#the claws and irises are actually shifting but its hard to draw them as such

[corimoss]

is moss more of your persona or an oc?

He's a little bit of both! We share a lot of the same physical looks as well as interests, but he's different enough from me in personality that I'd consider him a separate entity!

My idea for him is that he was originally created to be a Nightmare that reflected the human fear of death and decomposition. However, given that his nature encompasses rot, he tends to destabilize dreams as soon as he enters them. He can't really fulfill his duties because of this, and holds a lot of guilt and uncertainty. If he can't do the one thing he was created for, then what is the purpose of his existance?

In many ways he is a parallel to the Corinthian. You have one Nightmare who, no matter how hard he tries, cannot do what he was created to do and another who does it too well. But it's a flaw in both of their creations, not up to themselves as they struggle to cope with their identities as individuals and their relationship with each other.

I've placed some more Moss information in the tags for anyone interested!

[kgraces]

Any Other Canvas

@badthingshappenbingo

Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: Cold-Blooded Torture

For @iwhumpyou

Read it on Ao3 here!

Who is Jason Todd?

He is: the Red Hood, a merciless crime lord, one of the world’s best marksmen, a dead man walking, a skilled assassin, a former street rat, cold-blooded, the son of Bruce Wayne, no one’s son, Batman’s greatest failure, poisoned by the Lazarus Pit, partially insane, lethal. 

Robin. 

More importantly, Jason Todd is alive. 

Tim isn’t sure if it’s the waters of the Pit crawling through his veins, or if his anger is truly this potent, but Jason stalks closer with murderous intent, nonetheless. His hands shake; he feels the fury directed toward him as a bone-crushing weight against his chest, and his heart beats like a bird’s fluttering wings in a frantic rhythm. 

“Hello little cuckoo bird,” Jason says, and his voice is a low, soft growl through the voice modulators in his helmet. He snarls, and it sounds like a feral animal is clawing against his rib cage—a predator crooning at its prey. Tim stiffens, eyes going wide behind the domino mask. He’s done research on the Red Hood, even been shuttled off to San Francisco to keep him as far away as possible, but seeing him in person—knowing it’s Jason underneath that helmet—and hearing the darkness in his tone is jarring.  

“Jason,” Tim says warily. He backs up half a step, muscles tensing when Jason follows him. “Why are you here?” He has a few guesses, but stalling might give him enough time to come up with a plan. 

“You’re wearing a death shroud, Replacement, and that’s an invitation,” Jason replies, voice soft and almost condescending. “One I intend to respond to in kind.” 

Tim is alone in the Tower, and the comms are down. A sickening dread creeps through him, but he ignores the feeling to focus on finding a way out. Tim reaches for his bo staff, readying himself for a fight. Jason surprises him, though, by drawing a gun and shooting him in the thigh before he can even react. Tim lets out a shout, using the staff to keep himself upright. He can’t see Jason’s expression under the helmet, but the laugh rumbling from his chest is chilling. 

Tim’s mind blanks, plans deserting him as he switches into a primal fight-or-flight mode. He chooses flight, crippled as he is by the injury to his leg. He stumbles a little, shaking off the pain as best he can, and runs toward the stairwell. If he can reach his room, he might be able to get a distress call out with his personal panic button. He falters at the first step, leg shrieking at him, but Tim grits his teeth and glances around, frantic. He can hear heavy footsteps behind him—close, too close.  

It’s fine. He can do this.

Tim leaps, grabbing onto the rail of the landing directly across from him. He clambers up and over the railing. The door to the stairwell opens, and his breath hitches. Tim bolts down the stairs as quickly as he can with a bullet still lodged in his thigh. He hears mechanized laughter behind him, and a jolt of fear runs through his bones. Tim pushes himself to go faster. He’s almost at the bottom of the stairs now. If he can just make it to the door....

He stumbles again, falling down the last flight. He hears the snap before he feels the burn in his wrist, and he can’t stop the cry of pain. Tim picks himself up off the floor and hobbles to the door, but before he can open it, a heavy boot kicks him in the back. The bo staff clatters to the ground, and Tim crumples again. He rolls onto his side to see Jason looming over him. 

Jason picks him up by the collar and drags him out of the stairwell, heading for the training room. Tim tries to lash out at him, but with one good arm against enforced body armor, he’s fighting a losing battle. Jason drops him at the mats and digs his heel into the wound on Tim’s leg, laughing again when Tim has to visibly bite back a shout. 

“Don’t worry Replacement,” Jason coos. “I won’t kill you.” 

The next moment, he draws a knife from his belt, and the terror returns. He’s not going to kill Tim, but Jason’s certainly not going to leave him alone until he’s bled enough. Jason leans down and cuts the R off of Tim’s uniform. He holds the scrap of fabric in his hand for a long moment before shaking his head and tossing it to the floor. The knife descends again, carving not into the tunic but rather Tim’s skin, tracing the outline of Robin’s insignia, right over Tim’s heart.

He doesn’t scream, but it’s a near thing. He blinks up at the impassive red helmet, shuddering, and Jason pauses for a moment. Tim doesn’t bother hoping he’s decided to stop, and he’s proven right when Jason merely reaches up and removes the helmet, tossing it to the floor with a loud clatter. He removes his domino mask, too, just so Tim can see just how much he’s enjoying this. Then, he kneels down and tears off Tim’s mask, for good measure. 

