEN RECOGNIZE YOU ANYMORE.

stay away. i'm hearing voices all the time in my mind. they're haunting my m i n d

sterile. the unforgiving hum of fluorescent lights droned above, gnawing at the edges of reyna's concentration. their flicker disrupted the fragile stillness that clung to the room like a shroud. she had stood here countless times before — surgical instruments meticulously arranged on a steel tray, a scalpel gleaming under the harsh glare, waiting for use. her clothes cloaked in bland turquoise and black, safety and protocol smothering any sense of individuality. this was a space for postmortem examinations, a realm where death lingered like a shadow.

the table gleamed, pristine and devoid of its usual grim occupant. reyna stared at her own wavering reflection on its cold, polished surface, her features fractured by the sterile sheen. empty. why was it empty ? why was she looming over it, hands hovering uselessly above a vacancy meant for the dead ? her reflection felt distant, unmoored from her body, like a stranger bound by invisible threads tugging her toward unspeakable acts. her mind teetered on the edge, weary from resisting the voice that clung to the recesses of her thoughts like rot. perhaps the table was empty for a reason — an invitation for her to lay upon it, surrendering to the voice that demanded her ruin.

reyna's jaw clenched as static crackled through the room. the sudden intrusion made her breath hitch. slowly, she turned, gloved hands hovering in the sterile air, unsure whether to reach or recoil. the sound emanated from a walkie-talkie perched on a nearby counter. it looked eerily similar to the one emery had given her when she'd abandoned common house to seek refuge in the cinema. through the fizz and crackle, a voice struggled to break through, fragmented yet seething....

“... you failed...”

reyna's chest tightened, breaths quickening, shallow and erratic. the voice...

“... you will pay...i told you what would happen...”

her knees wobbled as the radio spat venom once more.

“... they will pay...”

the final syllable lingered in the charged air, heavy with menace. then came a new sound — metallic, sinister. one of the body lockers unlatched with a jarring clunk. the heavy steel door creaked open, its groan reverberating through the room. reyna's muscles tensed, heart racing as if trying to escape her ribcage. a cold, silver gurney slid forward, bearing a form draped in a stark white sheet. pale feet protruded from beneath the fabric, a tag swaying gently from one toe.

"... look what you've done..."

the voice hissed through the walkie-talkie, insidious and unforgiving. reyna’s breath came in ragged gasps as dread clawed its way up her spine. she wanted to turn away, to unsee the nightmare unraveling before her, but her feet remained rooted to the bloodless tile. she knew she had failed — failed to protect those she loved, failed to submit fully to the demands of the voice that haunted her every waking moment. the gurney trembled. the sheet fluttered violently before flying off altogether, revealing emmett’s cold, lifeless form. his skin, pale as moonlight, gleamed beneath the lights.

“no...” reyna’s voice fractured, trembling as she stumbled backward, knocking over the sterile tray. surgical instruments clattered to the floor, sharp metal skittering across the tile. her eyes remained fixed on emmett’s body as blood began to seep from his closed eyelids, ears, and mouth, thick rivulets staining his frozen features. his eyes shot open, wild and glassy. his lips parted in a grotesque gasp, coughing up torrents of crimson that splattered onto the silver bed, overflowing until the white tile gleamed red beneath a slick coat of gore.

"... they will all die because of you..."

another locker door unlatched, swinging open with a menacing creak. then another. and another. one by one, gurneys slid forward, each bearing a body reyna recognized. charlie. joel. shaw. dayn. jude. emery. more.. and more... her vision blurred, the room spinning as she fought to remain upright. blood spurted from their corpses, soaking the floor until it reached her ankles, warm and sticky. she wanted to scream but found her voice strangled by terror. memories flashed through her mind — laughter, embraces, whispered promises. all shattered by the grotesque scene before her. “no !” reyna shrieked, lunging toward the bodies, frantically checking for pulses that didn’t exist, shaking their cold forms as if sheer desperation could breathe life back into them.

"... it's too late..."

the voice curled around her like smoke, suffocating. the final locker door creaked open, revealing one last gurney. blood pooled across the floor, a dark ocean of despair. reyna's legs trembled as she forced herself toward it, heart hammering against her ribs. as the bed slid forward, her breath caught in her throat. she stared down at the corpse — herself. cold. lifeless. pale as death. one of the body's eyes fluttered open, milky and ruined, the other a gaping void of injury. she had hardly recognized herself anymore.

the corpse’s hand shot upward, fingers curling around reyna's throat with unnatural strength. she gasped, clawing at the icy grip as darkness bloomed at the edges of her vision. the hand tightened, dragging her down onto the gurney. metal groaned as the bed retracted, sliding back into the dark void of the locker. the door slammed shut, sealing her inside with the horror of herself.

reyna jolted awake, gasping for air, drenched in sweat. her chest heaved as she blinked, eyes wild and disoriented. the room stood as it had been — silent, and familiar. taken by the night. ...it was just a dream. just a fucking dream.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Bruce Partington Plans pt 2

Last time, we had a very full complement of characters with both Mycroft and Lestrade involved. And a man was found dead on the underground with top secret papers in his pocket, some of which were missing.

I really do wonder why only some of them were missing. It takes more time to go through them and choose some than to just grab the lot and go. Or maybe he had the most important ones out and was showing them to his killer. It's weird.

“Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?” “There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found.” “No record of a door being found open?” “None.”

Ghost train...?

I mean, no, this is probably the most spurious supernatural possibility I have thus far suggested. But if he got a ghost ticket from a ghost ticket seller and had it checked by a ghost person at the turnstile and then the ghost train he got on evaporated into thin air after leaving the station?

No?

Fine.

“And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were only so.”

...Hm. Well the train would have to slow down for the curve, but also if it's unexpected and he had the door open, I guess the points might cause a bit of a jolt, the curve sets him off balance and out the door he goes. Maybe losing a few papers along the way?

Other than that, and my previous idea that there should be maintenance access particularly to spots where there are points, I can't see what Holmes is getting at here.

“I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up before now, and the carriages redistributed.”

Was this standard practice? It seems very inefficient to separate every carriage of every train and mix them around all the time. Why not just keep them going as they are unless you absolutely need to change them?

'Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker Street, a complete list of all foreign spies or international agents known to be in England, with full address.'

That doesn't seem very secure. I feel like that information should also probably not be sent out to random residences.

Why does Holmes insist on referring to his brother as 'Brother Mycroft' in this story, as well? Has he taken up holy orders and become a monk since we last saw him? We know he's your brother, Sherlock, you don't need to keep repeating it. I know not everyone is as clever as you, but you don't need to keep beating us around the head. We get it.

“The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body was on the roof of a carriage.”

Ah, yes, the curve and the points dislodged him, just off the roof, not out of the door. So he was accosted on a bridge and thrown over the side? Also there'd be less blood from a postmortem injury from falling onto the tracks, or alternatively the blood from the original injury would be elsewhere.

(Although I have no trust in anyone's pathology skills in these stories anymore because... well...🐇🐇)

“Sir James, sir!” said he with solemn face. “Sir James died this morning.”

Oooh, the plot thickens. If this is not related then it is very coincidental.

“Good heavens!” cried Holmes in amazement. “How did he die?” “Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother, Colonel Valentine?”

