#he already had a strange mass in his upper abdomen

[ceytal]

the past 48 hours have been shit. it’s bad when i don’t even feel like continuing orv or playing anything that requires actual effort (meaning i’m auto-clicking cookie clicker while dissociating)

[yamazakura-shinden]

Violet flames scorch the once-usually quiet woods of the Land of Fire. A boy stands amidst the chaos, heaving and desperately trying to catch his breath. He leans against a lone tree in the embers. The boy's- Osuke- pale skin is littered with bruises and scratches from head to toe. His cherry blossom pink hair is matted and messy. Long and soft locks ruffled in all directions.

"How did it come to this?" Osuke bitterly asks himself. The soul-crushing guilt clouds his judgment. His gloved hands tremble in fear. The pink-haired boy loses control over his chakra-enhanced strength snapping the tree in half with a single curl of his fingers.

Before Osuke can calm himself down, the clearing just a few yards away erupts in a giant mass of light, stunning him in the process. The mass destruction before his eyes is none other than the works of a Bijuu Bomb- something only tailed beasts can create. "No." Realization dawns upon the pinkette. Be wastes no time to dash in the opposite direction and pushes himself to run as fast as possible.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO!" Osuke chants to himself as he begins to feel even more distressed by the second. His breath is uneven and shallow, the stinging from his wounds sharpens, but he cannot stop running. He needs to get back to his friends- Suisen and Suzume. The former is badly injured and unconscious with only Suzume there to keep him away from the clutches of The Hidden Leaf Village, also known as Konoha.

Osuke maneuvers through the burning forest and swiftly jumps from one tree branch to the next while carefully avoiding the purple flames. His mind is only filled with images of his struggling friends, too preoccupied with them to notice the terrifying beast looming over his petite form. The beast is nothing, but a shapeless shadowy mass with a pair of lifeless white eyes. Despite being at least 20 times the size of its unassuming prey, its form is still incomplete and is a mere fragment of the Zero Tails.

A cold and disturbing chakra takes over Osuke's senses. The chakra is enormous and overwhelming enough to force the pink-haired teen to stop dead in his tracks. His battered and worn out body tenses and he slowly turns around to meet the animalistic gaze of his hunter. Before Osuke can get a better look at the shadowy creature, he's suddenly thrown into the chaos.

The ground splits open, and trees and massive chunks of the terrain fly across the scene. White hot pain swiftly spreads throughout the rogue ninja's body. The agony is an understatement to the pain he feels after the beast cleaves more than half of his left arm, leaving a small chunk of his upper arm intact, and splits his abdomen open.

...

"That was quite painful, wasn't it?"

There it was again. That obnoxious voice in his head.

"Although.. I'm quite curious about what happened next." The voice made its presence known seven or so months ago. At first, Osuke was startled and thought he'd gone mad after that terrible night almost 2 years ago from today.

"Well, well, well! Aren't you being uncharacteristically chatty and nosey today?" He sassily remarked, already used to the voice in his head. They had a strangely comforting and calm tone, but also baritone and weary.

"Seeing that I'm all alone in this dark place with so little to do to entertain myself, it's only natural to make use of what little I have."

The mysterious voice tried to reason, but he didn't buy it all.

"This is the fourth time you tried to pry into my memories!"

"And I failed every single time thanks to your freakish inner self!"

Another useless attempt to defend themselves regardless of whether they were in the wrong or not.

"It is as if he's your guard dog to your subconscious."

They crudely commented.

"WHY YOU LITTLE-"

His inner self chimed in as if he heard the half-hearted insult thrown by the disembodied voice.

"HOW DARE YOU COMPARE ME TO A DOG?!"

Inner roared in fury.

"There he goes again barking like a feral beast.."

They sighed tiredly. Something which Osuke's father did quite often at his childish antics from a time that was just a distant and bittersweet memory for him.

“AGH GET OVER HERE YOU SLY, OLD FOSSIL!”

The pink-haired young man's inner self cracked his gloved knuckles.

"Wait! Keep your hands off of me, you brat!"

“CHAAAA!”

Osuke grimaced. While those two were getting into petty fights, he tried to concentrate on concealing his chakra signature. He didn't want to be caught in a place heavily guarded by Hidden Leaf ninja. The rouge ninja meant to contact Orochimaru, but the only way to do that was to personally visit him.

It has been proven to be confusing and arduous to navigate in Orochimaru's hideout. The corridors were long, seemingly endless, their walls were adorned by serpentine patterns. The dim lighting illuminated by the few torches scattered around didn't help much. The interior was unironically befitting of the Snake Sannin.

"How the hell can Orochimaru work in such poor lighting?" Osuke wondered while he blindly sneaked into the darkness of the underground lair.

His silent musings were interrupted by a foreign chakra signature emanating down the dim hallway. The signature belonged to a Leaf Jonin patrolling the area. The young man unsheathed his tanto knife from its simple yet elegant sheathe attached to his thigh. The blade had a deep crimson color and the type of the hamon was kaen. Osuke planned on incapacitating the jonin quietly from behind. All he needed to do was plunge the glinting blade deep into his jugular and hide the body.

"Wait! Don't kill the guard. You might raise suspicion which will make it harder for you to come back here."

Osuke's disembodied companion interjected before he could act on his malicious intentions.

"Then what do you propose to do instead? I doubt you have any better ideas."

"As a matter of fact, I do."

...

​Meanwhile, a certain sannin tirelessly worked on making a breakthrough with an unknown substance that was brought to him recently. Orochimaru's golden eyes narrowed at the petri dish infront of him. Despite all the acids and bases along with the most powerful catalysts he has thrown at it, the contents inside remained all the same. In other words: no reaction whatsoever. Orochimaru had never come across any element incapable of reacting. The only acid didn't use yet was Fluoroantimonic acid, also known as the deadliest acid in the world.

The snake sannin's gaze lingered on the small glimmering chunks in the petri dish. They resembled familiar and commonly used elements yet also had an otherworldly appearance. As if they came from the distant stars themselves.

Suddenly, the sharp blade of a tanto was pressed against his throat. The cold steal against his jugular was held by Osuke Uchiha himself. Orochimaru easily recognized his chakra due to meeting many members of the Uchiha clan in the past. No matter how unique and distinguished their signatures were, they always shared one common characteristic- an inextinguishable flame that continued to burn even after death.

"You have some nerve to sneak up on me like that."

Orochimaru chided. He was unamused by the pink-haired Uchiha's audacity. He tightened his grip on his weapon. Osuke glared at him in silence letting the older man speak freely.

"I suppose you have some reason to come here- a place full of elite jonin who are being supervised by Captain Yamato directly."

From what was taught to Osuke during his days in the Academy, Captain Yamato was a seasoned ANBU captain and war veteran. He was described as a formidable opponent by his past jonin instructor when he was a genin.

"There's no way you could've gone this far without alerting anyone."

The snake sannin was curious about the lack of ninjas rushing in to apprehend Osuke for trespassing.

"Either way, how did you get in here?"

Osuke just ominously grinned.

"Well... I have my ways."

"I DID ALL THE HEAVY LIFTING, CHAAA!"

The "ways" yelled at his counterpart in the real world. His irritation with Osuke was more than obvious.

An awkward silence impregnated the tense atmosphere of the lab. That made the pinkette scoff indignantly and begrudgingly put away the tanto.

"I'll tell you why I came here to speak with you."

Osuke paused to collect his thoughts as he sheathed his weapon before continuing.

"You have some information I need.'

"Oh?" The sannin was intrigued. What could someone like him want to know from him? He'd seen Osuke a few times when the young Uchiha was still a child. The weak little boy with no self-esteem was a far cry from the daring rogue ninja before him.

"What information are you talking about?"

"I need Hashirama cells and the S-Rank jutsu Edo Tensei."

Orochimaru abruptly burst out in uncontrollable laughter. His cackles rang throughout the lab.

"So you came here, waltzed up to me like you own this hideout, and now you demand from me something you can only dream of?"

The snake sannin ridiculed Osuke in between fits.

"Do you hear even yourself, boy?"

The young man could barely hold back his rage and embarrassment.

"Hear me out, will ya?!"

He yelled at the older man who has cackled and mocked him for five minutes straight.

"I would be a fool to expect you to want nothing in return."

Osuke "calmly" stated after taking a deep breath and putting on a stern face.

"Therefore, I shall assist you with your research on your most recent project."

Orochimaru rubbed his chin while contemplating the young man's words.

"I made a few breakthroughs on my own and am willing to share them in exchange for the information I'm seeking."

Then he added to sweeten the deal. He knew that the snake sannin was frustrated with his lack of progress in his research. It was obvious due to the messy and aggressively written notes scattered across the desk. He watched Orochimaru's thoughtful and reluctant expression morph into a pleased grin, his sharp fangs peeking out the corners of his lips.

"Very well then. I accept your proposal, Uchiha Osuke. I look forward to working with you~"

To be continued…

[thisisthehardestthing]

18+ Dark - BNHAREM collab

This is for the BNHAREM server collab! Please see the masterlist HERE

authors note: This is a choose your own adventure style collab. Please go read the amazing intro written by @iwvs-on-ao3​ in the masterlist! I hope you enjoy the below x

Warnings: gloryhole, watersports, blowjob

tags: @enjifuckersupreme​​ , @joyousandverywarlike​​ , @linestrider​​ , @pleasantanathema​​ , @present-mel​​ , @elektraeriseros​​

Above the thrum of the party was an equally dark room, the only light a variety of monitors, most showing a green to signify night vision, some flashing purple, green, blue, beiges, others a fully red glow. Bodies contorted on the monitors, a few were close-up and a few had a birds eye view of the entire room. One in particular, had a fisheye scope, someone was ushered in, head abnormally large, before turning left and right, and the door closed.

A late comer, Endeavor hated tardiness.

He grunted as he adjusted his thin rimmed, black glasses and glanced at the different screens. He gazed, unamused at the varieties of different ways heroes, sidekicks, and, under special supervision, villains, participated in sexual acts. He unmuted one of the screens, screams filled the sound-proofed room and he winced, instantly shutting the sound off once more. He peered at it, making sure it was consensual pain, before unmuting the next one. It was a cacophony of moans, grunts, echoing as though in an opera hall; the orgy was in full swing.

The Number One hero unzipped his expensive black tailored pants, the wool-silk blend pleating fluidly as they were pushed down his thighs, bespoke from Dior Homme. A large palm stroked his cock, hardening quickly to the lewd noises. He focused on a particular pussy, watching someone with a dick too thin to be his pound into whom he assumed to be Mount Lady. Her blonde hair was pulled back as she sucked off some kind of monster cock, a strange shape that leaked cum all over her face, dripping down to the bodies below her. He heard squelching, grunts, slaps against skin, and he closed his eyes for a few moments as he lazily fisted his cock, rolex glinting in the dim light; his goal was not to get off, but rather just to release some pressure, tension, stretch out his pleasure for the duration of the entire night.

It’d been a few years since Endeavor had begun to host these… exclusive gatherings. He never participated, only surveyed. Some sick part of him enjoyed watching, finding pleasure in all the kinks he provided. His eyes darted to other screens, watching a masked man contort in such a way that his back seemed to break to suck himself off, a woman fucked herself on her fingers for an audience, another one taking part in a seemingly endless train, cunt stuffed full of different types of semen. His cock especially twitched when he came across someone getting pissed on, marked in an erasable way, almost cumming in his hand as a loud moan echoed from the orgy screen in combination.

Fuck, he thought as he pulled away from his cock, lifting up the hem of his black cashmere turtleneck—it was dry clean only—to wipe his precum against his lower abdomen, careful not to get any on his branded clothing. He licked the leftover, humming with approval that his new diet plan helped his taste. He tugged the sweater off, revealing the black oiled leather harness underneath, and folded it neatly onto the desk.

Movement in the bottom right screen caught his attention and he saw you, shifting awkwardly in the four by four meter cubicle. You weren’t the usual person for that section, obviously not the regularly hired prostitutes and sex workers; where the hell did they find you? Endeavor grumbled. He’d specifically demanded that there would be no new employees, the roster approved by him alone, not after the press almost got wind of him and what he’d been orchestrating behind the scenes of hero life. The number one hero could not be seen as the head of a lucrative sex society.

Your hands, tiny from the camera angle, drew the outline of the glory hole before settling yourself in front of it on the pillows. The snort that left Endeavor's nose came out harshly, slight flames tickling his upper lip.

Amature, he couldn’t help but think. You’d learn quickly not to sit too close; there’s no telling what might come through that circular cut-out in the wood.

He muted the orgy, unmuting your cubicle and listened in. It was quiet, quieter than the other rooms, and he waited with baited breath for the first of the participants. The glory-hole was one of the more vanilla kinks in the estate, yet it was one of his favorites. Without knowing who was on the other side, he would sometimes try and guess. Your exhale brought him from his distracted musings, the rise and fall of your chest beneath a normal T-shirt seemed so innocent.

You were innocent, he realised with raised eyebrows, and he leant forward in his black office chair. It creaked under his mass, the straps of his harness bit into his shoulders as he readjusted his glasses to see you clearly. You better do a good fucking job, his reputation demanded it.

There was a knock on the wood, the signal that someone was on the other side waiting, and Endeavor watched with an intensity at the way your body flinched at the sound, he even heard a squeak that made his cock twitch. The first genital of the night poked through the hole. You were lucky, he mused, it was a normal dick that curved slightly to the right, normal girth, average length, underwhelming, so he let his eyes wander to the other screens.

He watched a few couples partake in shibari, the tying of intricate knots and designs well underway. The way the ropes twisted and turned had always piqued Endeavors interest, but he knew he was not a patient enough man to take part and would probably leave his partner in pain. A sudden grunt, moan and squeal switched his attention back to you, and now Endeavor was interested. It had barely been three minutes since you began and the guy had already cum?

He watched as you wiped cum off your cheek to shake your hand so that it dripped in a glob to the floor, the way you winced at the taste and finished an entire bottle of water—rookie, will have to piss soon—before setting yourself back up for the next person of the night. This time, however, Endeavor did not take his eyes off you for a second. He had never been more fascinated by someone sucking cock before. For someone that looked so normal, you had a real talent. Your cheeks hollowed just right, your head bobbed with a rhythm that made it impossible to look away from, it had him wondering how you would be with some of the… stranger genitals around, how those pretty lips would look wrapped around his monster of a cock.

Maybe he’ll let you taste it, just maybe. He had never taken part before, but there was something about you that he had to try out for himself. The next guy came in under five minutes again, but this time you swallowed, gagging and dry heaving with your face turned towards the camera.

Fuck, Endeavor thought, his hand fisting his length once more, the tears in your eyes made a fire burn in his chest, internally compared to the flames that danced on his body in his hero suit. You wiped your tears with the bottom of your t-shirt, flashing skin, a bra, lace, before you drank more water. Oh, how interesting, he mused. A lace bra with such unassuming clothes? Endeavor wondered if you’d planned that, just in case someone were to see you without your shirt. He thought about whether it was a matching set.

But his train of thought was interrupted when he saw a flash of light on one of the other monitors. He cursed, swiveling around to peer at it intently, before pressing a button to call in security. There was always some kind of fight that would break out, either if someone’s turn in a train was too long or if it was because someone didn’t consent to a sexual act. That’s the real reason Endeavor was in this room. Sure, he liked to watch, but he had to make sure it was safe, too. It was the secret to his success.

The rest of the night flew by. He watched all the monitors, with his eyes periodically glancing at you. He couldn’t believe the desire that sparked in his gut from seeing such a simple act. Then, burning jealousy, raging from out of the blue, when a few heroes—whom he’d keep unnamed—entered the cubicle to fuck you. He saw your cries, both in pleasure and pain, but you never once said ‘no,’ so he didn’t intervene. Endeavor could keep his emotions in check, no matter how badly he wanted to throttle Gang Orca for defiling anything but your slutty mouth.

He saw the rooms begin to empty, one by one, as heroes, villains and more trickled out, thoroughly fucked out of their minds, climbing into black chauffeured cars with tinted windows in the early morning, bliss apparent across their faces. There were always a few that stayed behind, those that understood what ‘aftercare’ was, taking time to soothe the elite prostitutes' aches, burns, welts, bruises and muscles. Most of those that took those measures were not who you’d expect; many were villains, underground heroes, those not usually in the spotlight that understood the importance of picking up the pieces after what was dropped, left behind.

Endeavor looked at your monitor again and ran his fingers through his short red hair, contemplating his next move. You were still in the booth even though no one had bothered you for at least an hour. The black lace underwear set you wore was bunched up next to you where it was almost ripped off your needy flesh. He saw inklings of dried cum on your belly, arms, hair through the high definition of the screen. It made him sick. He felt protective over your frail body, and in some twisted way, possessive. Like always, everyone ignored the glory hole at the end of the night. While most whores in the converted cathedral got some kind of soothing treatment, that four by four cubicle was always left in the dark, forgotten. And you were too.

The hulking mass of muscle sighed as he stood up, folded his glasses away and stacked it neatly on top of his sweater. With a final click of a button, he turned your monitor recording off, leaving a black square in its place.

**

You were exhausted, fucked, sore in all your holes, almost wanting to laugh at yourself and the predicament you were in. You couldn’t believe you did this for money. Was it worth it? No. Well, maybe? Granted, you could’ve refused, you were asked every time before your cunt was stuffed. In the moment, you wanted it. You just wished you weren’t so sore.

How long had it been since you were curled in the corner of the cubicle, knees to your chest? You shifted, feeling the dried cum on your belly crumble and flake, making you wince. Your eyes had gotten used to the perpetual darkness, and you reached for your bunch up underwear, using it to scrub what you could off you. You inadvertently pressed on your bladder, and with wide eyes, realized just how badly you had to go.

Fuck, you scrambled to your heels, feeling for your jeans and t-shirt, and stood to get dressed when the door behind you opened. The golden glow of the hallway filtered in, before a looming shadow darkened the space once more. You had never noticed that the pillows were a plum with golden trim before. You felt frozen to the spot, back to the door, clothing crumpled in your claw-like grip. The voice that washed over you raised goosebumps over your entire body, it vibrated your bones.

“Turn around,” he commanded, and your body twisted automatically, following his wish immediately.

Your mouth dropped open and your head tilted back as you gazed up at the Number One Hero, the orchestrator of the night, Endeavor. Your heart hammered in your chest, an uneven beat, and you brought the fabric in your hands to cover yourself, feeling too naked under his piercing stare. Even in the dark, the blue of his eyes shone as if lit by its own fire.

“Who are you?” Endeavor’s voice was weighted, like it contained all the authority in the world and you stammered out your name, lowering your head in a bow. You did not expect him to repeat it back to you, and your eyes shot up to stare at his shadowed mouth moving to taste the word on his tongue.

“This is your first time here.” Not a question, but you answered.

“Yes, sir.” There was a tug at the corner of his lip.

“For the money?”

“Yes, sir.” A flash of lightning in his eyes.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

You paused, uncertain how to answer, a whirlwind had begun beneath your ribs in response to the storm standing in the doorway. Yet, you sighed, giving in to the truth.

“Yes, I did,” you heard thunder so you added on quickly, “sir.”

“Good.”

