#everyone is experiencing the horrors but Dat is just having fun being a silly little guy!

[josephslittledeputy]

WIP Whenever

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton​ @direwombat​ @detectivelokis​ @river-ward​ @adelaidedrubman​ @inafieldofdaisies​ @marivenah​ (ty lovelies!)

I’ve got a few wips saved up, so I’ll start off with Datura in her Mar*el Verse

"Containment breach, experiment 347 is loose. All personnel must immediately evacuate the facility."

The automated alarm monotonously advises while red lights flash around the room, like an ominous strobe light. The sound of gunshots and screams were getting closer, causing one of the scientists to drop what was in their hands, startling everyone when the glass shatters on the floor.

"Sorry!"

"Goddammit Kaitlin, pull yourself together!"

"Yes, Doctor Amos!"

"Containment breach, experiment 347 is loose. All personnel must immediately evacuate the facility."

They were almost done. The room itself now looked as clean and empty as the day they arrived, save for the tables along the walls and various pieces of medical equipment.

“Containment breach, experiment 347 is— Hellooo.” The interrupting crackle of the intercom causes the whole room to pause, the frantic footsteps and rustling and shredding of papers grind to a halt as everyone slowly turns toward the disturbance. “Now, there wasn’t much of a selection, buuut—“ Someone crying in the background causes the speaker pause. “Shhh, you’re ruining everything!” There’s a sickening crunch, followed by the gargle of someone choking on their own blood, and then… silence. “Now, where was I again? Ah, yes, here we go!” The voice cuts off and what follows is music.