Look... I've been trying not to say 'it must be the Colonel' because I feel like at this point, the joke is too obvious. But now we have the Colonel's brother dead and Colonel Valentine is right there and...

Guys.

Guys.

If the Colonel turns out to be a dick again...

...an instant later we were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-beared man of fifty, the younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild eyes, stained cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden blow which had fallen upon the household. He was hardly articulate as he spoke of it.

Well, this is not a typical Watsonian description of a bad guy. It's a very flattering description, actually. And he seems upset by his brother's death. But is that just put on? Have all of ACD's previous creepy colonels been a long-con mislead for this one Colonel who is good?

“It was this horrible scandal,” said he. “My brother, Sir James, was a man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such an affair. It broke his heart. He was always so proud of the efficiency of his department, and this was a crushing blow.”

I had assumed brain fever, but no... broken heart. Not even brandy could have saved him. Just terrible.

“I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard. I have no desire to be discourteous, but you can understand, Mr. Holmes, that we are much disturbed at present, and I must ask you to hasten this interview to an end.”

I know he's grieving, but trying to end the interview early is a bit suspicious. Not a lot suspicious, but still a bit. I mean, he's a colonel.

"Arthur was the most single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would have cut his right hand off before he would sell a State secret confided to his keeping. It is absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew him.”

Hey... his name's Arthur? I had kind of assumed that he just had the first name Cadogan, but no. Double surname. This has happened before. Arthur is a far more boring name than Cadogan. Pity.

New theory, to explain why he only had some of the papers on him. He knew that the plans were stolen and went to recover them, but was murdered by the real bad guys (maybe a colonel? who can say) and then they slipped the unimportant papers into his pocket and threw him off the bridge onto the top of the train to frame him for the theft and ensure no one was looking for another mole.

“No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He had saved a few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New Year.”

Nowhere is inflation more apparent than the line 'he had saved a few hundreds'. Lolol! Although even with inflation this would be a few ten thousands, which won't last you very long today. Especially with a wedding coming up.

“Yes,” she said at last, “I had a feeling that there was something on his mind.” “For long?” “Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried."

As you would be if you knew there was a spy and you were worried about confronting them and stopping treason. Perfectly reasonable.

“He said that we were slack about such matters—that it would be easy for a traitor to get the plans.”

It's official, the only competent person in the government has been killed trying to cover for everyone else's incompetence. I mean, he still failed to protect the secret, but still. The Colonel's all 'my brother was so proud of his department's efficiency', when his department was as leaky as a sieve.

RIP Arthur. I believe in you.

"We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly he darted away into the fog.”

Impressed that he managed to witness the crime when the smog was so thick people couldn't even see a body fall off the roof of a train in a tunnel. But sure. This would have been earlier in the day. Although in November the sun would be setting at, what? 4:30/4pm? Unless they were going to the matinee, there wouldn't have been daylight.

“It was black enough before against this young man, but our inquiries make it blacker”

I assume Holmes must be thinking along the same lines as me. Also suddenly dashing off in the middle of the fog and leaving your fiancee as witness would be a terrible heist. If he's been planning this for so long, surely he'd come up with something better than that.

Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the office and received us with that respect which my companion's card always commanded.

Ooh, a new suspect. Or has he been mentioned before. I don't remember him, though. But he has the potential means and opportunity.

He isn't a colonel, though, so clearly that's a mark against him in the suspect pool.

“The place is disorganized. The chief dead, Cadogan West dead, our papers stolen. And yet, when we closed our door on Monday evening, we were as efficient an office as any in the government service."

I feel like there might be a disconnect here between 'efficient' and 'secure'. Clearly they're cutting corners on security to get things done more quickly.

“Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?” “I had no keys of the doors—only of the safe.”

You know who has access to Sir James' keys? His brother the colonel! Well, and Sir James himself. Maybe he did it and then died from the shame and guilt.

Or it was the Colonel

(Is it going to be the Colonel? Seriously?)

"One other point: if a clerk in this office desired to sell the plans, would it not be simply to copy the plans for himself than to take the originals, as was actually done?”

I mean, yeah.

“It would take considerable technical knowledge to copy the plans in an effective way.”

Would it? Would it really? I can copy out a sentence in Korean so that people can read it. I can't read or write Korean, but I can copy it. I feel like copying things doesn't require a lot of technical knowledge. A photocopier can do it, after all. You just have to have a steady hand and an eye for detail.

"The double valves with the automatic self-adjusting slots are drawn in one of the papers which have been returned."

... did you have to be that specific. These are secret plans, right? Maybe don't go talking about the details of them with people?

Finally he asked the chief clerk to close the iron shutters, and he pointed out to me that they hardly met in the centre, and that it would be possible for anyone outside to see what was going on within the room.

In the smog? In the dark? I guess the dark would help, because whoever was in there would have to light a lamp, but still. Arthur and Violet must have walked really close to the building. Super secure building.

"Why did he not do so? Could it have been an official superior who took the papers?"

Or a Colonel?

Or Sir James, I guess... or Mr Johnson. We shouldn't stereotype colonels just because almost all the ones we've met so far have been dicks. They weren't all the bad guy. Some of them were just dicks.

It's possible there's one good colonel left in London.

'There are numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big an affair.'

It's so amusing to me that Mycroft just knows this about the spies. He's just like 'these are the important spies' and Mycroft just has a list of their addresses ready to go. They have a real 'I know that you know that I know that you know, but no one is saying anything because that would cause an international incident and we have no proof we can actually use' vibe going on here. Espionage is so weird, guys.

'Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver.'

Well that's certainly a place to end the section.

Sounds like next time will be a lot of fun.

But is the Colonel the culprit? He doesn't seem to have any sort of implication towards him at this point. It's far more heavily weighted towards his brother being overcome by remorse.

But... he is a colonel.

[visceravalentines]

Trying so hard to think of a mortuary question for you ummmm. Well at least I know I can come to you for when I DO have questions about dead bodies and mortuary stuff for writing. Umm. Okay generic question, what’s one of the weirdest things you’ve encountered in your job? Like, what’s something that’s made you double-take. If anything sdhjgsdhjg

pls always come to me w/ questions about stuff for writing!!! i love love love having that particular knowledge base it's very useful lmao

oh man..........HARD question. everything about death is weird for one reason or another. really nitty gritty embalming details below the cut

recently, i embalmed a woman who was found several hours after her passing and as such, she had some pretty significant purple discoloration to her face. the blood had collected there due to her cause of death or positioning, it could have been either. the thing about that kind of discoloration--if it's only been several hours, the blood is still within the vessels and embalming can clear that out so we get a nice normal face color. but if it's been a while, like a day or more, the blood starts to break down and leach out of the vessels and into the tissue like a bruise. embalming won't clear that out because it's essentially "stained" the tissue.

with this lady, i couldn't tell at the start whether her sitch was just livor mortis, or what we call postmortem stain. as the embalming started, part of her face cleared out, but not all of it. so i started lightly massaging the skin of her cheeks and forehead, just a nice lil rub. everywhere i put pressure, the purple disappeared immediately like magic. like a mood ring! i've only seen this happen like this a couple times.

essentially, the pressure you're applying, even that lightly, just helps get things moving within the vessels. we actually massage people's limbs pretty constantly through the embalming for the same reason, it's just cool to see it work on such a small scale and so fast!