The word of approval sent heat licking down your spine, a pooling between your thighs, not for the first time that night, but you hoped it would be that last. Reluctantly, you met his analytical gaze, the shadows of the room swallowing you whole. Your body felt abused, tired, and you still really needed the bathroom. Endeavor grunted, running thick fingers through short hair, it began to flame, before he stepped in and shut the door behind him.

His tall frame overwhelmed the small space of the room, shadows danced in orange with the flicker of his fire. You gulped, smelt the spice of his cologne and absorbed the heat of his skin. Endeavor’s palms enclosed yours, peeling the clothing from your clutches to drop them unceremoniously to the floor. He watched as you shifted, weight transferring from foot to foot, raising an eyebrow.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks, the sincerity in his voice shocked you, and you froze, shaking your head vigorously.

“No, sir,” then with a whisper, “I need to go to the ladies room.”

The ladies room, he chuckled. So innocent, so polite, how cute, “you can hold it for a while longer.”

It wasn’t a mere suggestion, but a command. Dumbfounded, you nodded. You really couldn’t, but you felt this overwhelming urge to please him, make him praise you for doing a good job. What kind of spell could this man weave? His hands stroked up your arms, around your biceps, to massage the wound muscles of your shoulders. He wondered if your used sex would still be as tight as the knots in your back. His cock twitched at the thought, only one way to find out.

“I’ve been watching you,” he mused, digging his fingers into the soft skin of your neck, massaging the base of your scalp. “All night. It was interesting.”

He chuckled at the little squeak you let out. Rough fingers tilted your chin up as he leant down, lips inches away. You smelt some sake on his breath, but not enough for you to shrink away. Rather, you wanted to lap it up.

“There are not a lot of women that can suck a cock like you.”

His crude words made you groan, and his lips captured yours, pressing into your body hungrily. Your fingers splayed wide on his bare chest, feeling the tickle of chest hair beneath your palms. They were so soft. The heat emitting from his skin warmed your arms, it lulled you into a sense of comfort. You felt bold, reached around, and hooked your thumbs under the back of his leather harness to tug at it. His tongue traced the wrinkle down the middle of your bottom lip, and you parted for him to enter.

He tasted like smoke, a forest wildfire, and you sucked greedily on the warm tongue tasting your teeth. He moaned into you, the sound carrying the weight of his palms as he gripped the bare flesh of your waist to pull you tighter against him. He wanted to feel that mouth swallow a different muscle. He shifted you backwards, detaching your mouth from his face with a pop.

“On your knees.”

The command ripped through you, threatening to relax all the muscles in your gut, to release what you were so tightly holding. It was painful to concentrate on on your pulsing sex, to keep it in and feel the haze of lust overcome your thoughts at the same time.

“Yes, sir.”

You obeyed, dropping down for the umpteenth time that night. Endeavor watched as you stared up at him obediently through your lashes, your hands that were on his back trailed down to rest on his thighs. He felt the way your fingers tensed against his muscles, the way you strained to stay lucid. You waited for him to undo the button of his suit pants, he was the one in control after all, even if your resolve was crumbling with each passing second.

Endeavor had stroked himself all night, brought himself to the brink of release multiple times that night as he watched you blow dicks that weren’t his. The inflamed head of his cock was angry, weeping terribly as he pumped it with large hands. His lips curled up into a smirk when your mouth dropped open, in shock and hunger to taste him. He knows he would be the best meal you’d eat all night. He brought his cock close to your mouth, tapped it twice against your cheek. You licked your lips before tentatively licking a solid stripe from the base to the tip.

Hm, alright, Endeavor thought, relishing in the way your tongue curved against the underside of his length, pressing against the thick vein protruding from the silky skin. You had just begun, but this pleasure was manageab-oh.

Your tongue swirled around the head, starting at the very tip, circling the slit and lapping at the pre-cum. The circles got larger, and when your lips tightened around his flesh, his eyes shot open to stare down at your concentrating visage. He could see the way you struggled to fit his girth in your mouth, but you were just that skilled. Your lips folded around your teeth, and you slowly swallowed. The plush wall of your cheeks slid around him, suctioning him in deeper as you sucked and moved. It wasn’t deep bobs of your head, taking your time to lubricate his cock, but god, the vacuum in your throat threatened to pull Endeavor down into your body.

Saliva began to dribble from the corner of your lips. Your mouth was so full, his taste so wild, your jaw ached already. Your thighs clenched together, the bundle of nerves between them throbbed to be played with, but you knew you couldn’t, not if you wanted to make a mess of yourself in front of the most powerful man in Japan.

“Fuck,” Endeavor swore, gripping the hair on your head roughly, as though reminding himself that he was not yet swallowed by you, but still in control. His muscles twitched, abs flinching upwards as his cock dragged against your tongue, as you sunk your mouth around him deeper. You were moving slowly, too slowly, and he pistoned his hips forward slightly.

The movement had you straining against him, taken off guard, but you remain relaxed, widening your throat as much as possible to take him all in. You stopped sucking, opting to feel him sheathed in your throat. You wrapped your left thumb in a vice grip, a small trick to help subdue a gag reflex. You didn’t know if it really ever worked, but it was a comfort to have.

The head of his cock pressed past the back of your throat, and he angled his hips slightly to accommodate the direction. For a deep throat, you would’ve preferred to lay on your back at hip height, but you didn’t complain. Tears pricked up at the corner of your eyes, drool escaped down your chin, and dripped onto your bare breast, nipples painfully erect.

Shit, he was almost completely inside your throat. He felt the muscle spasm before it relaxed. He wondered what it took to make you gag. To make you lose yourself.

“I’m going to fuck your throat now.” he warned, even though you couldn’t dispute it. You wanted it. You moaned around him, the vibrations splintered from your throat and into his hardened muscle. The fingers in your hair tightened their grip,then he began to move. His hips swayed back, dislodging the cock from your tight throat, before he thrust back in. His motions were fluid, careful at first, getting you used to the feeling of the heavy weight on your tongue, stretching your jaw. But you were greedy. You’d been swallowing dick’s all night, and your throat was plenty warmed up. You wrenched yourself from your dick, your voice like static as you spoke,

“Don’t go easy on me.”

Endeavor’s eyebrows shot up, shocked at your brashness, but he chortled nonetheless. A small burst of flames erupted from his nostrils before he yanked your mouth back to its rightful place: around his cock. You swallowed him hungrily, your hands gripping the firm hamstring of his leg to pull him closer, deeper, and he did not hold back.

He snapped his hips, feeling the way your lips massaged his length as he dragged himself out and back in. The velour walls of your cheeks shivered as you sucked, your tongue curling back and forth, pressing a hard tip to the vein before furling in a ‘w’ and cupping his cock as it slid. The room was sweltering, and as you sucked, it only got hotter in degree. You felt sweat trickle down the back of your neck from the exertion of keeping upright. The bones in your knees screamed, your thighs quivered from neglect. Endeavor wrapped a moist palm around your throat.

He felt how his dick stretched you out, before retracting. It was the most marvelous experience. Your eyes rolled up to the back of your head, he bent forward, a hand pinched at your nipple and found it covered in drool. The friction ripped a shudder through your body, and you almost lost control as your bladder clenched uncontrollably. You needed to make him cum before you could relax.

With new found vigour, you sucked him in, bobbed your head and fondled his aching testicles. They jumped up in your palms, squeezing tightly together as you rolled them between nimble fingers. Endeavor grunted, thrusting into your willing mouth harder, losing himself in the feeling of being worshipped by you. He loved having someone on their knees, so subservient. But he wanted you to feel pleasure too.

“Touch yourself.”

Your eyes flung open, worried that you wouldn’t be able to handle the pressure to your groin. But you didn’t want to disobey. You dipped your fingers between your slick slit experimentally, almost collapsing at the gentle touch. Fire burned in your gut as your groin throbbed. Fuck, you had to go so badly. With your moistened finger, you rubbed small circles around your clit. The sensitive bundle of nerves instantly tingled, exploding into your body with a shock at the overstimulation of everything you had endured throughout the night.

Endeavor felt how your throat clamped down around him, tightening up as you toyed between your legs. He remembered the bottles of water you drank, the desperate look in your eyes when he had told you to hold it. He did say just a little bit longer. He was getting close, thrusting erratically into your jaw, the tip of your nose brushing against the hair of his pubic bone. He slowed when you spasmed around his length, the lack of oxygen making your head swim. You were drowning.

With each scintillating stroke to your clit, the pressure in you climbed higher, higher, threatening to burst. Endeavor joined your ascent, on the brink of explosion. His command came out in ragged bursts.

“Give in to me.”

It was so simple, the order ripping through you like a wave that spilled onto the shores of ecstasy. You came at the same time that you relaxed, no longer able to hold it back. Warm liquid poured out of you, dripping down your hand, leaving your thighs wet with your piss. There was no smell, the amount of water you consumed made it clear. But it reflected orange in his flame. As it poured out of you, Endeavor released his spill inside your mouth, down your throat, and you gulped it down hungrily.

You were hot, cold, ashamed and so, so far gone in your orgasm. The embarrassment that clawed its way up your spine threatened to curl you inside yourself, but the Pro-Hero kept his grip on your hair. He had pulled out from between your lips. Adding to the heat on your skin, his chin erupted into a beard of flames, lighting up from a sunrise glow to a midday glare.

He took in your dazed gaze, the glazing over them as you stared up at a heavenly light. He tucked himself back into his pants, zipping and buttoning up quickly. He stooped low, wiping at the leftover cum and drool on the corner of your mouth, your lips swollen, almost purple bruises left being sandwiched between your teeth and his cock. He sucked on his thumb, tasting himself like earlier. The diet was definitely working.

Warm palms smoothed down your hair, caressed the muscles of your shoulders as you stayed kneeling before him. You were frozen in place, fully aware you had just pissed yourself, all over your hand. It hung limp next to your body, drops collecting on the ends of your fingers before dripping to the floor. Filthy, what would he think of you. Tears fell down your cheeks and he wiped at them, wrapped his large arms around your waist to slowly pull you to standing.

The joint in your knees creaked as they stretched out, your footing unstable, but he held you. The fire on his face crackled above your head, a dim glow rather than a burning furnace. He could see that you’d never done that before, worried that he had pushed you a bit too far.

“Can I let go?” he asked, the weight of his palms grounding you. You nodded, following his body with your gaze as it shuffled to pick up your discarded clothing.

He folded your jeans, your t-shirt, your long discarded underwear and bra, tucking those safely into his pants pocket before flinging the others over his shoulder. With a single movement, he scooped you up into his arms, a large forearm cradling your back, shielding the side of your breasts if anyone would still be around, and under your knees. You were limp in his grip, shivering with the after effects of your orgasm, burying deeper against his warm skin. He felt the remains of piss drip down your legs, onto his expensive suit, but it didn’t bother him in the slightest. Only you were on his mind now.

He walked you back to his office, giving the top of your head periodic pecks, his thumb stroking the soft skin of your thighs and breast. You felt a bit more alive with each passing second, when the daze gave in to raw emotion: shame, arousal, a hurt ego.

Endeavor closed the door behind him, all the monitors of each room in the mansion empty, the lights on, making it seem innocent once again. He placed you gently onto his comfortable black leather desk chair, reaching for the jug of water to the side and a washcloth he had tucked neatly away in a drawer. It’s what he would use to clean himself up.

He soaked the washcloth with the water, aware of how it might be cool against your skin, so he pressed lightly. You whimpered, eyes snapping down to watch as this hulk of a man kneeled before you, your roles reversed.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice hoarse from the beating it took minutes before. Endeavor caressed the soft skin of your thigh, the flames of his face fizzled out so you could see his clean shaven jaw. He pressed soft kisses into your skin, licking a stripe up the dried piss-streak, tasting its saltiness.

“Ssh, you did well,” he praised, cleaning you up delicately. His large hands seemed too clumsy to work so deftly, but they cleansed you thoroughly.

“I did?” you asked, heavy limbs moving so that you rested a hand in his hair, the other stopping the hand that wiped at the evidence of your shame.

“Yes.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, coming to life once more at the thought of impressing the number one hero. When you were fresh and clean, he took your black panties from his pocket, slipping it around your ankles and dragging it up your legs with care. You lifted your hips for him to fix them properly, and he planted two kisses on your knees before he stood up. He kept your bra tucked away, pulling your t-shirt over your head. Your jeans were folded and placed on his desk.

“Can I take you home?” Endeavor asked you when he pulled you up to standing. Maybe not right now, but he still wanted to feel your pussy pulse around his cock.

“Yes, sir.”

[monstersandmaw]

Male drider x female reader - WIP, Part Two (sfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

After a teasing Part One last week, here's 3.5k words of Part Two, featuring two poems, neither of which are my own... Things get off to a very rocky start between the lord of Widowsweb Court and the reader, with the drider not exactly behaving in a manner befitting a lord... Naril, the firbolg gardener that everyone seemed rather taken with, continues to be a complete cinnamon roll.

Hope you enjoy, despite 'his lordship's' terrible manners and behaviour... Part Three has just gone up on Patreon today. He also got dubbed ‘cranky spooder’ over on our Discord server, which I adore.

Enjoy x

On the day you first met the lord of Widowsweb Court, you’d opened up one of the enormous windows to breathe a little life back into the stuffy library.

Having spent four weeks getting to know the collection as it was, you’d taken the opportunity to dust a little as well. That had the added advantage that you were now able to let the air back in without fear of choking clouds of dust billowing up into your face. For a house as enormous as Widowsweb Court, you had been surprised to learn that the staff was so minimal - no more than Naril and his father, Chiara the housekeeper, a valet of the lord whom you never saw, and two other members of staff; one a cook, and one a maid.

Standing beside the heavy, ragged old curtain that dragged its hem on the floorboards like a sullen teenager scuffing their heels, you sighed and stared listlessly out at the enormous park beyond. There was something melancholy about it. The grounds were meticulously kept by Naril, not a leaf out of place, and yet it was deserted.

There should have been parties, the voices of people laughing, the chink of glasses and the murmur of conversation in the evenings as people gathered to watch the sun go down over the stunning vista beyond. Music should have floated across the terrace behind the house, washing out to mingle with the dancing splash of water in the fountain, but that basin with its fantasy carvings and rearing stone centaurs, laughing fauns, and wide-winged harpies remained silent and dry.

“Why is it so sad here?” you whispered to yourself, the backs of your knuckles trailing down the old, warped glass of the leaded window. The shutters of this window had been thrown wide too so that you could see what you were doing, and the light poured in over one of the three long, research tables that lined that half of the dour library. Over the course of the past week, you’d stacked books pertaining to poetry up into huge, teetering piles that now looked more like a model city than anything, with skyscrapers reaching for the moulded plasterwork of the triple-height ceiling.

A low, bitter voice from behind you made you jump. “The name didn’t give it away?”

You yelped and tensed, turning sharply to find a figure occupying the shadows between two looming bookshelves. Unable to see them behind the chiaroscuro contrast in the room, you squinted. “The name?” you croaked when you’d finally recovered your senses.

A long, black, needle-thin leg emerged first from the darkness and you almost recoiled in surprise before another appeared beside it. A drider. The voice belonged to a drider. “Widow’s web…” he said in his low, gravelly voice, the tone heavy and dripping with sour sarcasm.

“Oh.” You blinked and curiosity flared in you. “Do… Do you work here as well? I haven’t met you before…”

The emerging drider stopped, the shadows still concealing his upper body, but you could see that he was one of the deadly, flash-quick driders; slim-built and light boned, and probably full of venom. You swallowed. Perhaps he was some kind of security agent? Perhaps it was his job to keep an eye on the place and make sure people kept their distance from the place. Perhaps he had come to check up on you.

For a long moment, the drider remained silent, and then without a word, he flung a thin volume onto the nearest end of the table, only a yard or so from where he still hung back, half concealed in shadow, and turned wordlessly to go. “See that this one is shelved with the rest,” he growled.

You caught a flash of red on his spider’s abdomen before he completely disappeared. His needle-clawed legs made almost no sound on the floorboards, and if you hadn’t been so stunned by his unexpected appearance and behaviour, you might have gone after him to scold him for treating what had to be a first edition - everything else so far had been - so callously. By the time you heard a sharp creak and the soft click of a secret door closing somewhere, it was too late to follow.

So instead, you left the window and picked up the book. It was an anthology of poems, and as you let the volume fall naturally open in your hands, it revealed a short, painfully bitter poem.

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,

Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,

Out of her chamber, led by the insane

And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,

The moon arose up in the murky East,

A white and shapeless mass.

No wonder he was so gloomy if this was the kind of thing he read. With a sigh, you closed the book and laid it with the other poetry anthologies, and spent the rest of the day trying to shake the encounter from your mind.

At lunch, Naril leaned over the table and frowned. “You alight?” he asked. “You look kind of… far off…?” It was just the two of you that day, with Naril having come in from the gardens a little later than usual, and his father having already eaten.

You sniffed and blinked, not realising you’d been staring into your bowl without really seeing it. “Yeah,” you croaked. “Listen… I’ve not really asked about… this place much. Why is it called Widowsweb?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his lanky arms. He was tall, even for a firbolg, and that day he had scraped his long red hair back into a thin plait that hung down his back. His eyes, bright green, turned a little distant. “Apparently a dowager from the Silkfoot family had a falling out with her son, and he was so desperate to be rid of her that he exiled her here and gave the entire estate to his cousin who went with her. The two families diverged there, and never had anything else to do with each other since.”

So what Sarrigan had told you, about the two families being at least distantly related, was true. You wondered if the part about the Silkfoot family not liking humans had played a part in the disagreement. “I know one of the Silkfoots. Not well, but he’s a friend of a friend. He seems nice, but he says his family’s mostly awful.”

Naril was still watching you. “What’s brought this on?” he asked after a moment.

You took a breath and said, “I’m assuming your master is a drider then?”

Naril nodded. “Yeah. You… You didn’t know?”

You shook your head. “I hadn’t given it much thought, if I’m honest. Your father was the one who employed me and dealt with everything on behalf of your ‘master’. I… I think I met him this morning though.”

It was Naril’s turn to look a little surprised. He batted his long-lashed eyelids a few times and then barked a rough laugh. “Seriously?”

“Why is that so strange? He lives here. I find it weirder that I’ve not seen him yet.”

“He never shows himself to any of us. He lives in his wing of the house and literally never goes out. Chiara, and his valet Mason are the only two who ever interact with him directly.”

“Why?”

The firbolg’s surprise melted into something softer. “It’s said he’s cursed, but my father says that’s bollocks.”

“If he’s not cursed, then why? Why live as a recluse?” and why was he so rude?

Naril gave a half shrug and then stood, reaching across the table to collect your plate with his scuffed, scar-knuckled hand and take it to the sink. You murmured your thanks as you waited for him to speak, but he didn’t for a long time. You stood watching him, his shirt dirty and sweat stained, ripped here and there, presumably from the vicious thorns of the roses you’d glimpsed from the windows.

“He lost his wife and their entire clutch when they’d only been married a year or so,” he said at last. The splashing of water in the sink as he washed up almost masked his words, but something in your chest panged when you caught them. “People said he did it. People said he was cursed. People said his whole line was cursed.”

“People say a lot of cruel and stupid things,” a harsh, female voice interjected from the doorway behind you and you turned to find Chiara glowering at the pair of you. Naril cringed and turned his attention back to washing up. “You’d do well to ignore all of them, and repeat none,” she said, fixing her yellow eyes on you. The harpy’s tone was as sharp as her claws, and you didn’t fancy crossing her.