“Is that the… Macarena?” One of the scientists at the back dumbly questions.

~~~

Her hips wiggle to the beat as a peal of laughter escapes ruby stained lips and she finally feels free, free, free! Twirling, she does a jump and a slide, sinking her claws into the nearest guards throat. “Ha!” Crimson stains clash against the blue shade of her skin, like splotches of paint on a blank canvas.

“Hey! Put your hands up!” Another guard shouts as they round the corner, gun shaking but pointed in her direction.

“No, you!” She giggles, wiggling her fingers in their direction.

“What the-?” They drop their gun and raise their hands.

“Isn’t this so much more fun?”

They dance to the music together as if they were choreographed and had practiced for hours, and isn’t long until a couple more guards round the corner and get sucked into the commotion.

This one is a bit longer, but Willa’s dark au is finally getting interesting :’)

"Mama, why do bad things happen to good people?"

The seemingly innocent question catches her mother off guard, startling her with its raw honesty. "Well, sweet pea, God likes to test His children."

"But why?"

“Sometimes, when people are having a hard time, they're overcome with doubt." She strokes a hand over her daughters head, watching the unruly blonde curls spring back up after. "That's when He'll test us, so that when we persevere and overcome these tests, we'll know that our faith in Him is real. That He hasn't abandoned us."

"I don't get it." Shaking the hand off her head, she turns around, meeting her mothers blueish-green eyes. "If He loves us, then why doesn't He already know our faith is real? Why do we need to be tested?"

“Oh, my sweet, you'll get it once you're older." She smiles, grabbing her hands in her own. "And then you'll understand why your hands are stained.”

"Stained? But they're not-" Her words stick in her throat when she looks down to see her hands slick, wet, and so very, very red. "Mama!" She cries out, horrified. "What's on my hands?"

"Oh, don't be silly honey." Still the same saccharine voice she remembers from childhood. "You know that’s my blood."

"Don't forget mine."

Her head turns achingly slow, spotting the towering figure in the doorway with a nagging terror lining her stomach. "Pa?"

“Well I’ll be. You remembered!”

Blood oozes from the walls, covering the floors and stretching out towards her, eager to have its taste of flesh. She scrambles back when it gets too close, scrubbing her hands against the material of her dress. But the crimson stains stick to them like paint, never coming off.

"Oh, come now, don't be like that! We can be a happy family again, you just gotta take this knife out."

"What?" She trembles, looking up to see her Father in front of her this time.

"Well? C'mon kiddo, it hurts!" A wide, maniacal grin splits his face.

"Now you're the one who's being silly, dear. You know she'll never take that thing out." Her mother chirps up behind her with a titter. “Not unless she's about to plunge it back in again.”

They both let out full bellied laughs at the same time, the sound ricocheting in her head, and the blood finally reaches her legs. She tries to get up, but it keeps her there, like a fly stuck to a glue trap. The more she struggles, the more it pulls her down, until she's drowning in it.

All she can see is red.

"NO!" The scream tears from her throat the moment she wakes, covered in a layer of sweat.

She can't see, and maybe that should be a blessing, but right now it feels more like curse. She needs to see, needs to make sure the blood isn't still clinging to her like a second skin. She needs-

"Wouldja shut up in there?"

Her head whips over to the door that opens, and she takes the opportunity to sprint toward it, pushing past the person in the doorway and not looking back.

"Hey wait!" Quick footsteps follow the yell and it isn't long until she's tackled to the ground.

"No! I won't go back! I WON'T!" She claws at their face, a futile effort with her gloves blunting her nails, so she goes for the next best thing. Teeth. She latches onto whatever is closest and pulls, coming away with a metallic taste that she hurriedly spits to the side.

"Ah!" The person holding her down reacts, raising a hand to the gushing wound she'd inflicted, their knees pressing down harder to hold her. "I need back up, NOW!"

It isn't long until more footsteps join them in the hallway, but she's frantic now, she can't see straight. No, worse, she can't even think straight.

Where is she?

"Give 'em the bliss, hurry!"

"No, please, I'll be good this time!" Her broken pleas do little to faze them. Were they listening to her? Did they even care? "I'll be good, I promise!" She sobs when her struggling limbs are held down, followed by a sharp prick to her neck. A few seconds later, her movements grow sluggish, her mind slows, and her eyes begin to roll into the back of her head. Garbled voices still come through, and she’s able to pick up what they're saying before passing out.

"They're almost ready to confess. John’ll be happy..."

.

.

.

When she comes to this time, it isn’t from a nightmare or in some frenzied state, not with the remnants of bliss still coursing through her system. Heavy lids open to a darkened room, arms and legs strapped to a chair with the same familiar leather bit tucked into her mouth. She's in the confession room, again. The same one she's grown familiar with over the week that she's been here. Well, at least she thinks it's been a week, since there's no way of telling time in the bunker. Either way, so far there's been a lot less confessing and a lot more torture, especially from the scratchy material of her half ripped shirt, covered in her dried blood. The door behind her opens and, once again, she doesn't need to look to see who it is.

"My, my, you had quite the little incident earlier, Deputy." John doesn't bother to look at her on his way over to the small table in the room, instead he's more focused on setting down his toolbox and getting things ready.

With the bit in her mouth, the best she can do is a muffled insult. "Fuck you."

He turns around with a look of faux shock and a hand over his heart, as if offended by her words. "There's no need to be so cruel."

Neglecting a reply, she rips at her restraints, showing her displeasure over her situation. If that didn't show it, her scathing glare certainly would.

"Now, I know we haven't been on the best of terms, but I think that'll change soon." He walks over to stand in front of her, bending at the waist and watching with satisfaction when she pushes herself back into her chair. "You see, I’m an understanding man, Deputy. I want to know what drives you, what could cause you to suffer from such wrath. So! I did a little digging, and what I found was... very enlightening."

Her blood goes cold and she freezes, her scathing glare quickly turning into a look of hesitance and fear, despite her best efforts to hide it. Her eyes follow him as he stands to his full height and walks over to his toolbox, turning his back to her while he undoes the clasps and pulls out pieces of paper, and not his usual tools of torture. Turning around with a flourish, he holds the papers up with a gleefully menacing grin.

"I know that you had a troubled childhood." He leans against his table, briefly scanning the papers before looking at her again. "That your parents were not the most nurturing. I even know you lost a dear childhood friend in a terrible incident. One that haunts you still, just as your parents do."

If she wasn't strapped to the chair, she knew her hands would be shaking, tempted to wrap her hands around his neck and cut off his words. Her teeth sink into the leather material in her mouth, preventing them from grinding together. She didn't want to remember. She's worked so hard to keep the memories at bay, to lock them up and throw away the key.

"And I know that you used to see a therapist before coming here."

She's shaking her head now, not wanting to listen any longer. She won't confront this, and she'd sooner die than relive it. "Shut uh." She utters, pulling at her binds.

"Now we're getting somewhere." He sighs with a slight smile, satisfied with her reaction. "Let's start with your friend, Deputy. What happened to him? Do you even remember his name?"

She doesn't answer. She's too busy containing her emotions, trying not to let the memories flood her mind. The mix of emotions are too much, so she tries to numb them, to numb herself to the emotional pain. She liked it better when he was torturing her physically, not mentally.

"His name was James Williams, and police suspect that his death was foul play." His eyes flick down to the page then back up. "Filicide. You know the word, yes? The killing of one's child?"

She shakes her head again, knowing what’s coming next.

“But this article in particular was very interesting.” He holds it up and begins to read aloud. “A fire that broke out early morning last Sunday is now being classified as an arson. Sherry Williams, 45, and her husband Jason Williams, 50, died after being taken to the hospital with third-degree burns.” He stops reading, lifting his eyes and lowering the paper, watching her reaction with a tilt of his head. “I think you know what the rest of the article says, Deputy.”

She pulls at her binds, squirming to get loose, to cover her ears and ignore the words being thrown her way. “Shtop!”

But John doesn’t stop, not when he knows that he’s finally getting somewhere. He sets the papers down, picks his tools up, and moves to stand in front of her. Parting the flaps of her shirt that were ripped already, he stares down at the tattoo on her chest that he’d etched onto her skin a few days ago. The words ‘WRATH’ stood out in dark, bold lettering, the skin around them still red and irritated, and he knew his next actions would do nothing to soothe them. But this was the process, his process, and part of her Atonement.

Willa squirms when his fingers caress her skin, tracing over the letters with a sadistic fascination in his eyes, causing her stomach to curdle in disgust. That disgust quickly gives way to a desperate attempt to escape when he brings a knife into view. She only has to wait for a few seconds before the bite of the blade presses into her skin, prompting beads of blood to bubble up as it traces over the lettering of her sin. Her teeth sink into the leather in her mouth, denying him the satisfaction of hearing her make a noise yet. Without a pause, he’s already onto the second letter, then the third, and it isn’t until he’s on the last two letters that she finally lets out a muffled whimper.

John stops, lifting his gaze from his work, causing blue eyes to clash against her own green eyes. “Comfortable, Deputy?”

If she could have spat in his face, she would have, so she settles for the next best thing: a head butt.

“Fuck!” John curses, dropping the knife in favor of clutching his now aching head.

She can’t help but to laugh, even if her head was now throbbing and her chest was burning, the sight of John in pain was something that tickled her pink. The next few moments are lightening quick, he bends down, snatches up the blade, and stabs her thigh.

“AHH FUCK!” Looking down, she observes the knife stuck halfway in, almost deep enough to dig into bone. “Why the fuck woo you do that?!”

“Why would you headbutt me?!”

Breathing through the pain, she shrugs her shoulders. “Touché.”

"I think," He yanks the blade out, taking great satisfaction in her muffled yell that trails off into a pained whimper. "We'll continue this later." Without any further comment, he leaves her alone in the room, slamming the door behind him.