[grace-aline]

Why I think Bob Newby had to die (part 1: a postscript)

On being consumed by the abnormal

It's difficult to name our last glimpse of Bob because the Duffers love themselves a good flashback. The fact that Joyce has several concerning Bob could be a whole other post. I could fairly confidently put 'extremely veiled allusion to Bob/Bob flashback' on my Season 5 bingo card, let's put it that way.

What I'm talking about, though, is the last time we actually see Bob linearly, as opposed to a memory of him. I's not a very pleasant moment; he's being torn apart by Demodogs. I'll spare you the GIF, although I do think it's a striking shot and a masterclass in practical and visual effects, because anyone who is familiar with Season 2 has that bird's-eye view of his desiccated body burned into their retinas.

In my last post, I talked about Bob's thematic value to the Duffers. I argued that he is the perfect candidate for a transformation from someone achingly, comfortingly normal into something abnormal, corrupted by supernatural trauma.

But by the last time Bob is physically present in the show, ravenous Demodogs have taken things a step further. Bob's face is still recognisable, but the frozen, dumbstruck expression on it is horrible and new. Because in the end, the Upside Down doesn't just traumatise him; it literally consumes him. He actually becomes a part of it, sustaining the supernatural ecosystem feeding off his body.

Horrible, I know, but also true, I think.

The conclusion that Bob was actually, physically kind of absorbed by the Upside Down is a bit whacky, I know. But just stick with me here, I think I might be onto something.

Reason 1: Bob's disappearing act

First and foremost, it is actually strange that after that haunting final shot of his corpse, Bob is simply no more. No funeral, no grave, no photos, no belongings in Joyce's house for her to come across and cry over. Sure, his ghost haunts the show through flashbacks, drawings, even in a news report; in any way that isn't physical evidence of his existence.

And what's even weirder is that after Season 2, no character ever mentions him again. He literally never comes up again, he's never directly mentioned or indirectly referred to by another character. No one even says his name.

And I know they would've cleaned out the Lab after so many people died there in Season 2, but hell, Bob Newby's death is arguably the goriest death in the whole show; which is quite the mantle, considering how violent ST can get; but when Hopper and Joyce return to that exact spot a year later, there is not a single blood-stained tile or indication that someone had died a graphic, messy death there.

It's fucking weird, is what it is. The way that any physical, tangible manifestation of Bob is just wiped from the show.

(Almost as if the Upside Down had consumed him, you could say.)

Reason 2: It's happened before, and it's happened since

Way back in Season 1, whilst searching for Will, Eleven comes across the body of Barbara Holland. We see her again an episode later, when Hopper and Joyce are searching the Upside Down version of Hawkins Library for Will. In both scenes, and without going into too much gory detail, the grotesque state her body is in is confirmation that Barb is definitely dead.

Now, you could argue that from a purely cinematic perspective, the inclusion of Barb's body is designed solely for shock value; it serve to scare the audience a bit, to up the stakes and tension for surviving characters, and of course, to tug on the viewer's heartstrings. That bird's-eye shot of Bob does a similar job.

From an analytical perspective, though, the deteriorated state of Barb's corpse can be read as a kind of fatalistic symbolism. Barb was also literally consumed by the Upside Down. Her horrific postmortem reappearance makes her a convincing part of the scenery in an alternate dimension otherwise inhospitable to warm, familiar forms of life.

And she's not the only one. This happens just about every time there's a supernatural death in the show. Shocking, Upside Down-ified imagery of their corpse, then the disappearing act begins, rinse and repeat. When the supernatural gets you, it seems to keep you.

Still not convinced? After all, so far I've put forward circumstantial, educated guess work. Nothing concrete, nothing canonical. Yet.

Reason 3: What we know about Vecna/Henry Creel

Enter a villain who tells everyone the details of his masterplan before he kills them.

Fast forward to Season 4. We're introduced to the Mind Flayer's "five star general" Vecna, who is systematically terrorising and murdering the traumatised youth of Hawkins (one thing that Hawkins never seems to be deficient in.)

As it turns out, Vecna was always there, pulling the strings side-stage. A dominant force in the Upside Down's hivemind complex, it's implied that Vecna was aware of, and even somewhat responsible for all supernatural deaths in the show to date. Following the Hawkins Lab massacre, Vecna lets Eleven in on a rather morbid little secret: "With each life I took, I grew stronger. More powerful. They were becoming a part of me." The implication here is that Vecna kills, not only to "restore balance to a broken world", but to transform the lifeforce of the victim into energy. (A theory confirmed once again by Brenner's initial studies of Henry in The First Shadow, if I recall correctly.)

Vecna's powers allow him to tamper with, but not erase memory. As far as we know, Vecna has no interest in, and in any case no ability to remove the drawing of Bob Newby, Superhero from Joyce's fridge. Nor to prevent memories of TV dinners and Cheers from resurfacing every time Joyce finds herself alone on her couch after her boyfriend's death.

And yet. As we've established, Bob's physical imprint; his body, his name; is banished from the show post Season 2. Vecna may not be able to erase memories, but he can erase people. Because people seem to give him energy, power, and above all, a way to frighten and taunt the living.

In other words, Vecna couldn't leave it at permanent abnormality and a slap on the wrist for Bob Newby.

He had to die, to be consumed.

[thethirdvoerman]

For the writer's ask game, in the basics, 1, 2, 9, and 10? 😊

1 — music: I do! It's usually something ambient that fits the atmosphere of the scene, preferably no vocals so as to not distract me. I have amassed a small playlist on YouTube that I put in the background when I'm writing, it's mostly horror OSTs, one Midwestern gothic mix with a bunch of songs, and compositions I enjoy. Sometimes I just loop something and let it rip.

2 — pantser or plotter: A bit of both. Mostly stories pop up in my head as messages from God and I do not dare question. I make outlines, but rarely. My current WIP has a vague plan of events, and my Vampire chronicle has like 2 Google Docs and a conspiracy board, full Charlie Day style.

9 — current WIP: I've always dreamt of writing a book and I've been doing so sporadically ever since I dropped out of uni last year. It's called "Postmortem", I have the prologue and 4 chapters done, and chapter 5 is going smoothly. If I had to describe it, it's like a sci-fi urban coming-of-age story set in a small town in Nebraska about a dead girl and her dad hunting ghosts. My girlfriend calls it "pure anime" (affectionate). I'll enclose an excerpt from chapter 5 under the cut (translated into English as I wrote it in my native tongue).

10 — deadlines: I am bad with self-inflicted deadlines, so I don't bother. I don't feel like forcing words out of myself is right, my uni already does that for like 1000 bucks a term. Then again, that explains the leisurely pace of my book writing process doesn't it...

Mio spat on the pavement, then turned exactly ninety degrees with the precision of a soldier, and stomped away from Hunters’ Hall. She could probably wait around; the tiny patch of concrete here acted as both the parking lot and smoking spot for the locals. Yet the mere act of waiting seemed a grueling task in itself, not to mention talking. She could taste the ennui already. A stack of convenient lies upon more convenient lies made up the legend she’d repeat and slightly alter in each town Doc and her stopped at. This time it was “Mio Miyawaki”, yet another empty promise of a person, one that could answer every question about herself without ever telling anything important, nod along in conversation while never revealing what she really thought, and mislead everyone into believing that she was actually, truly genuine despite not even being real.