You nodded. You weren’t part of the staff, no matter how welcome Naril and his father had made you feel. You were here to reorganise the library, and then you were going to leave. You had been there for one out of your six contracted months already, and the task seemed gargantuan, but you were determined not to let it get the better of you. Time to get back to it.

“Chiara,” you said carefully, “We weren’t gossipping. I believe I met your master this morning, though he didn’t fully show himself to me. I just wondered who I’d met, that’s all.” With that, you turned and put your hand on Naril’s arm. “Listen, I’d better get going. Thanks for doing that,” you added with a twitch of your chin towards the soapy dishes in the sink.

He bowed his head, his large, cow-like ears waggling softly, and closed his eyes briefly. “Take care up there in the library, eh? Don’t go falling off something or lifting more than you can carry. You look worn out.”

“I am tired,” you said, cracking a yawn almost directly on cue. “I haven’t been sleeping all that well here. Could I borrow you tomorrow for half an hour or so? There’s a massive chest that’s been parked in front of a shelf and I need to move it to get to the books behind it.”

He grinned, his odd, almost feline nose twitching. One lip pulled back to reveal his blunt, herbivore’s teeth and he nodded. “Happy to lend a hand, you know that. After lunch?”

You smiled, feeling a slight heating of your cheeks, and turned for the doorway. “Thank you.”

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and you finally cleared enough shelves to begin putting the first phase of your plan for the library into action.

Three days later, though only as you tucked yourself up in bed for the night, you realised you’d left your phone behind in the library. Cursing, you knew you’d have to go back for it if you were going to get up in time the next day to start work. No one formally kept track of your hours, but your professional pride demanded that you start work at nine, and you didn't fancy sleeping through til gods-knew when, especially given your erratic sleeping patterns of late.

Dressing hastily in jeans and a t-shirt, you grabbed the back door key, with which Mr. Ambleside had entrusted you after your first week on site, and let yourself into the main house.

If Widowsweb Court was creepy in daylight, it was unfathomably eerie at night. Pipes creaked and groaned sporadically, and a draft whistled up the corridor as you fumbled along the passageway that would lead to a servants’ staircase, and eventually, emerged onto the second floor near the library.

Were it not for the light of an almost full moon beaming in through the windows along the corridor, you might have missed the library doors altogether, but as it was, they illuminated the brass fittings so that they gleamed like gold, sparkling and winking at you almost fatefully. You scoffed at the thought, and pushed into the library, the door giving its usual raucous yelp on the hinges.

“Gods, I’ve got to get Naril to look at that,” you grumbled, moving across the floor and wondering if you dared turn all the lights on. Part of you expected a hoard of ghostly spectres to be drifting around the shelves like shades through gravestones.

Before you’d gone three paces, you froze. The whisper of a page turning caught your attention, and you swallowed, heart thudding. Again, you were not alone in there.

“Who’s that?” a sharp, male voice demanded from a table at the back of the room.

“It’s me,” you replied, immediately realising how stupid a thing that was to say to someone who wouldn’t have been familiar with you. You added your name, and followed it up with, “I’m working on the library catalogue.”

“At this time of night?” the scratchy baritone growled.

“I left my phone in here,” you said weakly as you stepped around a bookshelf and found him standing behind the furthest research table from the door. You knew immediately who it was, and your heart was thudding as you wondered just how well the lord of the manor would take it that you were sneaking about his house at this hour of the night. “I need it for my alarm in the morning.”

“It’s over there on the windowsill,” he said carelessly, moonlight running along his outstretched arm like mercury. From what you could see of his body, silhouetted against the light from outside, he was unhealthily thin, and he had long hair that fell loose and unrestrained down his back. He was also huge. Sarrigan was squat, fluffy as a tarantula, and muscular, but this figure was spindly and ominous, and built like a black widow.

“Thank you,” you croaked. “I’m… I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

As you picked up your phone from the sill, you heard him clear his throat, and glanced up to see him shifting a little. He looked like a nightmare demon from a shadow-play, all legs and pendulous body, but something about the angle of his head gave you pause.

He took a slow, rasping inhale. “How… is the work going?”

“Slowly,” you said with a rueful smile. “Mr. Ambleside might be a little out of touch with the collection… It’s larger than I was expecting.”

After a pregnant pause, the drider snorted softly and you broke into a nervous laugh at the innocuously-spoken innuendo.

“Anyway, on that note, I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he said and you watched him walk towards the window. As he moved, you realised what was unnerving about him. One of his legs was missing. Where most driders had eight legs, he had only seven.

You thought about him all the way back to your accommodation, and even after you’d set your phone on your bedside table and lain back to stare at the ceiling, the master of the house still occupied your thoughts.

The next morning, you found your feet taking you to that furthest table, and there you discovered that a book had been left open.

The poem that graced these pages was older by many centuries than the one about the moon. It was written in a language that had long evolved beyond recognition, but you stared at it and trailed your fingers down the verse, murmuring the words aloud in the Old Tongue. It was one you’d studied at university during one of your shorter modules, and you barely remembered any of its translation.

Oft him anhaga     are gebideð,

metudes miltse,     þeah þe he modcearig

geond lagulade     longe sceolde

hreran mid hondum     hrimcealde sæ

wadan wræclastas.     Wyrd bið ful aræd!

You frowned, muttering words aloud until you’d muddled out a tiny bit of it. “Often, the one who is alone finds grace for himself, the… mercy…? The mercy of the lord? Although he, sorrow hearted… heavy hearted?”

“‘Sorrow-hearted’ works,” came a now-familiar voice from behind you and you jumped, nearly knocking the book from the table. This time you turned to find the drider advancing on you in full view.

Slowly, you let your eyes slide up his body to his face. He wore a crisp white shirt that looked like it had never been worn, the stark, monochrome contrast with his black spider’s body almost jarring. His hair was black, with a thick streak of bright, blood red falling around the right hand side of his face, which was gaunt and sallow, with dark shadows beneath his four red eyes. Around his right two eyes, his white skin was stained dark - almost purple - down his face and a little way onto neck, the birthmark looking like a swirl of watercolour. He blinked slowly at you, as if expecting something; waiting for you to say something rude or thoughtless.

With a start, you remembered the poem, and turned back to it. “Was this what you were reading last night?”

“Mmm. You’ve studied the Old Tongue I take it?” he said, and you turned to find him approaching slowly.

You tried not to let your gaze snag on the void where his leg should have been, and instead looked at the text again. “A little, and it was a while ago. I’m rusty… I think I remember this one. It’s called The Wanderer, isn’t it?”

He nodded, his hair sliding forwards like a black theatre curtain to hide his sunken face. “Not going to chide me for leaving it unshelved?” he sneered as he turned and headed once again for the back of the library. “I never did like librarians, you know?”

Grinding your teeth, and forcing yourself not to snap something rude at the person who was technically your employer, you said, “I’m an archivist, and this is your collection, not mine. One book being out of place is hardly going to though the whole thing into chaos, is it?”

He froze, on the point of leaving, and with an almost theatrical slowness, he turned to regard you. After fixing you with his eerie, red stare, he lifted one side of his upper lip and snarled, “I suppose not.”

And with that, he left you alone and unnerved again.

Work progressed at a glacial pace on the library, but you eventually moved from poetry to non-fiction: travel journals and histories, geographical texts and maps.

Naril grabbed you one bright, weekend morning after breakfast and dragged you out into the gardens for the first time. The two of you spent a couple of glorious hours touring the kitchen garden, the walled garden, the rose garden, the knot garden, and finally the orchards and arboretum. As the pair of you walked, hot and honestly quite tired, back up to the house for refreshments, your eyes naturally found their way to the library windows that overlooked the terrace and lawn at the back of the house, and you were surprised to find them flung open.

You paused and scowled.

“What?” Naril asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I was sure I closed the windows last night…” you murmured.

“Maybe the master is in there,” he said. “You know, I think you’ve seen him more than I have now. What’s he like?”

“Sad.” That was the first word that came to mind. “He strikes me as someone who’s incredibly sad. I’ve only seen him three times now, but each time he seemed so bitter and prickly. It’s like he’s curious about what I’m doing in there, but he doesn’t want to talk to me too much.”

You passed beneath the windows and slid into the house, sighing as the air of the cool stone passage wafted over your sun-warmed skin. No more than an hour later, you found yourself back in the library, but the master wasn’t there and the window was shut again. Easing yourself down into a comfortable chair beside the casement, you let your head loll against the back, and wondered if he ever set foot outside. If Naril was to be believed, the drider never left the confines of his wing for anything other than quick trips to the library.

After a while, you found your eyes drooping, and you inhaled deeply, letting the weight of a doze seep through you like the warmth of a hot bath.

A noise stirred you, and you opened your eyes to find that the light had changed to the vibrant magenta of a clear sunset, and that you were not alone. Squinting at the shelf, with his face far closer to the books than yours needed to be to read the titles, was the lord of Widowsweb Court.

You watched him in silence for a moment, not sure if he knew you were there or not, and took in the lines of his black legs - skinny, barbed, and deadly. The chair creaked as you sat up straighter, and he whipped around, dropping the book with a bang onto the floorboards and rearing up, his front legs rising like lances ready to strike.

“Sorry,” you gasped. “I didn’t mean to make you jump. I didn’t know you hadn’t heard me.”

As he lowered himself back down, you looked up into his face and the expression you found there made your heart stop. He looked furious. “Get out,” he barked. “If you’re not working in here, get out.”

Without another word, you rose and fled the room as sedately as you could muster.

Part Three --->

To be continued next Wednesday… Part Three is currently up on Patreon so you can read it right now on the Pixies and Goblins Tier.

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

__

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[oneisallallisone]

All I Know, All I Know Greedling x Reader fic Chapter 4

In a land ruled by alchemy, there are some who would call you a sorcerer. You intend to understand what this means. Along your journey you end up getting mixed up with two strange brothers, a military conspiracy, a potentially world-ending event, and the avarice of something more than human.

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Chapter 1

Read on AO3

_______________________________________________________________________

All I Know, All I Know

Chapter 4: Drained 

tw: descriptions of violence and blood 

It was almost like a dance; Ed darting in to slash at Number 48 with his automail blade then pivoting away, allowing you to take aim and send bolt after violet bolt at the suit of armor. The amount of exertion was unlike anything you had ever felt. Sweat trickled down your brow, your limbs shook from the effort. You never seemed able to catch your breath. 

This will drain you, a tiny voice said in the back of your head. A louder voice in the back of your head snapped at yourself to shut up. You couldn’t allow yourself to stop your barrage here. Not when Ed was starting to bleed so badly. 

A few moments ago you saw him stumble backwards after blocking Slicer’s sword. The alchemist’s eyes widened and he rolled his right shoulder—his automail shoulder—a few times. Number 48 had advanced on him again, so you took it as your cue to intervene. Two arcs of purple energy hit the knight in both his knees, knocking him off his feet for a few moments. But it was enough time for Ed to regroup and decidedly shift back into a defensive stance. 

That was the exact moment from which the fight started to get worse. 

Ed’s attacks became sloppy. Your shaking limbs caused more of your attacks to miss. Number 48 had landed a fair amount of hits on the alchemist and now Ed was losing blood fast. There were particularly concerning wounds on his upper left arm and the side of his head. 

“Ed!” you called, “I really think we should—”

“End this fast, I know!” 

Despite his injuries, Ed seemed determined to fight on. 

“If we die here I’m gonna kick your ass in hell!” you screamed. 

Ed’s only response was a grimace as he parried another swing from Slicer’s blade. He back flipped out of the way and you moved in to take a shot. But your hands were shaking, your whole arm was shaking, and instead of sending the purple blast of vitality into Number 48 it soared wide and impacted the ceiling above you. A chunk of cement fell free and landed inches from Ed. 

“Hey!” the alchemist called. “Watch it! You’re supposed to be attacking him, not me!” 

“I’ve never exerted this much of my power before!” you yelled back. “My body can’t keep up with controlling what I demand from it!” 

“How courteous of you to admit your exhaustion, child,” Number 48 droned. “The swift end I’ll deliver you shall be a mercy.” 

The guard charged you. Sword poised to stab right through your chest. Your feet shifted back a few steps as if to run, but you felt your arms raising themselves up to produce your shield again. If you were going to die, it might as well be standing your ground. 

The impact never came. Ed dashed over to put himself between you and Slicer, grunting under the strain of blocking the guard’s sword with his automail. But within moments the alchemist’s strength failed. 

Number 48 knocked both you and Ed aside with a great, sweeping kick. The two of you tumbled across the ground and crashed against each other in a tangle of limbs. When your momentum stopped, you were flat on your stomach, looking up at your looming death approaching. Ed was on his knees next to you. 

Slicer approached slow, savoring his victory. 

You looked up at Ed. The blood streamed down the side of his face and you could see the clear pain in his eyes. But there still existed an unrelenting determination behind them. He turned his gaze back up at Slicer. Then you watched his eyes flicker to the threshold of the empty hallway across the room. The one behind the guard’s back. 

“Now, Al!” Ed yelled. 

Number 48 did not know the hallway was empty. When he turned to face the supposed new combatant, Ed leapt from his knees and knocked Slicer’s head from his body with one clean strike. The metal helmet clanged to the floor, and Ed stood catching his breath. 

“That was dirty!” Number 48 yelled. 

“There’s no such thing as dirty in a fight!” Ed shot back. 

You hauled yourself to your feet and walked over to where Ed was currently holding Number 48’s helmet by the hair. “There’s something I need to ask you about.” 

“The Philosopher's Stone?” the guard asked, his words almost laced with boredom. 

“Yes. Tell me everything you know about it.” 

“Sorry. Can’t.” 

“Oh come on,” Ed argued. “It’s only fair. I’ve beaten you at your own game, afterall.” 

“That’s where you are wrong. I’m not beaten yet.” 

You heard the shifting metal only after it was far too late. A quick, piercing sensation ripped through your skin. You looked down to see the tip of a sword jutting out from your lower abdomen, close to the right side of your body. 

Your eyes locked with Ed’s before you fell to your knees. 

“I forgot to mention something about the mass murderer Slicer,” Number 48’s head said. 

A new voice spoke from the armored body that was moving once again. “His crimes were committed by a pair of brothers.” 

Ed screamed and charged at the second brother. 

You collapsed forward onto your hands. This is bad this is bad this is bad—  

A red pool formed below you. Your arms were screaming for you to let them give out, just let yourself lie down, close your eyes. For a moment you thought you might. But then Ed cried out in pain again. 

You’d already won against one of these guard dogs. It’d be a shame if that was all for nothing. 

Your right hand found the bleeding in your lower abdomen. The warm fluid leaked fast and seeped through your fingers in a matter of seconds; pressure from your hand alone wasn’t going to be enough to stop the bleeding. Taking your hand away from the wound, you ripped one of the sleeves off your shirt and rolled the fabric into a plug that matched the width of the gash. Steeling yourself for the pain, you stuffed it underneath your skin. 

Returning your hand to the wound and applying pressure whilst the fabric of your shirt was soaking up some of the blood yielded slightly better results than pressure from your hand alone. Slightly. 

Shifting your gaze back to the wider room, you saw Ed slumped against a pillar. He was also holding his side tightly, a look of pain and exhaustion in his eyes. But the body of armor that had once been moving was on the ground in pieces. Low voices filled the air, and you stumbled your way over to the injured alchemist. 

“Aren’t you going to kill us?” Number 48’s head asked as you leaned on the pillar next to Ed. 

“No,” the fullmetal alchemist stated firmly. “I will not take the life of another human. And I know that my brother is a human being, so that means you guys are human too. I will not kill you.” 

The head laughed. “My brother and I have been lying, cheating, stealing, and killing for as long as we can remember. And now that we have these forms, we’re being treated more like humans than we ever have. For that, boy, I’ll give you a parting gift. I’ll tell you everything. The Stone—”

Razor sharp darkness leapt from the shadows across the room. Two obsidian spearheads punctured Number 48’s head, ripping through his blood-seal and killing him in a heartbeat. Ed gasped beside you, and you felt your heart rate quicken from a new sense of fear, or the toll your injuries were taking, or both. 

“My, that was a close call,” a feminine voice said. 

Two figures emerged from the threshold of the hallway; one of them wore a black off-the-shoulder dress, and the other was in an equally dark crop top and skort. The one in the dress had long, wavy black hair, pale skin, and eyes like wine. The other one had equally pale skin, black hair that hung in strands around their body, and eyes of the dullest, darkest purple. 

“Number 48, you should know better than to talk about things that don’t concern you,” the girl in the black dress continued. She retracted the spearheads that had pierced Number 48’s helmet, and, only when the sharp points settled, you realized with horror that she wasn’t carrying a weapon at all. The extendable and retractable blades were her fingertips. You wondered briefly if your loss of blood was causing you to hallucinate. 

But Ed’s gaze was just as fixed on these newcomers too. It had to be real. The one standing just slightly behind the girl grinned smugly and caught Ed’s eyes. “Well, well, would you look at that, what’s the fullmetal pipsqueak doing here?” 

Ed didn’t even shout back at being called a pipsqueak. 

“Such a troublesome boy,” the girl with the pointed fingernails sighed. “How did you find out about this place? And oh, who is this?” Her eyes landed on you. “Well this certainly throws a wrench in things.” 

“(y/n), run,” Ed whispered to you. 

You snapped your head towards him. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Go!” he hissed. “Your powers were as good as drained by the end of the last fight. If these guys are looking for trouble…”   

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. Dark spots were starting to dance at the edge of your vision now. But there’s no way you could walk out of here without Ed. 

As the girl shattered Number 48’s helmet in half, strangled cries erupted from the rest of the armor. “Brother? Brother! No! Brother!”

The one in the crop top sauntered over and picked up Number 48’s sword. They drove it through the blood-seal drawn on the neck of the armor again and again and again. “Quit your blubbering, you idiot!” they scolded the dying brother. “You were trying to kill one of our most important sacrifices! You could have messed up the entire plan! What would we have done then? Huh?” 

But the armored brother could not respond, as his twitching had ceased. 

“Go get Al,” Ed whispered to you in an urgent voice. “Please, (y/n). I’ll be fine. Just hurry.”

As the two figures in black stepped closer, you saw that on each of them was a tattoo: A red dragon eating its own tail. The girl with the wavy hair and wine colored eyes still had her gaze set on you. “We don’t need this other one. Only the fullmetal boy is required. Would you make it quick, Envy?” 

The one carrying the sword grinned and turned to face you. “Why, I’d be happy to, Lust.” 

Envy, as they were called, stepped over and pulled you close to them, holding the tip of the blade to your throat. You swore you caught a glimpse of your fearful face reflected in their dark pupils. The grin on Envy’s lips twisted wider. 

“(y/n)!” Ed shouted. 

You focused on your energy. If there was even a scrap of your power left over, you had to claw it out now or this would be it. You dug down, down down, and felt an inkling of something trying to flicker to the surface. 

When it erupted, it sent Envy flying across the room. 

The girl, Lust, looked back in shock as Envy hit the wall. Their back slammed hard into the concrete, and they were just barely able to catch themself on their hands before crumpling completely. “You brat!” their voice ripped through the air. 

“Go! (y/n), go!” Ed was practically pleading at this point. 

You aimed another blast at the ceiling between Ed and Lust, hoping that the falling cement would slow her and her companion down. With the roof on the far side of the room beginning to crumble, you limped back into the hallway you came in from. 

Al was staring back and forth between officers Ross and Brosh, and the other armored individual that called himself Barry. He had been surprised to learn that Barry was like him, a hollow suit of armor with a soul bonded to it, but this commonality hadn’t stopped Barry from trying to kill him. The arrival of Ross and Brosh was the only thing that gave Barry pause. 

In the relent of Barry’s attacks, Al turned his attention back towards the Fifth Laboratory just in time to hear a faint voice call out from the other side of the boarded-up front entrance. 

“Al,” your voice carried weakly. “Al, are you there?” 

The young armored boy startled and he rushed over to the boards. “(y/n)? Is that you?” 

“Yes. I can’t get through. Please…” 

With the wavering of your voice and the Central guard already having been killed by Barry, Al wasted no time creating a hole in the wall with his alchemy. Once there was an opening, you collapsed through it and fell onto the lawn. Blood seeped into the soft grass below you. 

“(y/n)?” Al said cautiously. 

“Ed…” you whispered. “In trouble. Go.” You attempted to stand as you pointed to the opening behind you. 

Al helped you up as gently as a suit of armor could, and then turned back to the officers. “Lietenant Ross, please look after her.” 

The woman stepped closer to Al, keeping her gun trained on Barry but nodding at Al’s request. 

“Of cou—” 

She was cut off by an explosion from the laboratory. Fractures ran up the sides of the building, large pieces broke off and crumpled to the ground. Al pulled you away as the windows burst, and Ross shouted for Brosh to take cover. 

“No…” you mumbled as Al shielded you. “No no no no no, this wasn’t…I didn’t… ” You couldn’t help but replay over and over the last thing you did before leaving Ed alone with those people: blasting the ceiling so a few pieces of it would collapse, just a few pieces to act as a shield for him. You’d never intended for this. And now Ed was— 

Being carried out by Envy? 

Past Al’s torso, through your ever-darkening vision, you saw them emerge from a hole in the wall. Envy had Ed slung over one of their shoulders and practically dropped him at Al’s feet. “Here you are! I brought a little present for you.” 

“Brother!” Al cried, crouching down to inspect him while still keeping you supported. 

“He’s not dead, but he has lost a lot of blood so I suggest you get him to a hospital as soon as you can.” Envy smiled. “Oh, and maybe start keeping a better eye on him too? He is a precious resource, afterall.” 

Maria rushed over and pulled Ed into her arms. “Who exactly are you?” 

Envy ignored her. Instead they grinned down at you. “And you…well, I’ll see you around.” 

The last thing you saw before passing out in Al’s arms was Envy’s twisted smile.

[danddymaro]

Bucky Barnes x Reader |Pt.5

Word Count: 2119   | Part 3: Rising

Very short chapter.

Previous part : Content

Rising

“Sometimes I wonder what my place is in this world.” She said out loud, 

“And it’s always amazing to think that there are people that idolize me,” She added with amusement, thinking fondly of all the people that have stopped her, the most treasured moments being those with children.

‘ From an outsider’s perspective...I guess I have everything figured out,’ She mused, ‘And it makes it worse because I’m just one big lie,’ She went on.

 "- Because the truth is, I don't know what I'm really doing with myself. And it feels like, at this point...I should already have everything figured out." She said while staring down at her palms, pondering over just what their purpose was.

“ Oftentimes, I want to find what that reason is,” (f/n) spoke, “ I have the interest to change, but, just as I feel that way I cave. And then, I just go on with what’s given to me. “ She admitted.

“ And it’s so contradicting... to want so much, yet, be this compliant.” She voiced out, blowing out a soft, lukewarm chuckle.

'I'm pathetic,' She thought to herself, ‘Am I just not trying enough?’ She then wondered.

“I want to be so much stronger.” She said while looking up, (e/c) colored eyes full of certainty while the (dark/light) orbs finally found their way to his.

 “I want to be much more...just like you,” She said while looking straight at the man, wanting to match his every step, but knowing fully well that she lacked plenty to do so. 

“But...I know it’s impossible,” She admitted, aware that if she had a tail it’d be tucked in between her legs, hiding in misery as she admitted her deepest insecurity to him,

‘How can I Overcome being Human? ' She wondered, her certainty quickly dying out, vanishing with a low, azure breath.

'Is this all I’m meant to be?

Is this my limitation?’ She continued to ponder.

"I just can't do it..." She admitted, her voice sounding soft and strained as she uttered the words.

Quiet silence filled the spaces in between, and just when she was growing accustomed to the quiet, he spoke, 

“ Is this your way of throwing in the towel? ” He then asked her, his gloved index giving her chin a quick nudge up, the loving bump up forcing her to look at him.

"Huh?" He added, “Is this your way of saying goodbye?” He proceeded to asked her, shaking his head all the while, seeming disappointed, though, throughout it all, offering her a faint smile. 

Stunned at the question, she stayed quietly still, her only action being the deep, harsh swallow she executed.

“If so, then you could at least look at me,” He mused, his soft smile inching up more, the very action forcing a shaky breath from her, because until then, she'd avoided actually gazing into his eyes.

‘Do I have a choice?’ She idly wondered, ‘Can I fight it?’ 

‘ Or...Is this goodbye?’ She continued to wonder, a sharp pain suddenly striking her, forcing her to step back, distancing herself from the man. 

Stumbling, she nearly fell before doubling over.

At that, he took a step to her, following her while she found her distance, soon continuing at the same pace she drew back. 

She felt as though her body were being split in two, and helplessly, she wrapped her arms around herself as though attempting to hold her two halves into one, all while he watched, his blue eyes observing her.

“- I believe in you.” He said with certainty. “So don’t tell me you’re done, “ he went on, watching as she crumpled, her body withering in pain. 

"You've held on this long," He informed her, " - It's not just luck," Steve apprised her.

"Come on," he encouraged her, his hand held out to her. 

“Just come towards me,” He enthused, baiting her like a man would a beast, all with a promise in his palm, 

"(f/n),” He called out to her. 

“(f/n)….” he went on, his voice sounding faint whilst she stopped, her (e/c) colored eyes tightly closed as she grimaced, a blaring alarm ringing, the obnoxious sound bouncing within her pounding brain,  overpowering the sound of his calls.

Blindly, she reached out, her arm stretched as far as it could go, waving left and right to try and take hold of his hand.

‘I’m trying,’ She swore. ‘This time...I’m really trying,’ She went on, with stumbled steps she hobbled forward, walking towards the warmth that led her towards a bright path.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A deafening, strangled cry made blue eyes go wide, the blood-curdling noise causing the light hairs that were on the back of his neck to all stand, pointed out with alarm.

His head rose from its hanged state, and during then, his eyes lingered in awe, softly breathing the woman's name in a dazed fashion that perfectly mirrored his every bit of astonishment.

Stilled, he watched as right before him, she had awoken with a start, not knowing where she was, the first recollection she had being that of the vicious encounter in the wilderness whilst held at the mercy of a cornered beast.

The howl that had been silenced during that period finally found its way out, bouncing off of the white walls with alarm, no longer restricted.

She rose, her upper body lifting off from the mattress, and soon after she found herself sitting, her hands instantly flying towards her gaping mouth.

Again, the bitter taste filled her tongue, dancing over her miserable buds before powerful coughs that were mighty enough to rake her entire body overwhelmed her.

Scarlet dripped from her parted lips, splattering out like the flowing waters of a sprinkler in its moderate setting, creating a scandalous mess that painted her surrounding with the barbaric tint.

The falling liquid stained the white bedsheets, and the distant grey-colored gown alike, leaving traces of its fierce brilliance behind. 

Everything in its path lay colored with red, dripping from her paled lips and landing in small splotches that were similar to red azalea’s scattered over the white snow.

The monitor beside her began to pick up with life again, beeping wildly to keep up with her racing heart, roaring loudly with its digital sound throughout the previously silent room with its own form of excitement.

Greedily, she swallowed up masses of air, gasping like a drowning person in panic.

Her (e/c) eyes briefly skimmed around the room, the wet (e/c) colored orbs soon catching sight of the two men there with her, as they too stared at her wide-eyed, gobsmacked by the occurrence.

Dark chocolate drops and crystalline gems met with her own (e/c) orbs for only a split second before she succumbed to darkness once more.

The sudden sluggishness hit her with an unexpected sucker punch that overwhelmed her, whilst at that very moment, a searing fire ran across the length of her abdomen in a crude, jagged line.

Her head soon collided with the softness of the cushioned pillow, as she came crashing back down, falling like an anvil from a skyscraper.

'Again...' She thought to herself, drowsily taking in the sensation of pain before welcoming the sweet warmth that coddled her afterward.

‘But it feels different,‘ Accepting the comforting lull into darkness.

As she felt herself drift off, she felt a soft heat consume her again just as it had before during the same moment that the sun had so kindly coaxed her from the path of darkness.

The hot pain she felt was subdued to soft tingles before she was welcomed by a tranquil silence that felt welcoming and kind, and more like a new beginning rather than a bitter end.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When he had heard the monitor stop, he held in his breath, the man too afraid to look at the thin, red line that was drawn across the screen, because he knew that once he caught sight of the sign, there was no hope left.

There would be no measly bit of faith to hold on to, leaving the unconscious woman to become a memory, one with a final sweet expression that would forever haunt him for failing her.

He had been hesitant to look at her still body, unwilling to accept that she actually laid there without the same life she had been bursting with before only hours prior.

After the blaring sound, all he'd heard was silence, an unbearable quiet he wished was full of her voice instead, all until the monitor decided to fret, its sound masked by another cry.

- And it absolutely stunned him.

Steve Rogers couldn't believe it, because, before him, just a few feet away was the woman he had thought to have lost, now budding with new life.

“How..?” He breathed, an enormous smile spreading onto his previously grief-stricken face as he, too, swallowed up globs of air.

It was a mystery he didn't even care to get explanations for because he would be satisfied the rest of his life to simply know that she was now well, brought back to him by whatever strange force that decided to work its wonder.

'You're back...' He thought with a wash of relief.

Sam had been at his side, his hand suspended in the air before he became startled by the sudden revival, all to a point he was motionless with stun.

He was the first to move, soon standing at the woman's side, gazing at her with astonished, dark eyes.

Throughout his life, he'd been witness to many things, exposed to many scenarios no common person could ever even fathom, yet, what had occurred that day was the most staggering up to date.

It was nothing short of a miracle, because as he inspected her sleeping face, he stood stunned, finding amazement in what was happening before his own eyes.

He began signaling Rogers with vigorous hand movements, all so he would find a place at his side and watch the phenomenon.

Entranced, they watched as the bluish marks marrying her body faded, taking with them every speck of imperfection that had been there after the mission. they disappeared, vanishing without a trace of evidence that was proof of her struggle.

“I don’t know how she did it,” Sam started, all while shaking his head down at his sleeping friend, “But she actually managed to cheat death,” he said while beginning to smile broadly, a swell of pride striking him.

‘That’s it,’ Wilson thought to himself, cheering her on.

The blonde couldn't even begin to define the joy he felt, feeling the weight of his heavy heart grow light with his friend’s words,

“ She sure did,” he responded back, hanging his head tiredly as a weary chuckle escaped him, one that soon morphed into true, joyous laughter.

Sam gave him a side glance, watching as the taller male covered the upper portion of his face, shielding his slightly glossed eyes as he laughed alongside him.

There was nothing to fear, nothing to shed sorrows for, and even then, he couldn't help but let the faint trace of misery escape him.

‘You were so close...You were right there.’ He thought to himself, grateful she’d found her way back to them.

“Got a tear in your eye there captain?” Sam said smiling, the teasing tone that made Steve snicker.

‘Leave it to Sam…’ He thought with an eye roll, shaking his head at the playful remark.

“ Nah...” he breathed, “ It’s just a little something... you know from dusting you every morning for the past 2 years.” The blonde responded, giving the darker-skinned man a sympathetic pat to the back before turning to the exit.

He was quick to run his forearm over his eyes, doing away with the threatening tears, deciding to leave with a present smile instead, one that held more meaning as Wilson stayed behind, all while at a loss for words.

Sam then rolled his own eyes, his mouth hanging open at the rather smooth reply, surprised at the ease it left the super-soldier.

He half shrugged, nodding, “ Ok, maybe I had that coming.” He said while chuckling, not bothered in the least bit by the jab.

“Good one,” he complimented.

“- Come on Sam, I'm sure all she needs is some sleep,” Steve said while staring over to the steady breathing girl, trusting her to pull through.

With a silent nod, the other male agreed, following in suit.

Both men walked out, certain their friend would be only hours away from being the same joy she’d been before.

All she needed was a little rest, just some shut-eye and she’d be up running alongside them again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Next Part : 

[pumpkin-spice-whump-latte]

Unfixable: Carlos

I didn’t really understand how fun it was to cut your own character to pieces until I wrote it. 

briefly references #17: Stay With Me 

might have been what was happening during #18: Muffled Scream, or at least for part of it

tagging @straight-to-the-pain because they inspired me~

content includes: VIVISECTION, descriptive gore, blood, intimate whumper, creepy whumper, noncon touching, passing out, and because I can’t seem to go a few days without it, torture

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Carlos thought at first that someone had set him on fire.

He came to with a sharp, deeply violent burning in his midsection, making him gasp and squirm against the leather straps that held his ankles and wrists. There was nowhere to hide from it though; he couldn’t even curl up on himself. The only thing he could do was look down and see–

See Dr. Tillman cutting into him with a scalpel.

He let out a blood curdling scream, prompting the scientist to glance up from his work with a small smile.

“Ah, good. You’re awake.” The burning Carlos had felt had been his body trying to process the pain of something very sharp opening a bloody, fleshy line through the muscles of his abdomen. It carved it’s way down in a long diagonal line, upper right all the way down to left hip, slicing through layers of skin and muscle. His entire body tried to thrash away from the pain, back arching up as far as it could from the operating table, but the blade always followed him wherever he tried to wiggle. Soon enough the scientist had a hand down against him, forcing him to be still as he finished opening a bloody mouth where there should never have been one.

Carlos tugged at his restraints, panic gripping him and turning his blood to ice. Turning his will to live into something stronger than his common sense, and he would have torn off his own limbs or broken a damn bone if it meant getting away from the horror and pain. But with all that screaming and struggling he only succeeded in getting a gentle hand petting through his hair. Trailing blood along his forehead in little warm, drippy lines.

“Oh, shh. Shh, shhh now. Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. I’m a man of science.” When Carlos met Tillman’s eyes he could see a strange glint behind them. The normally placid, detached blue was glassy, the pupils blown. There was a fire that danced behind those eyes that just made everything feel that much more Wrong.

A dread settled deep within him then. Bigger than the fear. More ancient even than pain.

Then the scientist made another incision, this time in an opposite diagonal line across the first. It made a large X across Carlos’ stomach, and then he couldn’t see those doom-bringer eyes anymore. He couldn’t see anything anymore as he threw his head back and screeched against the pain. This time he was only answered with a low, dark chuckle. Tillman was amused and Carlos actually might have laughed too. He might have laughed and laughed and laughed until he went crazy, because that seemed like a better fate than staying lucid for this. He thought that at the very least he might pass out from the agony, from the shattering knowledge that he was being cut open and couldn’t stop it, but blessed darkness never came.

A few moments later he could feel cool air rushing against a part of him that hadn’t ever been meant to feel it. He felt the four cross sections of his skin being pulled back and clamped open, so that when he dared to glance back down…

He could see himself. The inside of himself. Dark red like murder, wet and sloppy looking, and terrifyingly vulnerable.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?” His words came out sharp with rage and fear. Bruised with pain. None of the monolithic dread yet but that’s because Carlos was still, in part, himself. He still had a good bit of his own fire.

Tillman only slipped two gloved fingers into the mass of his blood and guts. “You’re doing very, very good Carlos. Hang in there my boy. Wasn’t time for… For any anesthetic. You were fading fast. Had to do something.” Carlos could barely keep up with what was being said, let alone understand any of it. He was too busy feeling every soft, intimate drag of those fingers as they practically fucked into him. Some perverse imitation of a lover. All the while Tillman’s eyes held Carlos’ gaze captive, not allowing him to look away or deny this was really happening to his own body.

“Arrg… Stop! PLEASE!” His chest heaved, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and the rest of him shuddered helplessly as Tillman sank his hand further into his guts. It made a sickening squelching sound that he could somehow hear between his panting and rising sobs.

Before today he’d had no idea you could feel someone touching you inside like that. He’d never had occasion to even need to think about it. But no, no. There were nerve endings even along the deepest curve of his lower intestine, ones that only knew a song of pain and nothing else. He was learning about them today mothers and fuckers and they were singing a backup chorus to his nearly broken screams.

“You see organs… Don’t lie.” Dr. Tillman spoke above him in little more than a hushed whisper, but every word still stabbed into him like a knife. Like a surgeon’s scalpel. Like two fingers, and then five, and a hand curling oh-so-gently and carefully around something deep within him and sending a sensation of awful pressure and hammering pain.

“They may fail, eventually, but it isn’t their fault. They spend their lives as diligent, loyal subjects of the body. So fragile and yet… So strong at the same time.”

Carlos only heard this as a faint buzzing that might have been words. He couldn’t take a full breath, sucking in little gasps of air between hitching sobs as fat tears rolled down the sides of his face. His eyes were saucer wide and shining, he was burning, his whole being was a quivering mass of blood and guts and fire and it would never stop. His brain wouldn’t let him just pass–

___

When he opened his eyes again Tillman was still there. Carlos let out a moan of agony as the pain reintroduced itself (how do you do?) and as the scientist raised one gore covered finger to Carlos’ neck. How long had he even been out? A couple minutes? He swept his gaze down across his bloody chest to his lower body. Things looked basically the same. He still looked like a messy peeled fruit and he cursed his brain and body for only letting him escape this for a few minutes instead of nuking his entire consciousness till he woke up somewhere with less horror. What a bitch.

That finger–that finger that had just been inside him–traced a slow, deliberate line straight across Carlos’ neck as Tillman stared down at his captive. He looked like an abandoned lighthouse. The lamp was shining, sure, but nobody was home. “I could just kill you now. Slit your thhhhhhroat, my d-dear boy.”

“Then do it! F-fu-UCK YOU MOTHERFUCKER DO IT.” No matter how scared he was, no matter how much pain made him stumble through the words, he’d still say them. He was determined to say them till he fucking died.

Tillman leaned in close. One of his hands was still buried in Carlos’ abdominal cavity, and this time it wriggled a gentle path upwards. He felt knuckles brush against his ribs. The tissue that cradled his lungs and heart. He felt the soft wetness of Tillman’s tongue as it licked over the blood line on his neck. “I might as well kill you. You can n-never be fixed. No matter what I…what I do…” His awful minty breath tickled against Carlos’ cheek. Tears cooled against his skin as he shook in his restraints and tried desperately not to feel the scientist counting his ribs from the inside. He wondered how long he could even last, opened up like this, and why he hadn’t already died.

Maybe he was already dead.

Maybe he was in hell.