“Well that’s just great.”

Mio didn’t really hate this bleak reflection of herself. Neither did she like her.

She turned around the corner. The passing-by truck dragged a gust of hot air past her, and Mio instinctively clasped a hand over her nose. In Carrion, summer was always a haze of smog descending into the valley, a mix of exhaust fumes, burning trash and forest fire smoke. Unable to escape the clutches of the trees, like a sea not being able to escape its shores, the sickly fog of ash and stench stayed calm and still. Then, autumn winds would carry it away, and heavy clouds full of snow would come instead. The town, therefore, existed in a constant state of rigor mortis. No life was possible there – aside from, perhaps, the writhing of parasites in roadkill.

The smell of burning and grey ash didn’t feel as annoying as the odor of tobacco in the fog, both gently tickling and cruelly scratching at her throat from the inside.

Her jaws dragged against each other, an industrial chew of machinery, and Mio only felt it as a thin streak of blood ran down her chin. She’d chewed her lower lip into raw meat. Wiping the blood was a mechanical, meaningless gesture. The red of her uniform jacket soaked it up all nice. Neither blood nor ectocardium really stained it.

All so that the illusion of calm wouldn’t be disturbed.

[fxlsealarm]

postmortem

midnight mass

note: i posted this the other day and i was so sad i actually finished it, so full ep 5 spoilers i guess, this is just me coping ok (and sorry if there's mistakes! english isn't my first language)

1.1k words

His body twitches, strokes of pain wrecking through him, flashes of faces and quiet hummings settling uncomfortably on his chest, leading to an eternity of silence, something he could almost reckon as calm, and then everything hits him like one of the storms he should be used to by now but that he has forgotten with time.

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

Darkness, then it’s so bright his eyes burn but that doesn't stop him from trying to stand up on shaky limbs, he doesn’t make it too far, sitting on the cold floor. The figure sitting across the room welcomes him and those once glowing eyes stare at him understanding, compassionately; but it’s not comforting in the slightest and the fear settles in.

Fire, smoke, a scar that comes with a promise that is soon to be fulfilled.

A thousand questions that weren't being asked and not enough answers, the same words being said over and over again in different order, it all led to the same place: He wasn’t alone standing by himself in that sea of uncertainty.

A sense, a voice that you can’t respond to, an only lesson filled with false pity that he doesn’t want, because he can’t fully understand it in the first place. Not completely true but something says it’s not entirely a lie either, it cannot be if he is seeing it, feeling his insides try to crawl out of his body.

It’s loud, a steady beat that floods his ears, his stomach twitches and his breath accelerates. A sense, a voice that can’t be answered, what is it? Hunger, but the feeling is new, he doesn’t want to know what it really is, but part of him yearns for knowledge, and what better form of it than experience.

He doesn't move until he does, completely involuntarily and willingly on equal parts, when did he lose control of himself? That might be a tricky question.

Masks start to fade and true colors show for a moment before being turned off again, but it doesn’t matter, it already left a stain. Jealousy slips through his bones and the best thing to do is listen, something he’s perfect at, listen to all the things he knew once and decide to forget being yelled at his face at low a low volume that increases as soon as he starts lying.

He wants to believe it, that he can be better than all of the things he keeps carrying on his back, but he doesn’t want to, the consequences punish him everyday, his cross to bear. We must accept the things we cannot change and the guilt that consumes him every day he might have turned into one of them.

Shame, hunger, all in one feeling, and a guilty conscience he isn’t able to walk past, being scrambled on his brain along with all the things he prefers not to think about. Shame, everything is gold for a second and his senses explode, the ecstasy leaving as soon as it comes, feeling the calm he doesn’t want to acknowledge wash over him.

He keeps listening to delusions, the arrogance of a man that thinks of himself as something bigger than what he actually is. A weak shadow yearning to serve a purpose, speaking from behind the curtain of his own make-believes. He believes him, but not in the way that is expected, and realizes there’s only one outcome by the time the cold air of the night caresses his face, welcoming him into its arms one last time.

The lights dance before his eyes while he walks down the streets, moving along the air like candle flames, so delicately before his eyes and everything else is so full of life, energy flowing through it all. He sees everything while he still, when everyone he cares about gets into the picture the doubt almost leaves his mind.

Hunger, fear, he can’t, so he decides and he apologizes for everything a million times in his head, begging for them to listen, to understand.

And then he sees her, angry and worried and he feels so bad for causing that, but he desperately needs something and there’s no time to lose.

When his eyes go up he feels so little, every star and planet glowing, creating an image he could have only seen in dreams if his dreams were that pleasurable, the immensity of everything above him and he could only wish he was right about all what he had thought about it.

Every single word that left his lips sounded more and more delirious with the passing minutes, the secrecy only feeding the aura of danger he had been caring for so long. He knows how everything must look and how little she must be trusting him, but he needs to do it.

She offers her help, support, he knows if he would have let her she would’ve given him everything she had to help him, but that wasn’t what he needed and there was nothing she would’ve been able to do for him anyway.

Sorting between the questions he can answer and the ones he can’t he looks up again, admiring one last time, wondering why everything had to happen, why he did the things he did. Maybe it was going to end up like that one way or another, doomed from the start in part by his own actions.

An apology and a confession being shakily enunciated, his body trembling in fear, he doesn’t want it but he just went past the point of no return and as the horizon begins to lighten he apologizes over and over again in his head. He knows the impression he is about to cause, he knows what is going to happen next and his heart shrinks at the feeling, but she needs to see and there’s no other way to do it.

Everyone is beyond salvation, utterly poisoned and willingly blinding one another with false beliefs and it’s useless to try and fight it, because there is no way they’re going to run away from what was promised, even if they need to sacrifice everything to fulfill it.

Pain, one more time but only an instant, just when he made peace with destiny. Bright, so bright, and the waves move him from side to side, the familiar sound like a lullaby when he finally sees the end of a dream, the biggest dream of them all, just like he wished it was, but was it always a dream? Maybe it was a peek into the future all along, a future that was so close and so far away at the same time, but was always inevitable.

[cayenneaskblog]

[Some organs are dumped into SPIC-3. They all have dried, Euclydian blood on them.]

[Next to the remains, there is a static-stained note.]

"Allow this to be a reminder.

—⚔️🔱"

@spottys-special-sniper

The note is quickly disposed of, and the organs gathered in the same fashion. There's no need to dispose of that perfectly good flesh. Cayenne has frequently wondered what they taste like postmortem, after all.

[readingsquotes]

The Victory in Defeat

If you’ve never listened to losing strategists discuss their failures, welcome to one of the most infuriating experiences in politics. This entire interview was just one giant deflection after another as this group reframes the lost election into a victory. ....

Nevermind that they lost the election, they lost all of the swingstates, there were demographic shifts across the board to the Right, and we’re all going to suffer through a second Trump term, an oligarchical powergrab, and god knows what else. It’s a pretty good story if you’re looking to farm your services out to the highest-paying corporation and whatever Democratic campaign is willing to foot the bill in the future.