___

He’d passed out again without realizing it, the only evidence being that one moment Tillman was squeezing his internal organs like they were his personal stress balls, the next he was standing over Carlos with a bloody mass in his hand.

“Is that… Is that my…?” He was so cold. He was shaking all over but still so damned cold.

“Kidney? Why, yes. It’s quite bad. See?” The scientist held Carlos’ own kidney up under his nose for his inspection, but he could see nothing wrong with it. He knew with a kind of sickening certainty that there had been nothing wrong with it.

“I’m afraid that’s all we can do. There’s so much e-else that I could… Fix. In here.” The scientist paused to turn his vacant gaze back down to Carlos’ ruined insides. A long coil of his intestines lay limply against his hip. He could see a shock of white bone somewhere. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to please stay silent now while I stitch things back up. You squeal very nicely but I need to concentrate now, dear boy.”

A thick wad of gauze bandages was stuffed deep into Carlos’ mouth, and he made some kind of sound around them. Defiance? Pleading? He wasn’t sure anymore. Tillman reached a hand in again and this time found something hard. Something boney. It was his spi–

___

Moving through the hallway. Ceiling passing by like dull clouds of stucco. The pain had followed him even here. It would never stop stalking behind him. How much blood had he lost? Where was Ben? How much blood can someone even–

___

A kitchen. A warm kitchen and a fleeting feeling of being safe. Ben was there. Ben couldn’t stay. It was better that way though. The pain would eat Ben if he stayed. The world shook and the pain gobbled Carlos whole.

___

“…subject responding well to the replacement?….”

“…at least another week in recov…”

“…can’t be sure the body won’t reject…”

“…of course we included the tracking devi…”

“….the normal payment of course, Dr. Till…”

___

When he looked down again his insides were back on the inside. He touched a couple shaking fingers to the healing X scar that marred his entire torso. Ugly staples made ugly railroads across his body. The pain had stayed, but it was drowned enough to stop screaming. Why bother giving him pain meds now?? Carlos tried to focus on the surroundings of the room. Was this a hospital? Was…was he actually OUT??

Tillman stepped into his field of vision like a satellite passing over the sun and blotting out it’s light. His eyes were back to Detached Doctor mode.

“Good afternoon. And how are we feeling?”

There was a smudge of red at the corner of Tillman’s placid mouth.

Carlos opened his own and screamed.

[novkat21]

The Worst Night

For @imagine-sterek prompt. I plan to write more, but here's a little snippet.

•◇•

He should've listened to Scott and stayed at his place. But it had been the fifth night in a row that he'd slept over and now felt more of a burden than a guest. So he'd packed up his bag and made the trek back home. His jeep was still in the shop after two days - he didn't even want to think about the bill that would come from that - or he'd be driving his baby home. He would've been a lot safer and less jumpy within his own vehicle rather than walking down the empty streets.

Since he thought it was a great idea to leave right after dinner, the sun had mostly set, painting the sky a deep orange and red, casting a blanket of darkness over his surroundings. He gripped the sling on his backpack tighter, walked a little faster, tried to keep his eyes from wandering over to the forest on the other side of the street. He was only imagining those strange rustles and crunching leaves, the shadows darting around in the foliage.

He took a deep breath and put his head down, pushing himself to go a little faster. Thankfully, he was almost home.

That was when the howl sounded.

He halted and jerked his head toward the forest, knowing that no wolves lived in Beacon Hills and, yet, that was a very distinct wolf howl.

His heart leapt into his throat and he turned toward the howl right as a giant mass crashed through the trees. Stiles yelped in fright as two blood red eyes zeroed in on him, he flailed and tripped over himself in his hurry to outrun the beast. In his moment of clumsiness, large white teeth clamped down on his bag, yanking him backward. He slipped his arms through the slings and scrambled to his feet, stumbling into a run.

He heard heavy footfalls and scraping behind him. He knew he shouldn't look, just stay focused on where he was going. But, of course, he didn't listen to himself. He spared a glance over his shoulder and inhaled sharply when he saw the beast right behind him. He pushed himself to go faster, but it was no use. The beast shoved him, he lost his footing and went sprawling across the sidewalk.

He flipped around onto his back and inched further away from the hulking form. It took two steps and was directly above him, a deep snarl ripping through its throat. Before he could blink, it jerked its head down toward him and sharp teeth were piercing through his favorite plaid button-up. He screamed in pain, muscles going taut in his whole body as the beast bit through muscle, nearly hitting the bone. It shook its head, bringing tears to Stiles' eyes.

In the next second, the beast dropped him and bolted. Gunshots sounded nearby as Stiles lay there, tears streaming down into his hairline as his left shoulder shrieked in agony, blood soaking his shirt and the ground beneath him.

Heavy boots pounded past him, two sets coming to a halt on either side of where he lay. He opened his eyes slightly and saw two men standing above him, guns cocked and aimed directly at him.

"W-W-W-Wait," he stuttered through the pain, numbness and shock slowly overtaking him.

They glanced at each other and holstered their weapons, looking back down at him.

"We should get him to a hospital," one spoke, a look of pity on his dark features.

"Are you crazy?" The other snapped. "He's one of them now! We need to lock him up. Sooner rather than later."

"He's just a kid, Bruce."

Bruce snorted. “It don't matter, Mark! He's dangerous now. C'mon, let's shove him in the back."

Stiles whimpered and shouted in pain as Bruce yanked him to his feet, shoving him back the way he came. Glancing up, he saw two black SUVs parked on the side of the road closest to the forest and briefly wondered how he'd missed them.

Mark opened the back of one of the vehicles, frowning at Stiles, before Bruce practically threw him in. He landed hard on his injured shoulder and bit down on his lower lip, a pained groan slipping out.

"Shut up," Bruce shouted, sneering. "You filthy freak. Ain't nobody cares what you're going through. All we care about is ending you."

Stiles scrambled to a sitting position and stared at the men in horror right as they slammed the door shut.

His heart slamming against his ribcage, stomach churning, he listened to the two men get in the front seats of the SUV and start driving.

Panic was quickly setting in, but he pushed through it and tried to think like his dad would. Only three windows could be seen, the rest of the car cut off with a large, black wall. Two large duffle bags were set on his left side, packed full of who knew what.

A throb of pain shot through his arm as he leaned back against the right side of the vehicle, bending his knees so he could get in a better position to calm his rapid breathing. Glancing down at his shoulder, he could see the dark stain of blood soaking through  the fabric of his shoulder, covering part of his collarbone, upper abdomen and half of his arm.

He threw his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, his chest tightening further with panic. He pressed his right hand against his wound and hissed his pain, which somehow helped his breathing slow down.

Looking around in the darkening light, his mind racing with ways of how he could get out of this scenario, when realization hit him. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He glanced up as the vehicle came to a stop then quickly unlocked the screen and went to his messaging app. He clicked on the text conversation he had with his dad and bit his lip, thinking of a good way to warn his father while being subtle, just in case these creeps nabbed his phone. The two front doors of the vehicle opened and slammed shut and he quickly typed out three numbers - 911.

Right as the back door started to open, he hit send and shoved his phone back in his pocket.

Bruce stepped forward and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling him out and dropping him onto the dirt below. Stiles groaned and looked up at them as they closed the back of the SUV. Bruce was looking down at him with disgust before he yanked him to his feet and pushed him to move forward. Mark stayed behind the two, a blank expression on his face.

Stiles looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It was a tad too difficult since the sun was gone completely, covering everything in black, and trees and shrubbery were their only companions.

Bruce grabbed his arm and pulled him into a sharp left turn. Stiles bit his tongue to keep the curse from slipping out of his mouth, not knowing what thus guy could do to him. Normally, he wouldn't care, but seeing as he was already in immense pain, he didn't particularly want to risk it.

The men took him down a large steep, eventually reaching some old, broken steps and then to a large door which Bruce pushed open, shoving Stiles inside first. The young man stumbled and glanced around the small interior, only being greeted with cement walls and floor, a small barred window on the opposite wall, a torn up mattress and a toilet. He spun back to look at them but they were already closing the door, Bruce seeming very well pleased at the obvious panic written all over his face.

Stiles raced forward right as the door clicked shut and slammed a fist against it. "Hey! Let me out!!" Panic shot through his veins and he slammed his fist repeatedly on the hard surface, even throwing in a kick. "My dad's the sheriff! He'll find me and you guys will go away for a long time! Better to just let me out now!!"

He attacked the door for only a few more minutes before he finally stepped away, knowing the men didn't care and were probably long gone now. He pressed his hand against his chest, right above his heart and below his wound, as his breathing came in quick heaves. He sank to the dirty floor and wrapped his arms around his knees, tears running down his cheeks as the panic overtook him.

Thoughts of doubt and fear that he wouldn't be found, that no one would care, surged forward. As if the panic attack was bad enough, his mind just had to throw these thoughts at him. When he was completely alone. In a small room in the middle of nowhere.

One single thought reached through his panic and he frantically reached for his phone. When his fingers felt only emptiness in his pocket, he felt around the other pockets, only to be met with the same thing.

He pressed the palm of his hands against his eyes, a sinking feeling in his gut.

He was never getting out of here.

[kaibab-the-grumpy-dragon]

Kat Murata’s about page

//This is set for mobile user to see it, but if you can like this post after reading it would be great! 

General

Full name: Kathleen Murata

Nicknames: Kat, Katy, KitKat, Kiiro no ryū (Yellow Dragon), Boss, Sunflower(only Jou)

Age: 24 by default. Depending on the verse but 3 years older than Jounouchi

Birthday: 30 May ( Gemini )

Birthplace: Domino City

Current residence: Domino City

Nationality: Japanese

Ethnicity: Japanese/Russian/Swedish

Gender: female

Sexuality: Heterosexual. Sort of Demi-romantic

Marital status: Single

Religion: Atheist

Occupation: Student - 3nd years of Business economic / Leader of the gang, Kiiro no Ryū (The Yellow Dragons)

Appearance

Face: a mix between Asian and Swedish feature. Round, full lips, button nose with a scar on the edge. Freckles when she tans.

Preferred Hand: Right

Hair: Wavy bob haircut, golden blonde

Eyes: Blue

Body type: Muscular, shaped by dance, workouts, and yoga.

Skin Tone:  medium skin tones with neutral olive undertones

Cup size: A-B cup

Height: 1m83 (6′0”)

Weight: 72 kg (158lb)

Health: rarely get sick, mostly little colds. She seems to generally heal a little faster than others.

Energy: Because of her being possessed by a monster, her body needs and uses a lot of energy. To preserve her muscular mass, she needs to eat a lot of calories. Even more when Xeras takes control and uses his powers.

Scars: An inverted V one on the nose, razor ones on her left wrist, circular ones on her upper back (from the summoning circle), a line on her abs, several smaller scars on the arms, body and legs, and cigarette burns on the right arms.

Clothing style: flashy clothes, mostly crop top, hoodies, shorts, street-wear.

Makeup style: No makeup

Posture: Depends on her mood. Most of the time confident, imitating men behavior when with her gang, more feline and gracious when she flirts.

Tattoos: 3 dragon tattoos: one around her left wrist, one big on her upper back with his tail that ends under her left breast, and one small on her right inner thigh.

Scent: her cheap shampoo that smell candy for the hair, lemon for the body.

Personality

Mental/Emotional disorder(s):  Borderline personality disorder(false diagnostic: symptoms mostly due to Xeras’ possession), PTSD

Phobias: Musophobia(rodents), Nyctophobia (darkness), loss of limbs or paralysis.

Addictions: Risky gambles (involving her own security), coca cola, coffee, jelly coffee, sex.

Likes:

- Dance (hip hop, New Age ) She’s good at it.

- Drawing.

- 80’s songs and punk rock. But only people close to her know it.  

- Giving food related nicknames

- Roller skating

- Omelet

- Pizza

- Banana-chocolate ice-cream

- Mostly all food

- Coffee

- Dragons

- Playing Duel Monsters

- Even more Dragons

- Being the Yellow Dragons’ boss

- Bowling

- Tease People

- Flirting with people

- Space

- Horror / Monster/Kaiju Movies

- Star Wars

- Sitting on anything

- Dominant men in the bedroom

Doesn’t like:

- Bullies

- Doctors

- University

- Authority in general

- Serial killer movies

- Rodents

- Being in the Dark

- Be told that she’s crazy  

Hobbies:

- Roller skating

- Dancing

- Dueling

- Drawing

- Video games

- Combat sports

- Yoga

- Vogue fem

Fears: Rodents, abandonment, darkness

Habits: Turn things into competitions, stealing your food, entering where she shouldn’t.

Negative traits: Don’t know when to back down sometimes, can be pushy and loud, heavy eater, hot-tempered, don’t know how to lie for trivial things.

Positive traits: Seems to always smile, try until she succeeds, loyal, curious.

Abilities: combat and dancing skills. The monster inside her gives her some slight regeneration. Could learn to use shadows magics.

Equipment: A knife in her boots or under her clothes, another one in her backpack that she always has. Her deck and her duel disk, battle city version.

Trinkets: Her old phone. She always has in her backpack, a USB key that was from her dad.

Transportation: a pair of boots that can turn into rollers, with an electric motor, produced by KaibaCorp (offered by the close members of her gang)

Collections: Several ones. Knives, guns, duel monster cards.

History:

- Sharing the same passion for robotics, Kat’s parents met at an IEEE International Conference on R&A (Robotics and Automation) in Atlanta. Her dad, Hideyoshi, a young AI genius with a fragile health that had left him lame, was from an old Japanese family with some Russian ancestry, the Murata’s, who were not really into honest business. But his talent and original organic approach to programming led him to another path: Founding his own robotics company.

Her mother, Erika, a strong Swedish woman, that gave Kat almost all of her genetics, left her country and family to study and work in America. She had always loved to tinker but the creation of prosthetics and robots fascinated her.

Their meeting was a surprise, but they quickly became attached to one another and when he asked her to follow him to Japan, at Domino city, to accomplish his project, she accepted. With each of their specialties, they created Murata Robotics with the help of an American friend, Stuart Evans. After some time they had two children, Kathleen and Hiro.  

- Kat was a cheerful little girl, with curly blonde hair, always smiling and curious, even if she was a little too much naive. At 8 she was already interested in her dad’s work. He dedicated his secret project to her: creating a fully functional animal AI, based on what a dragon could be.

- Their lives turned upside down the day where Kat met a strange man in a convenience store. He talked with the 8-years-old girl a few minutes but disappeared before Erika had seen him. The night after, Kat woke up, upon hearing the sounds of a struggle. Before she could react the same man entered her room and captured her. She doesn’t remember everything from this night but some details are still clear today. Her family sitting in front of her. Her father telling her to look into his eyes as her mother’s blood spilled on the floor. Her brother’s cries. Their slit throats.

After that everything went quickly. He took her with him, locked her up in a cave, left her screaming in the dark, with only rats for company. When she finally fell silent and he was sure that she was broken and weak, he brought her into a room decorated with dozens of candles. It didn’t take her long to lose consciousness when he started engraving the summoning circles on her back with a ritual knife.

What was supposed to be a sacrificial ritual to bring a monster into this world, Xeras, the dragons slaver, trapped him in the body of this little girl. And it was furious. Using Kat’s physical and emotional pain, it merged their soul, releasing their wrath on the man who did all that. When the police arrived, they found her unconscious with the dead body of her kidnapper. They decided to close the case.

- After a stay in the hospital to take care of her wounds, which left her with scars, they took her to an orphanage, waiting for the family of her dad to come to get her. But under the influence of the monster inside her, she quickly became violent, hurting herself and the other kids. Her family, that only wanted the control of Murata robotics, put her in the Institute, a psychiatric hospital for children, for ‘her own good’. She was soon diagnosticated as having a borderline personality disorder and PTSD and was placed in isolation, under medication. The monster finally calmed down, too weak to take control anymore.

- Two years later a psychiatrist finally decided to give more effort toward her recovery. After some work, he declared her well enough to go, but not without supervision. Her family was powerful and didn’t want her to take back her inheritance one day. They made efforts to bribe for a ruling of ineptitude, claiming she was not able to care for herself, even into adulthood.

Of course, they never took custody of her, and she was placed in an orphanage, and then in a foster family until her 18th birthday.

- Being mostly free to go outside, she quickly mixed with the wrong crowd. Understanding that she was on her own and nobody would help her, she came closer to the only kind of people that would accept her, other outcasts, delinquents, gangs.

At 17, she fell for a 24 years old gang leader, Esteban. She tried to join his group, but he laughed at her. Why would he take her? She knew how to fight in the schoolyard but she was weak. He threatened her to take her as a prostitute, but he finally let her go. He liked her gaze.  

- Strangely, dance had been her salvation. She met a dance teacher that taught her to have control of her body and to be confident. She began to workout as well, she built up a fair amount of muscles for a girl of her age. When she went back to Esteban, he finally accepted. He saw potential in her but he also wanted her. Even if she was still young, she was crazy about him. Her relationship with him defined all the ones she had after. If anybody tried to say that she was only a prostitute, they would feel her wrath.

But she didn’t totally agree with how Esteban was leading his gang. And by that time, her ambition was more important than the feelings she had.

- At 20, she began to search for supporters within the gang and when she had enough support on her side, she led an attack on Esteban and the rest of the gang. After a knife fight that she won with difficulties (winning a scar on her abdomen), she had to choose what she would do with Esteban. He was already condemned. She could let him live with the shame that he lost his power against a woman, or she could kill him. But she knew him. He was psycho, a killer. But strangely enough, he loved her. In his own way. So she offered him to be her second in command. He accepted. After all, it was his only way to stay with her and keep some power.

- She changed the name of the gang, calling them Kiiro no Ryū, the yellow dragons but also changed their activities. Her goal was now to protect the people of the districts they controlled. Their main incomes were the attacks of other gangs, everything linked to the underground Duel Monster traffic (rare cards, illegal tournaments,…), but also drugs traffic and prostitution. Most of the gang’s members are loyal and receive a share of the profits. Kat mostly refuses to use that money, even if it could have given her a good life.

- During this time, Kat continued her scholar life without interest, being at Rintama High School and had to repeat a year. But she saw something that motivated her. She remembered that kid she saw on TV when she was at the Institut, that was adopted by the richest man in Domino. And now she was seeing him on TV again, CEO of his company. It impressed her. It made her realize that she could do it too. That even with a bad start she doesn’t have to stay in the underground. And maybe take back her parent’s company. After that, she began to studies seriously to graduate from high school with a scholarship for the American University of Domino City. She chose to study Business Economics, making Kaiba Corp her main subject.

- Being good at dueling she decided too to start a more official career, as the Dragon Warrior. So far she managed to win her duel disk, and participate in some tournaments, with some good results.

- But when everybody seemed to go better, the worst happened. Strong of years of wait, Xeras took advantage of a moment of weakness to take full control of Kat’s body. She only managed to be back in control thank to her friend Isabel, after a long and harsh combat. The discovery of her possession was a shock, it meant that all those bad things that happened to her, the Institute, all the violent events that she couldn’t remember, all this was because of him. It took her time to accept that, but after all, he was stuck in her body and they can’t do anything about it.

This part is valid for the default verse with @upbeatsunshine. If your muse is Jou, Kat doesn’t know him. If you still want to use this headcanons, send me  an IM/ask :) :

- She met him when she was 13 and him 10, and he became her first and best friend. They tried to learn together how to survive in their neighborhood.

- Once Jou was 18 he went to live in the same apartment than her, using one of the bedrooms.

Facts:

- She has great difficulties making friends, she’s very awkward socially speaking. She still doesn’t know how she made ones.

- She tends to be impulsive and vulgar. But in the presence of people she likes, she’s very energetic and radiant, always ready to laugh.

- She sings very badly and she is unable to play well to a game other than Duel Monster (include video games. Except from Otomes games. She good at it.).

Home: A converted brick building in the old industrial district. The first floor is big garages and her apartment is the half of the second floor. A big living room/kitchen, a bathroom and three rooms.

Family: Hideyoshi Murata (father/deceased), Erika Magnusson (mother/deceased), Hiro Murata (brother/deceased), Adam Sjögren (cousin), her father’s mother and brother (CEO of Murata Robotics)

Friends: Jounouchi Katsuya (@upbeatsunshine), Isabel Corazón, Imnah Hiwatari

Followers: Esteban, her gang members, her dancers.

Pets/Familiars: Doggo, a male golden retriever with a scar on his side and limping a little

[ghostbustermelanieking]

half-light chapter 10

one /// two /// three /// four /// five  /// six /// seven /// eight /// nine

ten.

He buys her flowers. It feels like admitting something is wrong, but something could be wrong. Everything has seemed too real, these past few days. It’s overwhelming. There’s probably nothing wrong, but it could be something. It could be…

She comes out of the back with a solemn look on her face. He goes to meet her. “Scully?” he whispers softly, reaching down to take her hands.

She looks down at their joined hands in confusion, but not rejection, and then back up at him solemnly. “They found a, uh, nasopharengeal mass. A small growth between the superior conchea and the sinoidal sinus.”

“A growth?” he repeats, feeling numb.

“A tumor.”

A tumor. Horror washes over him like the crushing weight of the tide, and he stares into her ocean-blue eyes like he might fall away otherwise. Not again, he thinks. Not again, not again. “Is it operable?” he stammers.

“No.”

“But it’s treatable,” he says, hoping for something, anything.

She sighs, avoiding his eyes, squeezing his hands. “The truth is that the type and placement of the tumor make it difficult, to the extreme.”

He shakes his head involuntarily. “I refuse to believe that, I…”

“For all times I have said that to you, I am as certain of this as you have ever been.” She squeezes his hands again, her palms too cold against his. “I have cancer. It is a mass on the wall between my sinus and cerebrum. If it pushes into my brain statistically there is about zero chance of survival.”

She is blunt, but gentle, and he is not going to let this happen to her. “I don't accept that. Th-there must be some people who have received treatment for this, we… can…”

“Yes, there are,” she says, letting go of his hands. “Do you remember the MUFON group? The women who were sick?”

“I…” He chews his lip nervously. “I think so, but they were… that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

Her brow furrows in confusion. “Not that long ago, it was last year,” she says. “I think we might find some answers there. It’s in Allentown, Pennsylvania. I’m ready to go when you are.”

“I… we can go now, if you want,” he says. Anything to help her. Anything to save her.

She squeezes his upper arm, guiding him gently towards the door. “That’s a good idea. I want to do this while I still have some strength left.”

The way she says it makes him want to cry, and he is going to kill whoever did this to her. They leave the hospital together, walking to where he parked their car. Did they come together? They must have.

“Scully?” he says. “Did we… this has happened before, hasn’t it? You being sick?”

She turns to him, eyes wide with concern. “Mulder, what are you talking about? Are you okay?”

He shakes his head as if he can shake the strange memories out, this confusing buzz in his head. “I’m fine, Scully,” he says.

***

Scully twists her ring the entire time she waits for her results. When she was younger, she'd tried on her mother's wedding ring to see what it felt like and had disliked the bulky weight on her finger, putting it back on the bedside table from some combination of discomfort and fear of losing it. When Mulder had brought home the rings, she'd been worried that she wouldn't want to wear it, but that's not the reason she's been obsessively fiddling with it. It almost reminds her that Mulder is here, waiting for her, that she's not alone, whatever happens.

We've gotten cheesy in our old/young age, she thinks wryly.

She realizes, suddenly, that if she dies she goes back to a world where everyone and Mulder are dead (if Mulder’s correct). At least she'll have these four years to think about, if nothing else.

The doctor enters then, and Scully jumps a little. “Well, Dana, we have your results,” she says. She is smiling.

Scully crosses her ankles, letting go of the ring in an almost firm manner aimed at herself. “The MRI was clear?” she asks cautiously. She doesn't want to dare to hope.

The doctor nods. “Although your symptoms were pretty easily explained by the results of your blood test.”

The symptoms tick off in Scully’s mind, everything falling into place, everything making sense. “I’m pregnant, aren’t I?” she says knowingly.

The doctor smiles wider. “Yes, you are. Your blood tests indicated anywhere from five to seven weeks along. We’d like to do some more testing to be sure.”

“Yes, of course,” Scully says. She is twisting the ring again. Mulder had said he wanted to have kids; he’d mentioned it, just once, years ago, but it’s the only time she remembers him saying something like that in all the years she’s known him. Mulder, who is in the waiting room, thinking she has cancer. “I need to, um, I need to go get my partn- I mean, my husband. I need to go tell my husband.” The word is clunky and unfamiliar in her mouth; she rotates the ring again, roughly enough to chafe the skin.

The doctor nods towards the door, so she gets to her feet and walks down the hall out into the waiting room, stomach building with anticipation. They’ll deal with whatever emotional consequences follow later; they are going to have a baby. She smiles. She shoves the door open, already turning towards the couch she’d left Mulder on.

He isn’t there.

She turns, scanning the waiting room for any sign of him; watches the still doors of the restroom for a minute. Nothing. She walks to the glass doors and scans the sidewalk outside. He isn’t there, either.

Fear rises steadily up her throat, but she tamps it back down, walking calmly over to the receptionist’s desk. “Excuse me, did you see where the man sitting over there went?” she asks. “Tall, dark hair?"

The receptionist clears her throat, doesn't look up from her work. “He left.”

Scully bites her lip. Even if Mulder was having a hard time dealing with this - and he undoubtedly was - he wouldn’t just get up and leave. Not before they knew for sure. “He just… stood up and walked out?” Her voice sounds halfway ridiculous to her, shaky and scared.

The receptionist nods.

Her completed faith that Mulder wouldn’t just leave her here is scaring her more than anything. Her bag is still on the ground beside the couch; she pulls her cell phone out of it and presses 1 on Speed Dial. Her wild terror is sealed when a responding ring echoes through the waiting room, slightly muffled. His phone is wedged between two couch cushions, and upon looking out the window, the car they’d driven over is missing, and Mulder is gone.

***

It feels like deja vu, like maybe the only time she can find out she's pregnant  is when Mulder is gone.

She tries not to worry herself more on the ride home by thinking about the baby, but that doesn’t help much at all. Maybe she’d be happier, more relaxed if she knew where Mulder was, but his absence has cast a dark cloud over this entire thing. It’s not going to be William, she tries to tell herself in the back of the cab. It was the same thing she’d told herself with William, when she couldn’t stop picturing a little girl who looked like her sister and called her Mommy in a fever dream.

She thumbs tears from the corner of her eyes, and the driver hands her a tissue. She keeps one hand on her abdomen like it is her anchor.

Scully forces herself to take the elevator up to the apartment instead of the stairs, trying to stay calm. She laces her fingers together tightly, but the chill of metal is just a cruel reminder, and she leans solidly against the wall.

She fumbles with the key for a few solid minutes before actually getting it to turn, shoving the door open and calling, “Mulder?” Silence answers her. There aren’t any lights on in the apartment; the bag from breakfast is exactly on the table where she left it. “Mulder?” she calls again, searching all of the rooms of the apartment. Empty.

She pulls out her phone and dials the Gunmen’s number, hears the customary “Lone Gunmen” and snaps, “Turn the goddamn tape off, Langly.”

Something clicks on the other end. “Scully?” Langly asks. “What’s wrong?”

She rubs her temple wearily, eyes closed in composure. “Look, have any of you guys heard from Mulder? Today? Like, in the past hour?”

“I haven’t,” Langly says. “Byers! Frohike!” he shouts away from the speaker. “You guys talked to Mulder today?” His voices come back clearer. “Not today, sorry.”

Scully leans heavily against the counter, nausea building. “He didn’t mention having to do anything today?” she says miserably.

“No… Scully, what is it?”

“I, um… I had a doctor’s appointment. He disappeared from the waiting room before I could tell him what the doctor said. He left his cell phone behind, and he took his car.” Scully swallows hard, pressing her forehead into the kitchen cabinet.

“Scully?” Langly says, and he sounds almost as nervous as she feels, now. “Do you think this is related to the chip?”

They’d told the Gunmen about the chips at Mulder’s insistence - he’d wanted to let them study one, had suggested it when he’d wanted to take his chip out and she wouldn’t let him. They’d done some research, but hadn’t been able to find anything - according to the US Government, those chips don’t exist.

“I-I don’t know. I think so. He wouldn’t have stranded me there like that on his own.” Whatever the cause, it is very likely that they have him. Oh, God, they have him. She swallows. “Langly, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I know something, okay?” She hangs up, dropping the phone on the counter with a clatter and making it to the bathroom just in time.

When she is finished, she slumps back against the bathroom wall, hand against her abdomen. She thinks of the baby and, absurdly, wants to cry.

Back in the kitchen, she calls both of Mulder’s parents in turn. Her conversation with Teena is increasingly awkward - she doesn’t actually remember who Scully is, and she has to remind her (“Dana Scully? Fox’s… partner? We came up and visited a couple of years ago. Yes, I’m his… girlfriend.” [She doesn’t want to break news of the wedding awkwardly over the phone when it’s Mulder’s place to do that, anyway.]). Bill Mulder, at least, seems to know who she is, but definitely isn’t in a talking mood. After a quick, harried, “No, I haven’t heard from him,” he hangs up the phone, leaving Scully with a sharp dial tone. There’s a good possibility he knows something, so she scribbles it down as a note on the Quantico notepad they make grocery lists on.

She calls Melissa and her parents, even though it’s unlikely he would’ve told them anything, and Skinner before she gives up. It's time for a different approach, she decides, and the decision sits heavily in the pit of her stomach.

***

She starts to just go straight to the building, but reconsiders when she thinks of the baby, goes and gets a bullet-proof vest first. This won’t do much to protect them, but it’ll do a little. She fastens it on underneath her shirt and drives calmly to the warehouse-like building where Blevins had met with her the last few times. She takes his car - they'd taken her car in the morning, she'd wanted to drive.

Blevins had given her clearance, before, and she uses that to get in. The inside is cramped and dingy, but looks nothing like a warehouse; there are rows of doors that almost resemble prison halls. The forest surrounds the building on three sides; it’d make a good prison. She’s tempted to shout Mulder’s name, but if she’s wrong and he isn’t here, it’ll give away her hand too soon. She walks through the hallways until she reaches the room where they’d met before and pulls out her gun before entering.

There’s a group of men sitting around a table, but she only recognizes two of them: Blevins and the nameless smoker. She steps forward and presses the muzzle of her gun to the smoker’s head before anyone can say anything. “Where is he?” she snaps.

Some of the men are staring at her in shock or fear, but most of them have a placid look on their faces. Blevins looks furious. “What the hell are you doing, Agent Scully?”

The smoker is eerily calm, even with a gun to his head. He’s still smoking, stench of nicotine making Scully’s nose sting. She swallows hard. “Where’s Agent Mulder?” she hisses. “I know about the chips, how they work. And I know you’ve tried to take me and Mulder before. He's gone; you can imagine how I came to this conclusion."

“Agent Scully, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” one of the men says.

“Oh, bullshit,” she snaps. “You’ve been targeting us for years! You sent me to spy on Mulder, and you abducted us on our first case, and you sent Duane Barry, and you had us arrested. Now you’ve taken Mulder, and I want to know where the hell he is!”

The smoker laughs, a sinister rattling sound. She shoves the gun harder against his skull.

“The chips are not our technology,” another man says. “We’ve tried to obtain you and Agent Mulder before, but only because we didn’t know you had the chips. You weren’t supposed to have the chips; we didn’t choose you.”

“And if Agent Mulder is missing, we have nothing to do with it,” Blevins says.

Her head is swimming with confusion and cigarette smoke. “Bullshit,” she says again, dizzily.

A sharp blaring sounds from somewhere in the building, followed by a pound of feet. The smoker turns to look at her, so that his forehead is underneath her muzzle instead of the back of his head. “That’s the alarm, Miss Scully,” he says seriously. “And security, come to arrest you.”

“You fucking tell me where he is,” she hisses, cocking her gun.

“Not here. That’s all I’ll say.” He’s practically taking delight in this, playing with her mind.

If he really isn’t here, then she needs to get out. If she’s arrested, she’ll never get out, never find Mulder. And they’ll probably take the baby. She backs slowly to the door, gun still aimed, before turning and shoving out, running down another hallway. She weaves through the labyrinth of locked doors, alarm still echoing in her ear. She passes an open-door lab with people in white coats and something green smeared on their scalpels. One of them opens his mouth to yell; she runs faster.

Down another hall is an Exit sign, glowing red like hellfire. She sprints towards it, lungs burning, until she hears footsteps headed towards her from another direction. Desperate, she ducks behind a door, closing it and pressing her ear to it. She holds her breath and listens, waiting for the footsteps to fade down the hall.

“What the hell?”

Scully whirls to see a women in a hospital gown in the corner of the tiny room she’s hidden in. The woman is huddled up against the back of her cell, jammed between two walls and the corner of her tiny cot, hazel eyes wide and frightened. They look too familiar to be a coincidence. The hospital bracelet on her wrist reads Mulder.

“Samantha?” Scully whispers. “Samantha Mulder?”

Samantha nods, skinny wrist almost disappearing in her cloud of wavy hair as she shoves it out of her face. “Who are you?” she snaps irritably, some of the fright easing up. “No one's called me Mulder in twenty years. You're too well dressed to be the nursing staff, so I'm guessing you must be high up on the food chain.” She shrugs, motioning to the ceiling. “But then again, maybe not, if you’re the one they’ve got the alarm blaring for.”

“My name is Dana Scully,” she says, lowering her gun from chest height. She can't believe she found her. Twenty odd years of looking on Mulder's part, and she walks into a prison cell and finds her just like that. “I work for the government. I'm going to get you out of here.”

Samantha laughs bitterly. “The government's all with Them. Or didn't you get the agenda?”

“I didn't, actually,” Scully says. Apparently Samantha has her brother's talent of unwanted snark in a bad situation. “Come with me. You can trust me, I swear.”

Samantha only hesitates a moment, chewing her thumbnail contemplatively, before coming over cautiously to join Scully. “What do I have to lose, at this stage?” she mutters. “It’s been twenty-four goddamn years.”

“Follow me. Stay close,” Scully says, holding her gun up again, at the ready. She shoves the door of the cell open with her foot, and feels Samantha’s hand clench around her sleeve. They move down the hall in a clumsy motion, towards the glowing Exit sign. “Stop!” someone shouts behind them. She’s estimated wrong. A bullet whizzes past them. Scully runs faster, shoving their way out of the emergency exit and ignoring the blare of alarms.

Outside, the sunshine is blinding compared to the dark of the facility, and Samantha throws an arm up over her eyes. Scully grimaces; she is pale and likely not used to being in the sun. “The car’s right over here,” she says, leading Samantha towards it. “We’re going to get out of here, I promise.”

They get into the car, and Scully speeds out of the parking lot without slowing down. Her heart is still pounding. Samantha braces herself against the seat, pressing an arm against the seat and yanking her seatbelt over herself.

Scully’s brow furrows; it's almost unbelievable. She'd gone to that building so many damn times, before Duane Barry, and she'd never known… “How long were you there?” she asks softly.

Samantha turns to her, eyes still wide and somewhere between frightened and incredulous. “Lady, what the hell is going on?”

Scully bites her lip. Interrogating Samantha is not the best approach. “Maybe we should talk,” she mutters, pulling off the road into a parking lot, gun still across her lap in case they are followed.

“Yeah, good idea,” she snaps, eyes on the gun. “Maybe you could start by telling me who the hell you are, Dana Scully.”

“I’m Mulder’s partner,” she says, because she’s used to it. She realizes just after that maybe she should’ve introduced herself as his wife. Or at least called him Fox. Or something remotely familiar to this girl who hasn't seen her brother since she was eight.

Samantha’s brow furrows in confusion. “Mulder… you mean Bill Mulder? My father?”

“No,” Scully says, absently twisting her ring. “Fox Mulder. Your brother.”

i’d like to apologize for the craziness of this chapter. it’s probably my favorite so far, and i’ve had large chunks of it sitting in my document since december.

(i know the cancer scare turned pregnancy thing is a cliche, but i felt like it worked well with the rest of the story.)

[northshoregadgets]

His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself

I have finally found the emotional strength to share with you a new story about my dog, Trucker. Many have followed my stories of his antics through Dogster.

Sadly, this story is of his passing. It has been hard for me to relive it all, but I wanted his followers to know. I will share with you here a modified post I made to Facebook in January, shortly after he died.

Trucker and me in February 2013. He always looked at me like this. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In July 2015, Trucker developed a small, soft mass on his left upper leg and other similar masses on his body. All were tested and the one on his leg had mast cell cancer present.

He was operated on to remove that mass. His legs were long and the skin to work with was scarce. The doctor did an excellent job removing the mass and surrounding tissue and scored the skin to help it stretch out. I was told that cancer could return if the margins were not clear.

In June 2016, I was diagnosed with Stage 2B breast cancer. While I was undergoing chemotherapy and very ill, I noticed a bump on Trucker’s leg above where the incision was before. It began growing quickly. I made an appointment to see his local vet and the mass was tested, revealing cancer had returned.

I was told that he needed to see an oncologist at a veterinary teaching hospital over an hour drive from where I live. I made an appointment to visit them for a consultation in October 2016. I was too sick from chemotherapy to take him sooner.

Trucker didn’t have much loose skin left to remove the mass. It was certain he’d have to have his leg amputated to remove the mass and definitively diagnose the grade of cancer. The higher the grade, the more advanced the cancer would have been.

I discussed all options with the oncologist and asked her to be brutally honest with me. Trucker was 12. The maximum life expectancy for a dog his size was 8-12 years. The oncologist did a needle biopsy of his spleen that day to see if cancer was present. I was told that mast cell cancer ultimately ends up in the spleen in the advanced stage. She also biopsied an armpit lymph node to see if cancer cells were present.

Results showed that cancer was in the lymph node but not the spleen. Since it was already in his lymph node, we knew it was traveling in his body. Even if we amputated his leg, the cancer was probably elsewhere.

I chose not to amputate his leg. He needed to live his life as a happy dog in the last year or two remaining. If he had his leg removed, he would have still needed chemotherapy. Chemo would have been only 30 to 40 percent effective.

Factoring everything, I chose conservative means to treat his cancer. I also had to think of my own health battling cancer as I was facing upcoming surgery and radiation.

I discussed all of this with the oncologist and she understood my decision to treat him conservatively, trying to keep the mass at a smaller size.