...

The words “Gaza” and “Palestinians” are never uttered once in this entire interview.

There is a section in which they talk about Harris’s reluctance to establish differences between herself and Joe Biden, but the enabling of atrocities in the Middle-East never factor into it. There’s no discussion about how many potential voters might have left the party or declined to cast a ballot because of it. Nothing.

The horrors of Gaza have been a huge factor in splintering the liberal coalition leading to 2024, and yet, in one postmortem after another, it’s never mentioned. What we see now, among Democratic faithful who either expressed “concern” over what was happening but didn’t want to hurt Biden or Harris’s chances or endorsed it wholeheartedly and those of us who found it a stain on the presidency, is a schism in the anti-Trump coalition that existed mostly in aesthetics versus actual politics. That situation has left us at the mercy of Trump and his oligarchical owners.

That Harris’s campaign leaders didn’t even deign this fact as important enough to bring it up once in this discussion should tell you everything you need to know.

And you know what else is missing in all of this? Any concern for people who are going to suffer under a second Trump Administration. Any regret for not offering up a campaign and a victory that might help them. They don’t really figure into any of this.

...

It doesn’t get discussed, ever, that Rogan’s popularity, in addition to being predicated on toxically masculine appeals, is based in questioning institutions and authorities. This is something the Right and its ecosystem of idiot pundits has profited off of and, meanwhile, Democrats have failed at as they’ve become conservative and protective of those very institutions. What moderate Democrats want is a slickly-produced, well-funded operation that would, other than aesthetics, serve up predictably moderate/Rightward moving political opinions.

[officialpetanimals]

How is rabies diagnosed in dogs?

Introduction

A Dog with rabies is a deadly viral disease that affects both humans and animals, including dogs. It is caused by the rabies virus, which is typically transmitted through the saliva of an infected animal, usually through bites. Rabies in dogs is a serious concern due to its potential to spread to humans and other animals. Timely diagnosis is crucial for the health of the infected dog and to prevent the transmission of the virus. In this article, we will explore the methods and procedures used to diagnose rabies in dogs.

Understanding Rabies in Dogs

Rabies is a neurotropic virus, meaning it primarily affects the nervous system of the host. In dogs, the virus can have varying symptoms, which can make diagnosis challenging. Early signs of rabies in dogs may include behavioral changes, such as increased aggression, restlessness, and anxiety. As the disease progresses, dogs may experience paralysis, difficulty swallowing, excessive drooling, and a change in vocalization.

To know more about : -

The Challenge of Diagnosing Rabies

Diagnosing rabies in dogs is a challenging process for several reasons:

Variable Symptoms: Rabies symptoms in dogs can vary widely, and they often mimic other medical conditions. This makes it difficult to diagnose based solely on clinical signs.

No Specific Blood Test: Unlike many other viral diseases, there is no specific blood test that can definitively confirm the presence of the rabies virus in a dog.

Postmortem Examination: In most cases, rabies diagnosis in dogs can only be confirmed postmortem through laboratory testing of brain tissue.

Diagnosis Methods for Rabies in Dogs

Clinical Evaluation:

When a dog is suspected of having rabies, the first step is a thorough clinical evaluation by a veterinarian. The vet will examine the dog's behavior, neurological symptoms, and history of potential exposure to rabies. However, clinical evaluation alone is not sufficient for a definitive diagnosis.

History of Exposure:

Providing a history of potential rabies exposure is crucial. This includes information about any recent animal bites or contact with wildlife that could have transmitted the virus. Understanding the potential source of infection helps in the diagnostic process.

Observation Period:

In some cases, when a dog's rabies vaccination status is up-to-date and the animal shows only minor symptoms or a history of potential rabies exposure, a quarantine period of observation may be recommended. This period allows for monitoring the dog's condition for any worsening of symptoms. If the dog remains healthy during the observation period, rabies can be ruled out.

Laboratory Testing:

The most definitive method for diagnosing rabies in dogs is through laboratory testing of brain tissue. This can only be done postmortem, as the procedure requires brain samples. Typically, the entire brain is examined to detect the presence of the rabies virus.

a. Direct Fluorescent Antibody Test (dFAT): The dFAT is the gold standard test for rabies diagnosis. It involves staining brain tissue with fluorescent antibodies that bind specifically to the rabies virus. If the virus is present, it will fluoresce under a microscope.

b. Polymerase Chain Reaction (PCR): PCR tests can also be used to detect the viral RNA in brain tissue. While less commonly used than dFAT, PCR can provide an accurate diagnosis.

c. Histopathology: This involves examining brain tissue under a microscope for characteristic changes associated with rabies infection, such as Negri bodies, which are viral inclusion bodies.

Legal Requirements:

In cases where rabies is suspected, it is important to consult local health authorities, as there are specific legal requirements and procedures that must be followed, including reporting and quarantine protocols.

Conclusion

Diagnosing rabies in dogs is a complex and challenging process. Due to the potential risks of this deadly disease, it is crucial to seek immediate veterinary attention if you suspect your dog may have been exposed to rabies. Early intervention can help protect both your pet and other animals and humans.

Prevention remains the best approach to dealing with rabies in dogs. Ensuring your dog is up-to-date on rabies vaccinations and avoiding exposure to potentially rabid animals is essential. While Dog with rabies are a serious threat, responsible pet ownership and public health measures can help minimize its impact and protect our beloved canine companions.

Read more : - The environmental impact of Swordtail Fish in the wild and in captivity.

[forensicfield]

What is Autopsy?

Autopsy, when broken into two different terms, Auto means Self and Opis means examination, giving to the meaning self-examination. It is defined broadly as the examination of both external and internal contents of the dead body including the histology...

(more…)

[soleilnomoon]

5k words, fem reader, nsfw, 18+ mdni, angst & smut wrapped into a cute present; cw - blood, some knife play, there's a gun somewhere, death it's rly not bad but who knows; toji is a bastard and y/n continues to make wild choices; gojo makes an appearance! if u pretend, u might find smth close to fluff. maybe.

previous ⤹

tucked away from the throes of pesky traffic, stands an old, run down building. it’s slated to be demolished, but for some reason the city continues to stall. on the lowest level, in the basement floor, one fushiguro toji sits atop a dingy, white plastic chair, scrolling through various messages in his cell phone. off to the side is an old radio that remains plugged in the blood-stained wall, the heavy bass of the music pumping out of the small speakers is loud enough to drown out the pitiful noises his esteemed guest keeps making—his duress evident in the way his drool dampens the rag that toji stuffed into his mouth earlier.

seemingly in a trance, toji hums along to the music, twirling a sharp knife in his hand, eyes landing on a particular text that he reads not once, nor twice, but four times over. 

he sucks his teeth, and languidly glances over at the man who is barely alive; a man who is also probably pleading for toji to end his miserable life as quickly as he can. it’s hard to tell when a bloody rag muffles his words; and, while toji would never consider himself sympathetic, he’s quite annoyed that the man hasn’t given him much of a fight. even after toji went through the trouble of tying him up, even after he yanked his fingernails off, even after he knocked a few of his teeth out, even after he shot both of his legs—and still, toji graciously let him sit on a chair, because he’s not the savage that people claim he is.

it’s a courtesy he didn’t have to offer, but he does like to make sure his guests are taken care of.

toji rereads the text again, lips pressed together in a straight line, and contemplates the message before he stands up suddenly, his vigor renewed.