She told me he would have 6 to 12 months to live. We discussed what “the signs” would be that cancer had taken over his body. She said the mass could abscess. At that stage, his health would be very poor and he could develop swelling in the leg, which would be painful.

I gave Trucker four Benadryl a day, which made him tired but kept the mast cells from getting too active. I also gave him the maximum amount of prednisone he could take to keep the mass smaller. Prednisone made him want to drink and eat more.

Trucker’s cancer mass on his leg. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In the last few weeks before he was euthanized, the mass started to grow and I could see the pressure on his skin. He was also pacing more because of the prednisone and possible pain.

A day before his passing, the leg had suddenly swollen upward toward his armpit. The skin was red and hot to the touch. He was more tired than normal. He laid on the floor gingerly and had trouble pushing himself up. I had to lift him from the floor a couple times. He also had trouble climbing stairs.

We went to the vet January 12, and when she saw Trucker she said, “He’s not the same dog.” I knew this. On the ride to the vet he laid in the back seat of my car and rested his head on the seat. He never did that. He always wanted to stick his head out the passenger window. I kept one hand on him as I drove, holding his leg with the mass in my hand.

When we got to the vet clinic he was slightly dragging his back leg when he walked.

I learned he was swollen in his shoulder, both sides of his chest had swollen lymph glands, his leg was swollen most of the way up, the side of his face was swollen in his neck area, his heart rate was 150 instead of normal 120 and he was having trouble walking with that back leg.

The thoughts from the doctor were that the mast cells had spread fast, his heart rate was troubling and could have been due to anemia, his abdomen seemed a bit distended (perhaps his spleen or liver was also affected now) and the leg dragging could have been due to pain or a neurological issue. Bottom line, the cancer had taken over his body.

He laid down on a large quilt when he was euthanized. He always loved blankets. He was strangely at peace and didn’t tremble or fight to get up.

Trucker never showed his age. He didn’t get gray hairs on his face until this past year. He was always active and loving.

When he was euthanized, the veterinarian cried before I did. She loved him as many people did. I told her I couldn’t cry because it would upset him. I would not cry until he left. I fed him bits of treats as he was put into a sleepy state before being set free.

I told him that I loved him, I thanked him for caring for me, I said I would see him again, that I would keep fighting and that he would not have to worry about me now. Just after 11 a.m. he went heavy in my arms and I finally cried.

My vet told me she felt I made the right decision based on everything she saw that day. He could have died at home or while spending the night with my neighbor who babysat him. I worked nights and was set to go back to work three days later.

I did not want Trucker to suffer. His health was declining fast and I felt this was the time – peacefully.

I knew when I went to that vet appointment Trucker was not doing well. I did not know it was that bad. I know he hid so much from me because he was taking care of me during my battle with cancer. Animals can hide things so well.

I pray he is held by Jesus and those who have left before me. I pray that he heard me, that he understood and that he knows I loved him.

Holding Trucker as he left this life. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

The day Trucker left was brutally raw. I was on the floor holding him, my head covered in stubble after losing my hair to chemotherapy. He was also fighting cancer and I had to let him go.

I asked God to bring me peace that I made the right decision and that Trucker was now watching over me. His life was hard before meeting me (he was 5 when I adopted him). I did so much to bring him peace in the almost eight years we knew each other. He was loved by many people near and far, a life he never would have had.

Trucker had been discarded three times, forgotten by so many people, like a child bouncing around from foster home to foster home. He had severe separation anxiety and fear of storms. Then he met me during a pet adoption event and he learned about peace and love. He was free to be himself. I never raised my voice to him or scolded him when he acted out due to anxiety. I told him “I understand” and “It’s ok.”

Because of my patience, he stopped cowering and was thankful.

I understood him. I also fought anxiety in the past. Plus, both of us had been abandoned by people we loved over the years.

I shared Trucker with the world through my stories and photos of our life together. I was his therapy. He was mine.

As a friend said, “You were his savior, his life and his friend.”

Thank you all for loving him, too.

Footnote: Two months after Trucker died I met another dog, a senior I named Angel, who picked me as her new guardian. I plan to share a couple more stories about my years with Trucker and now stories about Angel who has a following on Instagram (@raisingmyfurrychildren) and Facebook (http://ift.tt/2v0BUwR).

Thumbnail: Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

Read more about dogs battling cancer on Dogster.com:

8 Things to Remember When Fighting Cancer in Dogs

Immunotherapy Trial to Treat Dog Cancer Shows Promising Results

What You Need to Know If Your Dog Gets Diagnosed With Cancer

The post His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself appeared first on Dogster.

from Dogster http://ift.tt/2v0E6nS via http://www.dogster.com

[stiles-wtf]

His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself

I have finally found the emotional strength to share with you a new story about my dog, Trucker. Many have followed my stories of his antics through Dogster.

Sadly, this story is of his passing. It has been hard for me to relive it all, but I wanted his followers to know. I will share with you here a modified post I made to Facebook in January, shortly after he died.

Trucker and me in February 2013. He always looked at me like this. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In July 2015, Trucker developed a small, soft mass on his left upper leg and other similar masses on his body. All were tested and the one on his leg had mast cell cancer present.

He was operated on to remove that mass. His legs were long and the skin to work with was scarce. The doctor did an excellent job removing the mass and surrounding tissue and scored the skin to help it stretch out. I was told that cancer could return if the margins were not clear.

In June 2016, I was diagnosed with Stage 2B breast cancer. While I was undergoing chemotherapy and very ill, I noticed a bump on Trucker’s leg above where the incision was before. It began growing quickly. I made an appointment to see his local vet and the mass was tested, revealing cancer had returned.

I was told that he needed to see an oncologist at a veterinary teaching hospital over an hour drive from where I live. I made an appointment to visit them for a consultation in October 2016. I was too sick from chemotherapy to take him sooner.

Trucker didn’t have much loose skin left to remove the mass. It was certain he’d have to have his leg amputated to remove the mass and definitively diagnose the grade of cancer. The higher the grade, the more advanced the cancer would have been.

I discussed all options with the oncologist and asked her to be brutally honest with me. Trucker was 12. The maximum life expectancy for a dog his size was 8-12 years. The oncologist did a needle biopsy of his spleen that day to see if cancer was present. I was told that mast cell cancer ultimately ends up in the spleen in the advanced stage. She also biopsied an armpit lymph node to see if cancer cells were present.

Results showed that cancer was in the lymph node but not the spleen. Since it was already in his lymph node, we knew it was traveling in his body. Even if we amputated his leg, the cancer was probably elsewhere.

I chose not to amputate his leg. He needed to live his life as a happy dog in the last year or two remaining. If he had his leg removed, he would have still needed chemotherapy. Chemo would have been only 30 to 40 percent effective.

Factoring everything, I chose conservative means to treat his cancer. I also had to think of my own health battling cancer as I was facing upcoming surgery and radiation.

I discussed all of this with the oncologist and she understood my decision to treat him conservatively, trying to keep the mass at a smaller size.

She told me he would have 6 to 12 months to live. We discussed what “the signs” would be that cancer had taken over his body. She said the mass could abscess. At that stage, his health would be very poor and he could develop swelling in the leg, which would be painful.

I gave Trucker four Benadryl a day, which made him tired but kept the mast cells from getting too active. I also gave him the maximum amount of prednisone he could take to keep the mass smaller. Prednisone made him want to drink and eat more.

Trucker’s cancer mass on his leg. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In the last few weeks before he was euthanized, the mass started to grow and I could see the pressure on his skin. He was also pacing more because of the prednisone and possible pain.

A day before his passing, the leg had suddenly swollen upward toward his armpit. The skin was red and hot to the touch. He was more tired than normal. He laid on the floor gingerly and had trouble pushing himself up. I had to lift him from the floor a couple times. He also had trouble climbing stairs.

We went to the vet January 12, and when she saw Trucker she said, “He’s not the same dog.” I knew this. On the ride to the vet he laid in the back seat of my car and rested his head on the seat. He never did that. He always wanted to stick his head out the passenger window. I kept one hand on him as I drove, holding his leg with the mass in my hand.

When we got to the vet clinic he was slightly dragging his back leg when he walked.

I learned he was swollen in his shoulder, both sides of his chest had swollen lymph glands, his leg was swollen most of the way up, the side of his face was swollen in his neck area, his heart rate was 150 instead of normal 120 and he was having trouble walking with that back leg.

The thoughts from the doctor were that the mast cells had spread fast, his heart rate was troubling and could have been due to anemia, his abdomen seemed a bit distended (perhaps his spleen or liver was also affected now) and the leg dragging could have been due to pain or a neurological issue. Bottom line, the cancer had taken over his body.

He laid down on a large quilt when he was euthanized. He always loved blankets. He was strangely at peace and didn’t tremble or fight to get up.

Trucker never showed his age. He didn’t get gray hairs on his face until this past year. He was always active and loving.

When he was euthanized, the veterinarian cried before I did. She loved him as many people did. I told her I couldn’t cry because it would upset him. I would not cry until he left. I fed him bits of treats as he was put into a sleepy state before being set free.

I told him that I loved him, I thanked him for caring for me, I said I would see him again, that I would keep fighting and that he would not have to worry about me now. Just after 11 a.m. he went heavy in my arms and I finally cried.

My vet told me she felt I made the right decision based on everything she saw that day. He could have died at home or while spending the night with my neighbor who babysat him. I worked nights and was set to go back to work three days later.

I did not want Trucker to suffer. His health was declining fast and I felt this was the time – peacefully.

I knew when I went to that vet appointment Trucker was not doing well. I did not know it was that bad. I know he hid so much from me because he was taking care of me during my battle with cancer. Animals can hide things so well.

I pray he is held by Jesus and those who have left before me. I pray that he heard me, that he understood and that he knows I loved him.

Holding Trucker as he left this life. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

The day Trucker left was brutally raw. I was on the floor holding him, my head covered in stubble after losing my hair to chemotherapy. He was also fighting cancer and I had to let him go.

I asked God to bring me peace that I made the right decision and that Trucker was now watching over me. His life was hard before meeting me (he was 5 when I adopted him). I did so much to bring him peace in the almost eight years we knew each other. He was loved by many people near and far, a life he never would have had.

Trucker had been discarded three times, forgotten by so many people, like a child bouncing around from foster home to foster home. He had severe separation anxiety and fear of storms. Then he met me during a pet adoption event and he learned about peace and love. He was free to be himself. I never raised my voice to him or scolded him when he acted out due to anxiety. I told him “I understand” and “It’s ok.”

Because of my patience, he stopped cowering and was thankful.

I understood him. I also fought anxiety in the past. Plus, both of us had been abandoned by people we loved over the years.

I shared Trucker with the world through my stories and photos of our life together. I was his therapy. He was mine.

As a friend said, “You were his savior, his life and his friend.”

Thank you all for loving him, too.

Footnote: Two months after Trucker died I met another dog, a senior I named Angel, who picked me as her new guardian. I plan to share a couple more stories about my years with Trucker and now stories about Angel who has a following on Instagram (@raisingmyfurrychildren) and Facebook (http://ift.tt/2v0BUwR).

Thumbnail: Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

Read more about dogs battling cancer on Dogster.com:

8 Things to Remember When Fighting Cancer in Dogs

Immunotherapy Trial to Treat Dog Cancer Shows Promising Results

What You Need to Know If Your Dog Gets Diagnosed With Cancer

The post His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself appeared first on Dogster.

[jeffreyrwelch]

His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself

I have finally found the emotional strength to share with you a new story about my dog, Trucker. Many have followed my stories of his antics through Dogster.

Sadly, this story is of his passing. It has been hard for me to relive it all, but I wanted his followers to know. I will share with you here a modified post I made to Facebook in January, shortly after he died.

Trucker and me in February 2013. He always looked at me like this. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In July 2015, Trucker developed a small, soft mass on his left upper leg and other similar masses on his body. All were tested and the one on his leg had mast cell cancer present.

He was operated on to remove that mass. His legs were long and the skin to work with was scarce. The doctor did an excellent job removing the mass and surrounding tissue and scored the skin to help it stretch out. I was told that cancer could return if the margins were not clear.

In June 2016, I was diagnosed with Stage 2B breast cancer. While I was undergoing chemotherapy and very ill, I noticed a bump on Trucker’s leg above where the incision was before. It began growing quickly. I made an appointment to see his local vet and the mass was tested, revealing cancer had returned.

I was told that he needed to see an oncologist at a veterinary teaching hospital over an hour drive from where I live. I made an appointment to visit them for a consultation in October 2016. I was too sick from chemotherapy to take him sooner.

Trucker didn’t have much loose skin left to remove the mass. It was certain he’d have to have his leg amputated to remove the mass and definitively diagnose the grade of cancer. The higher the grade, the more advanced the cancer would have been.

I discussed all options with the oncologist and asked her to be brutally honest with me. Trucker was 12. The maximum life expectancy for a dog his size was 8-12 years. The oncologist did a needle biopsy of his spleen that day to see if cancer was present. I was told that mast cell cancer ultimately ends up in the spleen in the advanced stage. She also biopsied an armpit lymph node to see if cancer cells were present.

Results showed that cancer was in the lymph node but not the spleen. Since it was already in his lymph node, we knew it was traveling in his body. Even if we amputated his leg, the cancer was probably elsewhere.

I chose not to amputate his leg. He needed to live his life as a happy dog in the last year or two remaining. If he had his leg removed, he would have still needed chemotherapy. Chemo would have been only 30 to 40 percent effective.

Factoring everything, I chose conservative means to treat his cancer. I also had to think of my own health battling cancer as I was facing upcoming surgery and radiation.

I discussed all of this with the oncologist and she understood my decision to treat him conservatively, trying to keep the mass at a smaller size.

She told me he would have 6 to 12 months to live. We discussed what “the signs” would be that cancer had taken over his body. She said the mass could abscess. At that stage, his health would be very poor and he could develop swelling in the leg, which would be painful.

I gave Trucker four Benadryl a day, which made him tired but kept the mast cells from getting too active. I also gave him the maximum amount of prednisone he could take to keep the mass smaller. Prednisone made him want to drink and eat more.

Trucker’s cancer mass on his leg. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In the last few weeks before he was euthanized, the mass started to grow and I could see the pressure on his skin. He was also pacing more because of the prednisone and possible pain.

A day before his passing, the leg had suddenly swollen upward toward his armpit. The skin was red and hot to the touch. He was more tired than normal. He laid on the floor gingerly and had trouble pushing himself up. I had to lift him from the floor a couple times. He also had trouble climbing stairs.

We went to the vet January 12, and when she saw Trucker she said, “He’s not the same dog.” I knew this. On the ride to the vet he laid in the back seat of my car and rested his head on the seat. He never did that. He always wanted to stick his head out the passenger window. I kept one hand on him as I drove, holding his leg with the mass in my hand.

When we got to the vet clinic he was slightly dragging his back leg when he walked.

I learned he was swollen in his shoulder, both sides of his chest had swollen lymph glands, his leg was swollen most of the way up, the side of his face was swollen in his neck area, his heart rate was 150 instead of normal 120 and he was having trouble walking with that back leg.

The thoughts from the doctor were that the mast cells had spread fast, his heart rate was troubling and could have been due to anemia, his abdomen seemed a bit distended (perhaps his spleen or liver was also affected now) and the leg dragging could have been due to pain or a neurological issue. Bottom line, the cancer had taken over his body.

He laid down on a large quilt when he was euthanized. He always loved blankets. He was strangely at peace and didn’t tremble or fight to get up.

Trucker never showed his age. He didn’t get gray hairs on his face until this past year. He was always active and loving.

When he was euthanized, the veterinarian cried before I did. She loved him as many people did. I told her I couldn’t cry because it would upset him. I would not cry until he left. I fed him bits of treats as he was put into a sleepy state before being set free.

I told him that I loved him, I thanked him for caring for me, I said I would see him again, that I would keep fighting and that he would not have to worry about me now. Just after 11 a.m. he went heavy in my arms and I finally cried.

My vet told me she felt I made the right decision based on everything she saw that day. He could have died at home or while spending the night with my neighbor who babysat him. I worked nights and was set to go back to work three days later.

I did not want Trucker to suffer. His health was declining fast and I felt this was the time – peacefully.

I knew when I went to that vet appointment Trucker was not doing well. I did not know it was that bad. I know he hid so much from me because he was taking care of me during my battle with cancer. Animals can hide things so well.

I pray he is held by Jesus and those who have left before me. I pray that he heard me, that he understood and that he knows I loved him.

Holding Trucker as he left this life. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

The day Trucker left was brutally raw. I was on the floor holding him, my head covered in stubble after losing my hair to chemotherapy. He was also fighting cancer and I had to let him go.

I asked God to bring me peace that I made the right decision and that Trucker was now watching over me. His life was hard before meeting me (he was 5 when I adopted him). I did so much to bring him peace in the almost eight years we knew each other. He was loved by many people near and far, a life he never would have had.

Trucker had been discarded three times, forgotten by so many people, like a child bouncing around from foster home to foster home. He had severe separation anxiety and fear of storms. Then he met me during a pet adoption event and he learned about peace and love. He was free to be himself. I never raised my voice to him or scolded him when he acted out due to anxiety. I told him “I understand” and “It’s ok.”

Because of my patience, he stopped cowering and was thankful.

I understood him. I also fought anxiety in the past. Plus, both of us had been abandoned by people we loved over the years.

I shared Trucker with the world through my stories and photos of our life together. I was his therapy. He was mine.

As a friend said, “You were his savior, his life and his friend.”

Thank you all for loving him, too.

Footnote: Two months after Trucker died I met another dog, a senior I named Angel, who picked me as her new guardian. I plan to share a couple more stories about my years with Trucker and now stories about Angel who has a following on Instagram (@raisingmyfurrychildren) and Facebook (facebook.com/goatangel/).

Thumbnail: Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

Read more about dogs battling cancer on Dogster.com:

8 Things to Remember When Fighting Cancer in Dogs

Immunotherapy Trial to Treat Dog Cancer Shows Promising Results

What You Need to Know If Your Dog Gets Diagnosed With Cancer

The post His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself appeared first on Dogster.

[daddyslittlejuliet]

His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself

I have finally found the emotional strength to share with you a new story about my dog, Trucker. Many have followed my stories of his antics through Dogster.

Sadly, this story is of his passing. It has been hard for me to relive it all, but I wanted his followers to know. I will share with you here a modified post I made to Facebook in January, shortly after he died.

Trucker and me in February 2013. He always looked at me like this. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In July 2015, Trucker developed a small, soft mass on his left upper leg and other similar masses on his body. All were tested and the one on his leg had mast cell cancer present.

He was operated on to remove that mass. His legs were long and the skin to work with was scarce. The doctor did an excellent job removing the mass and surrounding tissue and scored the skin to help it stretch out. I was told that cancer could return if the margins were not clear.

In June 2016, I was diagnosed with Stage 2B breast cancer. While I was undergoing chemotherapy and very ill, I noticed a bump on Trucker’s leg above where the incision was before. It began growing quickly. I made an appointment to see his local vet and the mass was tested, revealing cancer had returned.

I was told that he needed to see an oncologist at a veterinary teaching hospital over an hour drive from where I live. I made an appointment to visit them for a consultation in October 2016. I was too sick from chemotherapy to take him sooner.

Trucker didn’t have much loose skin left to remove the mass. It was certain he’d have to have his leg amputated to remove the mass and definitively diagnose the grade of cancer. The higher the grade, the more advanced the cancer would have been.

I discussed all options with the oncologist and asked her to be brutally honest with me. Trucker was 12. The maximum life expectancy for a dog his size was 8-12 years. The oncologist did a needle biopsy of his spleen that day to see if cancer was present. I was told that mast cell cancer ultimately ends up in the spleen in the advanced stage. She also biopsied an armpit lymph node to see if cancer cells were present.

Results showed that cancer was in the lymph node but not the spleen. Since it was already in his lymph node, we knew it was traveling in his body. Even if we amputated his leg, the cancer was probably elsewhere.

I chose not to amputate his leg. He needed to live his life as a happy dog in the last year or two remaining. If he had his leg removed, he would have still needed chemotherapy. Chemo would have been only 30 to 40 percent effective.

Factoring everything, I chose conservative means to treat his cancer. I also had to think of my own health battling cancer as I was facing upcoming surgery and radiation.

I discussed all of this with the oncologist and she understood my decision to treat him conservatively, trying to keep the mass at a smaller size.

She told me he would have 6 to 12 months to live. We discussed what “the signs” would be that cancer had taken over his body. She said the mass could abscess. At that stage, his health would be very poor and he could develop swelling in the leg, which would be painful.

I gave Trucker four Benadryl a day, which made him tired but kept the mast cells from getting too active. I also gave him the maximum amount of prednisone he could take to keep the mass smaller. Prednisone made him want to drink and eat more.

Trucker’s cancer mass on his leg. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In the last few weeks before he was euthanized, the mass started to grow and I could see the pressure on his skin. He was also pacing more because of the prednisone and possible pain.

A day before his passing, the leg had suddenly swollen upward toward his armpit. The skin was red and hot to the touch. He was more tired than normal. He laid on the floor gingerly and had trouble pushing himself up. I had to lift him from the floor a couple times. He also had trouble climbing stairs.

We went to the vet January 12, and when she saw Trucker she said, “He’s not the same dog.” I knew this. On the ride to the vet he laid in the back seat of my car and rested his head on the seat. He never did that. He always wanted to stick his head out the passenger window. I kept one hand on him as I drove, holding his leg with the mass in my hand.

When we got to the vet clinic he was slightly dragging his back leg when he walked.

I learned he was swollen in his shoulder, both sides of his chest had swollen lymph glands, his leg was swollen most of the way up, the side of his face was swollen in his neck area, his heart rate was 150 instead of normal 120 and he was having trouble walking with that back leg.

The thoughts from the doctor were that the mast cells had spread fast, his heart rate was troubling and could have been due to anemia, his abdomen seemed a bit distended (perhaps his spleen or liver was also affected now) and the leg dragging could have been due to pain or a neurological issue. Bottom line, the cancer had taken over his body.

He laid down on a large quilt when he was euthanized. He always loved blankets. He was strangely at peace and didn’t tremble or fight to get up.

Trucker never showed his age. He didn’t get gray hairs on his face until this past year. He was always active and loving.

When he was euthanized, the veterinarian cried before I did. She loved him as many people did. I told her I couldn’t cry because it would upset him. I would not cry until he left. I fed him bits of treats as he was put into a sleepy state before being set free.

I told him that I loved him, I thanked him for caring for me, I said I would see him again, that I would keep fighting and that he would not have to worry about me now. Just after 11 a.m. he went heavy in my arms and I finally cried.

My vet told me she felt I made the right decision based on everything she saw that day. He could have died at home or while spending the night with my neighbor who babysat him. I worked nights and was set to go back to work three days later.

I did not want Trucker to suffer. His health was declining fast and I felt this was the time – peacefully.

I knew when I went to that vet appointment Trucker was not doing well. I did not know it was that bad. I know he hid so much from me because he was taking care of me during my battle with cancer. Animals can hide things so well.

I pray he is held by Jesus and those who have left before me. I pray that he heard me, that he understood and that he knows I loved him.

Holding Trucker as he left this life. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

The day Trucker left was brutally raw. I was on the floor holding him, my head covered in stubble after losing my hair to chemotherapy. He was also fighting cancer and I had to let him go.

I asked God to bring me peace that I made the right decision and that Trucker was now watching over me. His life was hard before meeting me (he was 5 when I adopted him). I did so much to bring him peace in the almost eight years we knew each other. He was loved by many people near and far, a life he never would have had.

Trucker had been discarded three times, forgotten by so many people, like a child bouncing around from foster home to foster home. He had severe separation anxiety and fear of storms. Then he met me during a pet adoption event and he learned about peace and love. He was free to be himself. I never raised my voice to him or scolded him when he acted out due to anxiety. I told him “I understand” and “It’s ok.”

Because of my patience, he stopped cowering and was thankful.

I understood him. I also fought anxiety in the past. Plus, both of us had been abandoned by people we loved over the years.

I shared Trucker with the world through my stories and photos of our life together. I was his therapy. He was mine.

As a friend said, “You were his savior, his life and his friend.”

Thank you all for loving him, too.

Footnote: Two months after Trucker died I met another dog, a senior I named Angel, who picked me as her new guardian. I plan to share a couple more stories about my years with Trucker and now stories about Angel who has a following on Instagram (@raisingmyfurrychildren) and Facebook (http://ift.tt/2v0BUwR).

Thumbnail: Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

Read more about dogs battling cancer on Dogster.com:

8 Things to Remember When Fighting Cancer in Dogs

Immunotherapy Trial to Treat Dog Cancer Shows Promising Results

What You Need to Know If Your Dog Gets Diagnosed With Cancer

The post His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself appeared first on Dogster.

[buynewsoul]

His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself

I have finally found the emotional strength to share with you a new story about my dog, Trucker. Many have followed my stories of his antics through Dogster.

Sadly, this story is of his passing. It has been hard for me to relive it all, but I wanted his followers to know. I will share with you here a modified post I made to Facebook in January, shortly after he died.

Trucker and me in February 2013. He always looked at me like this. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In July 2015, Trucker developed a small, soft mass on his left upper leg and other similar masses on his body. All were tested and the one on his leg had mast cell cancer present.

He was operated on to remove that mass. His legs were long and the skin to work with was scarce. The doctor did an excellent job removing the mass and surrounding tissue and scored the skin to help it stretch out. I was told that cancer could return if the margins were not clear.

In June 2016, I was diagnosed with Stage 2B breast cancer. While I was undergoing chemotherapy and very ill, I noticed a bump on Trucker’s leg above where the incision was before. It began growing quickly. I made an appointment to see his local vet and the mass was tested, revealing cancer had returned.

I was told that he needed to see an oncologist at a veterinary teaching hospital over an hour drive from where I live. I made an appointment to visit them for a consultation in October 2016. I was too sick from chemotherapy to take him sooner.

Trucker didn’t have much loose skin left to remove the mass. It was certain he’d have to have his leg amputated to remove the mass and definitively diagnose the grade of cancer. The higher the grade, the more advanced the cancer would have been.

I discussed all options with the oncologist and asked her to be brutally honest with me. Trucker was 12. The maximum life expectancy for a dog his size was 8-12 years. The oncologist did a needle biopsy of his spleen that day to see if cancer was present. I was told that mast cell cancer ultimately ends up in the spleen in the advanced stage. She also biopsied an armpit lymph node to see if cancer cells were present.

Results showed that cancer was in the lymph node but not the spleen. Since it was already in his lymph node, we knew it was traveling in his body. Even if we amputated his leg, the cancer was probably elsewhere.

I chose not to amputate his leg. He needed to live his life as a happy dog in the last year or two remaining. If he had his leg removed, he would have still needed chemotherapy. Chemo would have been only 30 to 40 percent effective.

Factoring everything, I chose conservative means to treat his cancer. I also had to think of my own health battling cancer as I was facing upcoming surgery and radiation.

I discussed all of this with the oncologist and she understood my decision to treat him conservatively, trying to keep the mass at a smaller size.

She told me he would have 6 to 12 months to live. We discussed what “the signs” would be that cancer had taken over his body. She said the mass could abscess. At that stage, his health would be very poor and he could develop swelling in the leg, which would be painful.

I gave Trucker four Benadryl a day, which made him tired but kept the mast cells from getting too active. I also gave him the maximum amount of prednisone he could take to keep the mass smaller. Prednisone made him want to drink and eat more.

Trucker’s cancer mass on his leg. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In the last few weeks before he was euthanized, the mass started to grow and I could see the pressure on his skin. He was also pacing more because of the prednisone and possible pain.

A day before his passing, the leg had suddenly swollen upward toward his armpit. The skin was red and hot to the touch. He was more tired than normal. He laid on the floor gingerly and had trouble pushing himself up. I had to lift him from the floor a couple times. He also had trouble climbing stairs.

We went to the vet January 12, and when she saw Trucker she said, “He’s not the same dog.” I knew this. On the ride to the vet he laid in the back seat of my car and rested his head on the seat. He never did that. He always wanted to stick his head out the passenger window. I kept one hand on him as I drove, holding his leg with the mass in my hand.

When we got to the vet clinic he was slightly dragging his back leg when he walked.

I learned he was swollen in his shoulder, both sides of his chest had swollen lymph glands, his leg was swollen most of the way up, the side of his face was swollen in his neck area, his heart rate was 150 instead of normal 120 and he was having trouble walking with that back leg.

The thoughts from the doctor were that the mast cells had spread fast, his heart rate was troubling and could have been due to anemia, his abdomen seemed a bit distended (perhaps his spleen or liver was also affected now) and the leg dragging could have been due to pain or a neurological issue. Bottom line, the cancer had taken over his body.

He laid down on a large quilt when he was euthanized. He always loved blankets. He was strangely at peace and didn’t tremble or fight to get up.

Trucker never showed his age. He didn’t get gray hairs on his face until this past year. He was always active and loving.

When he was euthanized, the veterinarian cried before I did. She loved him as many people did. I told her I couldn’t cry because it would upset him. I would not cry until he left. I fed him bits of treats as he was put into a sleepy state before being set free.

I told him that I loved him, I thanked him for caring for me, I said I would see him again, that I would keep fighting and that he would not have to worry about me now. Just after 11 a.m. he went heavy in my arms and I finally cried.

My vet told me she felt I made the right decision based on everything she saw that day. He could have died at home or while spending the night with my neighbor who babysat him. I worked nights and was set to go back to work three days later.

I did not want Trucker to suffer. His health was declining fast and I felt this was the time – peacefully.

I knew when I went to that vet appointment Trucker was not doing well. I did not know it was that bad. I know he hid so much from me because he was taking care of me during my battle with cancer. Animals can hide things so well.

I pray he is held by Jesus and those who have left before me. I pray that he heard me, that he understood and that he knows I loved him.

Holding Trucker as he left this life. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

The day Trucker left was brutally raw. I was on the floor holding him, my head covered in stubble after losing my hair to chemotherapy. He was also fighting cancer and I had to let him go.

I asked God to bring me peace that I made the right decision and that Trucker was now watching over me. His life was hard before meeting me (he was 5 when I adopted him). I did so much to bring him peace in the almost eight years we knew each other. He was loved by many people near and far, a life he never would have had.

Trucker had been discarded three times, forgotten by so many people, like a child bouncing around from foster home to foster home. He had severe separation anxiety and fear of storms. Then he met me during a pet adoption event and he learned about peace and love. He was free to be himself. I never raised my voice to him or scolded him when he acted out due to anxiety. I told him “I understand” and “It’s ok.”

Because of my patience, he stopped cowering and was thankful.

I understood him. I also fought anxiety in the past. Plus, both of us had been abandoned by people we loved over the years.

I shared Trucker with the world through my stories and photos of our life together. I was his therapy. He was mine.

As a friend said, “You were his savior, his life and his friend.”

Thank you all for loving him, too.

Footnote: Two months after Trucker died I met another dog, a senior I named Angel, who picked me as her new guardian. I plan to share a couple more stories about my years with Trucker and now stories about Angel who has a following on Instagram (@raisingmyfurrychildren) and Facebook (http://ift.tt/2v0BUwR).

Thumbnail: Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

Read more about dogs battling cancer on Dogster.com:

8 Things to Remember When Fighting Cancer in Dogs

Immunotherapy Trial to Treat Dog Cancer Shows Promising Results

What You Need to Know If Your Dog Gets Diagnosed With Cancer

The post His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself appeared first on Dogster.

[grublypetcare]

His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself

I have finally found the emotional strength to share with you a new story about my dog, Trucker. Many have followed my stories of his antics through Dogster.

Sadly, this story is of his passing. It has been hard for me to relive it all, but I wanted his followers to know. I will share with you here a modified post I made to Facebook in January, shortly after he died.

Trucker and me in February 2013. He always looked at me like this. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In July 2015, Trucker developed a small, soft mass on his left upper leg and other similar masses on his body. All were tested and the one on his leg had mast cell cancer present.

He was operated on to remove that mass. His legs were long and the skin to work with was scarce. The doctor did an excellent job removing the mass and surrounding tissue and scored the skin to help it stretch out. I was told that cancer could return if the margins were not clear.

In June 2016, I was diagnosed with Stage 2B breast cancer. While I was undergoing chemotherapy and very ill, I noticed a bump on Trucker’s leg above where the incision was before. It began growing quickly. I made an appointment to see his local vet and the mass was tested, revealing cancer had returned.

I was told that he needed to see an oncologist at a veterinary teaching hospital over an hour drive from where I live. I made an appointment to visit them for a consultation in October 2016. I was too sick from chemotherapy to take him sooner.

Trucker didn’t have much loose skin left to remove the mass. It was certain he’d have to have his leg amputated to remove the mass and definitively diagnose the grade of cancer. The higher the grade, the more advanced the cancer would have been.

I discussed all options with the oncologist and asked her to be brutally honest with me. Trucker was 12. The maximum life expectancy for a dog his size was 8-12 years. The oncologist did a needle biopsy of his spleen that day to see if cancer was present. I was told that mast cell cancer ultimately ends up in the spleen in the advanced stage. She also biopsied an armpit lymph node to see if cancer cells were present.

Results showed that cancer was in the lymph node but not the spleen. Since it was already in his lymph node, we knew it was traveling in his body. Even if we amputated his leg, the cancer was probably elsewhere.

I chose not to amputate his leg. He needed to live his life as a happy dog in the last year or two remaining. If he had his leg removed, he would have still needed chemotherapy. Chemo would have been only 30 to 40 percent effective.

Factoring everything, I chose conservative means to treat his cancer. I also had to think of my own health battling cancer as I was facing upcoming surgery and radiation.

I discussed all of this with the oncologist and she understood my decision to treat him conservatively, trying to keep the mass at a smaller size.

She told me he would have 6 to 12 months to live. We discussed what “the signs” would be that cancer had taken over his body. She said the mass could abscess. At that stage, his health would be very poor and he could develop swelling in the leg, which would be painful.

I gave Trucker four Benadryl a day, which made him tired but kept the mast cells from getting too active. I also gave him the maximum amount of prednisone he could take to keep the mass smaller. Prednisone made him want to drink and eat more.

Trucker’s cancer mass on his leg. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

In the last few weeks before he was euthanized, the mass started to grow and I could see the pressure on his skin. He was also pacing more because of the prednisone and possible pain.

A day before his passing, the leg had suddenly swollen upward toward his armpit. The skin was red and hot to the touch. He was more tired than normal. He laid on the floor gingerly and had trouble pushing himself up. I had to lift him from the floor a couple times. He also had trouble climbing stairs.

We went to the vet January 12, and when she saw Trucker she said, “He’s not the same dog.” I knew this. On the ride to the vet he laid in the back seat of my car and rested his head on the seat. He never did that. He always wanted to stick his head out the passenger window. I kept one hand on him as I drove, holding his leg with the mass in my hand.

When we got to the vet clinic he was slightly dragging his back leg when he walked.

I learned he was swollen in his shoulder, both sides of his chest had swollen lymph glands, his leg was swollen most of the way up, the side of his face was swollen in his neck area, his heart rate was 150 instead of normal 120 and he was having trouble walking with that back leg.

The thoughts from the doctor were that the mast cells had spread fast, his heart rate was troubling and could have been due to anemia, his abdomen seemed a bit distended (perhaps his spleen or liver was also affected now) and the leg dragging could have been due to pain or a neurological issue. Bottom line, the cancer had taken over his body.

He laid down on a large quilt when he was euthanized. He always loved blankets. He was strangely at peace and didn’t tremble or fight to get up.

Trucker never showed his age. He didn’t get gray hairs on his face until this past year. He was always active and loving.

When he was euthanized, the veterinarian cried before I did. She loved him as many people did. I told her I couldn’t cry because it would upset him. I would not cry until he left. I fed him bits of treats as he was put into a sleepy state before being set free.

I told him that I loved him, I thanked him for caring for me, I said I would see him again, that I would keep fighting and that he would not have to worry about me now. Just after 11 a.m. he went heavy in my arms and I finally cried.

My vet told me she felt I made the right decision based on everything she saw that day. He could have died at home or while spending the night with my neighbor who babysat him. I worked nights and was set to go back to work three days later.

I did not want Trucker to suffer. His health was declining fast and I felt this was the time – peacefully.

I knew when I went to that vet appointment Trucker was not doing well. I did not know it was that bad. I know he hid so much from me because he was taking care of me during my battle with cancer. Animals can hide things so well.

I pray he is held by Jesus and those who have left before me. I pray that he heard me, that he understood and that he knows I loved him.

Holding Trucker as he left this life. Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

The day Trucker left was brutally raw. I was on the floor holding him, my head covered in stubble after losing my hair to chemotherapy. He was also fighting cancer and I had to let him go.

I asked God to bring me peace that I made the right decision and that Trucker was now watching over me. His life was hard before meeting me (he was 5 when I adopted him). I did so much to bring him peace in the almost eight years we knew each other. He was loved by many people near and far, a life he never would have had.

Trucker had been discarded three times, forgotten by so many people, like a child bouncing around from foster home to foster home. He had severe separation anxiety and fear of storms. Then he met me during a pet adoption event and he learned about peace and love. He was free to be himself. I never raised my voice to him or scolded him when he acted out due to anxiety. I told him “I understand” and “It’s ok.”

Because of my patience, he stopped cowering and was thankful.

I understood him. I also fought anxiety in the past. Plus, both of us had been abandoned by people we loved over the years.

I shared Trucker with the world through my stories and photos of our life together. I was his therapy. He was mine.

As a friend said, “You were his savior, his life and his friend.”

Thank you all for loving him, too.

Footnote: Two months after Trucker died I met another dog, a senior I named Angel, who picked me as her new guardian. I plan to share a couple more stories about my years with Trucker and now stories about Angel who has a following on Instagram (@raisingmyfurrychildren) and Facebook (facebook.com/goatangel/).

Thumbnail: Photography courtesy Tracy Aherns.

Read more about dogs battling cancer on Dogster.com:

8 Things to Remember When Fighting Cancer in Dogs

Immunotherapy Trial to Treat Dog Cancer Shows Promising Results

What You Need to Know If Your Dog Gets Diagnosed With Cancer

The post His Savior, His Life and His Friend: Losing a Dog to Cancer While Going Through Cancer Myself appeared first on Dogster.