“it’s your lucky fuckin’ day, know that?” his voice booms around the room, the dim light barely giving him enough vision to see what he’s doing—but that’s why they call him a professional, isn’t it? a master at navigating through any element that’s thrown at him. toji’s laughter brings a sudden chill to the man, making him whimper even more the closer toji gets to him. “don’t make that face,” toji says gently, using the flat blade of the knife to tap his guest’s cheek. “i don’t care about whatever sob story you’re tryin’ to sell me.”

and it’s true, he doesn’t. 

“i’d love to stay and play, but duty calls,” he leans closer, voice lowering, that stoic, frightening demeanor making its way back into him again, “by the way, your wife did call your phone. i told her you were still in a meeting, hope that was okay.” toji’s grin unnerves the bound man so much that he can’t help but cry out and struggle against the rope bindings, tears in his eyes—a futile last ditch effort to survive. it’d be commendable if there wasn’t a time-constraint. and, unfortunately, toji isn’t in the business of letting his prey get away like that.

it takes one swing for him to slit the man’s throat, the blood just as uninteresting as the man that it’s spilling from. toji shoots him in the middle of his forehead for an added measure—he’s learned the hard way that some people just don’t know how to stay dead.

his phone rings as he finishes cleaning his tools; his annoyance evident when he picks up on the last ring.

“what do you want?” he doesn’t have time for idle chit-chat; he has things to do, places to be, business affairs to take care of. “hell no, i’m not cleaning any of this shit. i did what i was paid to do.” he surveys the room, dark green eyes landing on the splatters of blood, the man’s teeth that toji flung at him postmortem, the various chemicals toji used to keep him barely conscious. “send someone else, i’m leaving.” he hangs up without much fuss and collects the rest of his belongings, not bothering to look back at the mangled corpse he leaves behind.

since he’s used to this line of work, toji keeps himself relatively hidden—people get a little weird when they see him walk around casually with someone else’s blood on him, so he’s learned to acclimate for the sake of keeping a low profile. thankfully he parked in a secluded area; less people he has to worry about. not that it matters, anyway.

you don’t bother checking your phone, because your mind is still stuck on the fact that you had sex with gojo—and managed to prove toji right without him knowing. you’re pissed about everything, and even though gojo tries to bribe you with food in order to cheer you up, you’re barely eating.

a loud bang on the front door startles you, but gojo just grins. “right on time,” he says cheerfully, before adding, “guess that means playtime is over for us, butterfly.” his words confuse you, but you choose not to question it—telling yourself that the less you know, the better it’ll be. gojo opens the door fairly quickly and his chipper demeanor keeps up, even as toji pushes his way past him into the apartment.

you choke on your toast the moment you see his broad shoulders, disheveled black hair, and the look he gives you should make you terrified. but you’re not.

“the fuck do you think you’re doin’ here, huh?” 

his question is the most absurd thing you’ve heard all week. how the hell is he going to question you? you’re an adult just like him, and can do as you please. “you don’t own me, we’ve had this conversation before,” you say aloofly, pushing away from the kitchen island and collecting your things.

“like i told you earlier,” gojo chimes in, clapping a hand on toji’s shoulder, actively annoying the latter with his proximity, “i was keeping an eye on y/n for you.” he’s full of shit and knows it, but toji doesn’t care about any of that. 

“don’t make me repeat myself,” toji says as calmly as he can, while also actively ignoring gojo’s presence.

“take your own advice for once, fushiguro,” you say bitterly, storming past him and gojo, slamming the front door behind you. you’re so mad you can hardly think straight. the nerve of toji showing up here after you spent the night in tears over him, drinking, and fucking the last person you wanted to fuck — although, that’s not exactly true, now, is it? — like everything is your fault and not his. 

you’ll take responsibility for putting too much pressure on toji to commit, you’ll take responsibility for bothering him incessantly for validation, but you refuse to be a doormat to his bullshit any longer. despite all of that, you still make your way down to toji’s car; it’s unlocked and still on — he must’ve known it wouldn’t have taken much convincing on his part for you to get into the car with him, which only pisses you off even more.

why is he able to treat you that way and still make you want him just as much as you did before? he must’ve hypnotized you at some point or another, because none of it makes sense. 

toji casts a sidelong glance gojo’s way, eyeing the sorcerer critically, his irritation rising. gojo’s texts were bait, he knows that and willingly took it. why? he has no idea. but the moment he saw the picture, all he saw was red.

“the first,” he says to the white-haired man, surveying the living room, taking note of the familiar pair of panties that was tossed haphazardly onto the coffee table — by gojo, most likely, he knows you’re not the type — before continuing, “and last fucking time.” it’s all he says and gojo puts his hands up, chuckling lightly, as if he has no idea of what toji’s talking about.

by the time he makes it to his car, he sees you sitting with your feet propped up on the dashboard, crossed at the ankles. the sight annoys him, because he actually likes seeing you in his car, likes how comfortable you are around him, and likes that you don’t seem to have an attachment to gojo in the way that he originally thought. 

not that it makes things any better.

“feet off the dash.” 

his voice stirs a desire within you that you helplessly try to stamp out by reminding yourself of all the bullshit toji’s put you through over the past few months. you have yourself to blame, really, but you don’t want to take accountability just yet. it’s more fun pointing fingers at the man beside you instead.

“don’t tell me what to you,” you say casually, glancing down at your nails as he backs his car out of the driveway and speeds off. “you’re not my boyfriend,” your tone is every bit as bitter as it is childish, “nor are you my dad, so shut up.” it’s not smart of you to mouth off at the same man that laughed as he fucked you stupid, but with toji you always find yourself in this exact situation. every single time.

your words only make him laugh, his chuckles bringing a warmth to your chest and face; you ignore both, opting to look out the window instead. “you’re taking me home, right?” because you have absolutely no intention of going back to his place. not anytime soon, anyway.

his silence is unnerving, so you try again. and again. and again.

“toji, damn it, are you even listening to me?” you’ve long fixed yourself so you’re sitting properly in the passenger’s seat, but toji keeps quiet, his eyes drifting over towards you every now and then, that smug look carved deeply into his eyes, making you want to shout — but you refrain. you know if you lose your cool entirely, it means he’s won.

you refuse to let him win.

“where are we going, if you’re not taking me home.” is this the moment he finally makes good on his promise? is he taking you somewhere hidden, where no one will hear you scream, where they won’t find a body or any sort of evidence? a series of chilling, morbid thoughts pile into your mind one after the other; the way you shift in your seat makes him laugh again. it’s priceless, the way you’re so nervous, the way you think you have him figured out. it’s also terribly cute, and that thought is dangerous enough to make him almost hit the car in front of him. 

thankfully, he swerves out of the way just in time, earning a sharp glare from you, but he ignores that too.

“i hope you’re feeding me,” you say with a sigh, fussing with your hair, hoping the scent of gojo’s soap doesn’t linger for much longer. before you know it, he’s pulled into the parking lot of an impressive hotel somewhere downtown in the city. you know his ass can’t really afford to stay here, so you narrow your eyes at him and then look back at the hotel. “why are we here?” you know better than to voice the rest of your opinion; you’re not cruel, and you don’t have it in you to ever belittle anyone for their financial situation, and while toji is certainly an asshole — a proud one too — you can’t bring yourself to try hurting his feelings like that.

not when there are other ways.

although, can a man like that really get his feelings hurt? you might not ever know at the rate you’re going; his pace is inconsistent and he drives you to do ridiculous and reckless things, like seek out comfort from gojo, for example.

“the last job i took paid well, so,” he nods his head towards the building before grabbing his duffle bag and exiting the car. you scramble after him, not wanting to be left behind, not really having much on you besides your purse and cell phone. 

it’s then that you notice, with the sun shining high above you, the dark stains on his shirt; even though he’s always in dark clothing, it’s noticeable up close. you wrinkle your nose at that and inch away, much to his amusement. pretty pitiful behavior he’s exhibiting, if anyone asked him.

“so you couldn’t, like, shower before coming to kidnap me?” you don’t mean anything by it; you take notice of bit of blood on the side of his neck, and you swallow hard, wondering whose it is — his or someone else’s.

“s’not mine,” he says, as if reading your mind, “don’t worry about me so much.” if you weren’t in public, you’d slap him for his impudence.

it seems toji’s frequented this hotel before, because they don’t bat an eyelash at his appearance, they simply hand him a key and he strides off to the elevator. you struggle to keep up with him, say as much, which only makes him laugh again — he’s always fucking laughing — annoying you endlessly.

once inside the room, you’re immediately floored. the spacious suite — excuse you, the luxuriously spacious suite, that is — is pristine, heavenly, and possibly a dream. you look at him questioningly, knowing he didn’t get this for your sake, but for his. not that you blame him; if you had the money, you’d randomly splurge like this too.

“are you finally going to talk to me properly, or what?” you place a hand on your hip, his eyes take you in, before he lifts a shoulder up in a lazy attempt at a shrug.

“i need a shower.” it’s all he says as he starts stripping in front of you, tossing his clothes behind him, padding barefoot to the bathroom. you watch a little too hard, you realize, so you busy yourself with investigating the room. you know this is probably a one or two night deal for him, but you suppose you can enjoy it while you’re here; there’s no need to continue picking petty fights with him, when you’re in a place like this, is there?

toji, meanwhile, allows the water to pelt his skin, the heat scalding but refreshing. he scrubs off the grime of the day, wanting to rid himself of the bullshit he endured earlier; somehow his rage never subsides. if anything, it just keeps building. the sight of you sitting so comfortably with gojo made him think irrational, impossible things. he’s not a fool, he knows what happened, more or less; gojo’s texts and smug face only confirmed it. he doesn’t really blame you, but he feels like it.

one thing about gambling, is the stakes are always addicting, and right now, the stakes are incredibly high. it’s the thrill of the risk that has him finally step out of the shower, the steam thick enough to choke someone; he dries himself off with a large, fluffy towel, before wrapping it around his waist, stepping out of the bathroom and feeling like a brand new person.

you’ve ordered room service without his permission and drink champagne straight from the bottle, ignoring his pointed looks, sitting comfortably on the plush sofa as if you have every right to be there.

your nonchalance pisses him off somehow, so he grabs the duffle bag and places his gun and a knife — the type one goes camping with — onto the small circular table, unceremoniously dropping his bag onto the floor right after.

you watch, stupidly, blinking slowly as you try to understand. “what’s that for?” you look up at him, eyes widened, fear trickling through you, making your throat constrict in a way that makes it nearly impossible to speak. 

toji motions at the weapons on the table, “pick one.”

again, you find yourself blinking, your hands clutching the champagne bottle tightly. this has to be a joke, right? a sick, sick joke, where toji teases you mercilessly and eventually fucks you. you’re sure it has to be. but when he doesn’t say anything, when his eyes turn hard as he tilts his head to watch the way you’re refusing to do as he says.

“why?” you squeak, not wanting to play whatever game he’s started, “what are you going to do to me?” you’ve never considered yourself the valiant type, so this is an instance where your body tells you to run, run, run. somehow you remain seated; somehow a part of you demands to know his reasoning; somehow you regain a bit of control over yourself.

the longer you take, the more pissed he gets, so he says nothing, his green eyes lingering on you, reminding you of a feral animal that’s waiting for its prey to make the first move.

you sit up a little straighter, voice raising as you start to shout. “toji!” 

he tells himself it’ll be worth it in the end, if you could only fucking listen. “...i said choose.” his voice, like his presence, is commanding — low, but dangerous, a dark edge lacing his words without even trying. 

still, you won’t let him have his way that easily. you’re your own person, you should be allowed to ask questions and be treated as such. “not until you tell me what you’ll do to me—”

toji grabs the gun and slams it on the table, the sound loud enough to make you jump — as if the gun was angry too — the bottle of champagne still caught between your trembling hands, miraculously. 

“i won’t fucking say it again, y/n.” 

that makes you nervously blurt out, “the k-knife.”

for some reason, he’s disappointed — at what, he’s not entirely sure, but he knows disappointment — has known it all his life, and promptly decides that that’s what this empty feeling is.

“good choice.”

your curiosity be damned, you should’ve thought this through. toji carries you over to the bedroom, much to your feigned displeasure; he also brings both weapons and when you try asking him about it, he simply tosses you onto the large bed and watches as you bounce around. he places the gun on the table off to the side, his gaze halting your movements completely. something compels you to take your clothes off; maybe it’s from the way this whole thing started off, or maybe it’s from the way he’s looking at you. whatever it is, your clothes are off. 

because you’re so compliant, he flashes you a sly grin, his strides bring him to you swiftly; he twirls the knife around his fingers before spreading your legs apart. your heart beats loud enough that you’re sure he can hear it too. a normal person would simply leave, would never look his way again, but he told you last time, didn’t he? you’re not a saint; not even close. with a soft sigh, you watch him intently as he runs the flat side of the blade against your inner thigh. the metal is cool against your skin, making you inhale sharply; you bite down on your lip hard enough to make you wince, your pussy is in a world of its own right now.

while you know there’s something so incredibly fucked up about all of this, you also know that you like the sensual way he’s dragging the blade against your skin, and while he doesn’t mean to, he accidentally cuts you. before you open your mouth to tell him off, he’s already bent forward and licks the blood off. it’s only a tiny bit, but the contact forces a shudder to pass through you, your nipples hardening without remorse.

it’s absolutely absurd that you’re into this, but you can’t help it. you know, you know — it is what it is.

he spins the knife so that he can place the handle in your hand. you clutch it instinctively, which makes the corners of his lips curl upward. “fuck yourself with it.” he says suddenly, his towel finally slipping from his body and landing somewhere near your shirt. “i know you want to.” if you had just a bit more sense, you’d have resisted falling into his trap; but you don’t, you’re more foolish than you realize.

your legs shake, not out of fear, but anticipation and with your feet planted on top of the bed, you bring the tip of the round handle to your slit, breath still as you drag it in between your folds, arousal staining it immediately. you should be ashamed, you should dislike the way he’s watching you, and you should hate the way you want him so badly — but you don’t. it’s hopeless, so you stop fighting; the world you’ve found yourself in is illogical and irresistible, you hope you can survive long enough.

toji didn’t think you’d let him take it this far; if he were a decent man he’d be a bit more forgiving. but he’s not; he won’t pretend to be otherwise. but it would really suck if you hurt yourself in the process, so he yanks the knife out of your hand and ends up cutting himself. he’s so desensitized to pain, he doesn’t feel or notice it. you’re horrified at his callous behavior, and watch as the knife tumbles onto the floor. without considering the consequences, you hop off of the bed and sprint to grab the gun. you’ve never shot one before, but you’re sure you can manage.

not that you want to hurt him, but he’s being ridiculous now, and you’re still annoyed at him about a lot of things. the toxicity between you two should be enough to turn you off, but it doesn’t; which is why you hesitate. toji pushes you onto the bed again, eyes wild as you point the gun at his chest. “now that’s what i’m talkin’ about.” he moves closer, the metal touching his skin, making you worried that you’ll actually do damage if you’re not careful.

you just wanted him to see that he’s not the only one that’s capable of inducing fear; you wanted him on edge, just like you, but it backfires. it always does. 

“don’t tell me, you’re not gonna follow through?” he actually looks disappointed, his thick, dark brows knitted closely together as he looks down at you. he rubs the tip of his hardened cock against your pussy, dragging it slowly along the slit before dipping it in between your folds. you still can’t find the words you want to say; your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a soft whimper that you’re too invested to feel any shame over. 

toji presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, tsking audibly at your audacity; he slips the thick head of his cock inside of your tight hole, bringing out a shameless moan from deep inside of you, your hands shaking, your desire so tangible that it’s making you dizzy. still, toji insists on being the absolute worst, and keeps running his stupid mouth. “if you wanna kill someone, then you have to mean it.” he cages his thick arms around you, crowding the small bit of space between you. “i can give you some pointers, if you like.” 

you’re so aroused and irritated that you don’t think as you speak. “go to hell.” and while you’d meant to say it with venom, you don’t — because he chooses that exact moment to bury the rest of his cock into your pussy, hips pressed firmly against yours. you wrap your legs around him to hold him still, needing a moment to adjust because he forgets how monstrous he is all the fucking time. again, he awards you that kindness, since he knows you’ll be begging him soon enough.

if he hadn’t seen it happen so many times, he wouldn’t be half as bold. toji, amused by your insistence on defying him again and again, leans closer, hips knocking roughly against yours. “been there, baby girl,” he says darkly, tongue darting out and licking his lips at the sight of your pussy soaked around him, “didn’t like it, so i came back to life.” he’s so full of shit, and you can’t stand him, but you forget all of that. all you can focus on is the rough way he’s fucking you, like he’s harshly reminding you of his previous assertion — that he’d ruin you for anyone else after him.

“took the bullets out, earlier,” he admits cheekily, a fierce look flashing behind your eyes as you chuck the gun off to the side.

“fuck you, i literally cannot stand y—”

he snaps his hips against yours, angling them so he can fuck you deeply. “shut up and stop lying.” he says this knowing damn well how hypocritical he’s being; but that’s not the point, is it? he doesn’t think so, anyway. 

you wish you could continue, but you can’t; your pussy covets the thickness of his cock more than you care to admit. if he ever knew, he’d never live it down. but, the thing is, he already knows — it’s why he does what he does, why he knows he has a slight edge over you for the time being. because if you found out how deeply embedded you are within him, he’d have to go into witness protection. it’s that serious.

grabbing onto your thighs, toji leans forward, dropping playful, sloppy kisses onto your lips, which only makes you clench around him. is it affection or arousal? you don’t actually know, but you do know that toji never has to do much to get you like this. it’s a fucking problem. you moan his name loudly, against your better judgment, and he kisses you greedily, swallowing the rest of your moans as his cock slams into you harder. 

if you ever have a bad day, you’ll just recall this moment; you can hardly breathe, the heat from his body melted all of your resolve, and it’s when his cock hits that spot that you scream, hips bucking up against his frantically, your breath coming out in soft pants as he continues to fuck you senseless. your orgasm has you mumbling nonsense, earning a mocking laugh from him. your arousal drips down your thighs and onto his skin. he likes that your pussy is a small form of paradise for him; your plush, tight walls squeezing around him, in a way that made him absolutely feral. he nips your neck, right below your ear, drags his tongue down the length of it, your mind spinning as your pussy aches in a way that has you calling out his name until your throat is hoarse.

an odd fury pulses through him and he bites your shoulder, earning a pinch from you on his side. “toji, fuck that hurt.” not terribly, but it was shocking, and if his cock wasn’t burrowing into you like that and making you delirious, you’d be more firm — but right now, you’re just trying to chase that high for as long as you can. as an apology — or what he considers an apology — toji pulls you onto his lap, your breasts pressed against his chest, skin rubbing together with each brutal thrust of his hips. you press needy kisses along his jaw, clenching your pussy around him reflexively, his large hands holding onto you as he rolls his hips. when you fall apart, when you cry out — hating how much you like the lewd squelching from your salacious cunt — an orgasm tears through him at the same time. 

the way he moans your name makes you want to stay like this forever; if you could bottle it up, you’d carry it around with you everywhere. you know it’s not love, but the infatuation is steadily taking over your life. you might need to reconsider a few things one of these days. but as his sloppy thrusting slows down, as his cum spills out of you, you can only think about how you’re always taken to new heights every time he fucks you. what is it about him that keeps you coming back? outside of the attraction, outside of his sculpted body, are you really depraved enough to want whatever semblance of affection he can give you?

the answer eludes you, heart beating pitifully, the sounds reverberating in your chest loud enough to remind you that you’re foolish as hell. toji knows that you’re doing all of this song and dance because he won’t validate the relationship officially. if he wasn’t already too enamored with you right now, he’d roll his eyes at that.

but, did he really want the likes of gojo — or worse nanami, geto — or anyone else having access to you the way he does? the answer hit him so clearly in the face that he cursed under his breath, making you look at him strangely. he pulls out of you so he can think straight; toji’s 94% sure that your pussy hypnotizes him each and every time. you’re inclined to entertain that idea if it means he’ll stop stomping over your feelings.

“if i say yes,” he says carefully, rolling onto his side, hoping the distance will keep him clear-headed, “will you shut up about all of that?” he didn’t need to explain because you know exactly what he’s talking about.

“no guarantees,” you say lightly, crawling over and tossing your curvy leg around his hip. he stares sharply, but you roll your eyes at his theatrics. “i’m kidding, god.” your lips brush against his gently and you leave behind a tender kiss. normally, he’d find a reason to get out of bed, to ghost you for weeks, but he can’t find that reason now. he slips his tongue into your mouth, kissing you slowly, reminding you just how dangerous he is. you already forgot why you were annoyed to begin with, and he’s mostly forgiven your transgressions. you know you should be more than elated, but a voice in the back of your mind spews a nasty, contrary opinion on the matter. you snuff it out, ignore the words completely, and smile instead. 

you refuse to fuck anything up with your over-thinking, you’d finally achieved your goal and don’t want to give up your prize anytime soon.

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