Jason traces the knife around Tim’s eyes, outlining the mask. He drags it down, over his cheek and jaw, to press against his throat. Jason smiles at the sight of the scar he’d left the last time he slit Tim’s throat. He applies just enough pressure to draw blood, and Tim fights back a wince. He draws the knife away from Tim’s skin, smiling still, and then, he stabs him in the shoulder, twisting the blade. Tim does scream, this time, blinking back hot tears at the blinding pain. 

Jason leans back on his heels and laughs.

He pulls the knife out and wipes the blood off on Tim’s tunic before he places it back in his belt. Moments later, he has two other knives, serrated and wicked-looking, and he pins down Tim’s right arm with an iron grip, clutching the broken wrist so tightly he can feel the bones grind together. He only has a moment to wonder what Jason’s going to do next before one of the blades stabs through his hand, pinning it to the floor. He repeats the same process with Tim’s left hand, leaving Tim feeling like a butterfly encased in glass. 

His breathing is shallow and too fast, and Jason’s leering at him with sick glee in his eyes. Jason hums, studying his handiwork, and after a moment, he reaches for another weapon. This time, it’s Tim’s own bo staff. A tear slides down Tim’s cheek, and Jason rests his free hand on Tim’s face, gently thumbing it away. Tim hates himself for leaning into the touch. Jason’s hand drifts to his hair, pushing the dark, sweaty locks out of his eyes and combing his fingers through the strands. Tim’s eyes flutter shut, a confusing mix of comfort and horror swirling in his stomach. 

The bo staff cracks down against his collarbone, and Tim screams. The next swing hits his fingers, then his left knee, the fingers on his other hand, his right ankle. Tim sobs hard, trying to keep his crying as quiet as he can. He doesn’t want to give Jason the satisfaction of breaking him, but everything hurts, and he just wants it to stop. His ribs crack, and the scream is cut off by a harsh wheeze.

He must lose time, because the next moment he’s aware of, the knife is back. Tim turns his face away and catches sight of his staff on the ground, bloodied, a dark crimson. He whimpers as the tip of the knife digs into his broken collarbone. Jason cuts a path down Tim’s arm, a swirling pattern which could’ve been beautiful on any other canvas. Tim’s broken sobs have petered out into soft whines and hitched breaths. 

Jason uses his fists, next.

His torso will be a patchwork of bruises, yellows and greens and dark purples, if Tim does actually survive this ordeal. He has his doubts, at this point. Those hands wrap around his throat, constricting his airway until he sees black spots at the edges of his vision. Jason lets him go right when Tim is on the brink of passing out. Tim coughs, throat feeling like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper after the screaming and strangling.

“Please,” he manages to croak. It’s a pathetic sound, but it’s all he can muster. “Jason, please stop. Please I-I can’t. It hurts.” He dissolves into tears, sobs painful against his broken ribs and raw throat. “I’ll do anything, Jason, please. Just stop hurting me.” He blinks up at the former Robin, tears falling freely.

“Begging?” Jason murmurs. “I’d expected better from you, Replacement.” 

“J-just kill me. Make it stop.” Tim lets out a wounded noise as he shifts, aggravating the injuries he has all over his body. “Please make it stop hurting.”

That seems to catch Jason’s attention. His eyes flare a darker green, and Tim flinches instinctively. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” Jason snarls. “No more dead birds. Got it?” Tim lifts his head, crying still but feeling a spark of defiance flicker to life. He lets it grow into a roaring flame before he opens his mouth.

“Does that make you feel better about yourself? It’s the only difference between you and your namesake, Red Hood.” Jason stumbles back, eyes wide. He opens his mouth, expression twisting into something Tim can’t place. He doesn’t have enough time to puzzle it out before everything goes dark.

Tim wakes up—and isn’t that a surprise?—in the medbay. Everything hurts, but he’s able to crack open an eye without further injuring himself, so that’s a win. He hears a soft gasp to his left, and he manages to tilt his head to the side. His vision is a little blurry still, but he recognizes his brother sitting at his bedside.

Dick’s eyes are red, with dark shadows pooling underneath them and a haunted look trapped in his irises. Tim offers him a weak smile, and the one he gets in return is watery. 

“Hi there Timmy,” Dick says softly. He cards a hand through Tim’s hair. “How’re you feeling?”

“Decidedly not great,” Tim rasps, sounding like he’s gargled with sharp rocks. He cringes at the sound of his own voice. “Where’s Jason?”

“Here,” a familiar voice says. Tim blinks and turns his head to look across from him. Jason sits in a chair directly opposite the bed, head in his hands. He’s wearing new clothes, Tim notes. His old outfit had definitely been much bloodier. “I...wanted to make sure you woke up.”

“I thought you would’ve left me there,” Tim mutters. Jason looks up, stricken.

“I was planning on it, but...shit Tim, I’m no better than him. I don’t want to be like that. You—-you’re just a kid.”

“You knew that the whole time,” Tim says coolly. “When did it start to matter?”

“When you said it,” Jason replies, voice dropping to a near whisper. “It made it real. I saw myself, crawling across that warehouse floor, but I knew at least I had hope someone would come for me. You were begging me to kill you, and the look in your eyes, I—” He shakes his head, like he’s shaking off the bad memories. “It snapped me out of it.”

“So he called me,” Dick says, gently breaking off Jason’s train of thought. “He’d already gotten you patched up by the time I got here, but he wanted to make sure you had someone you’d feel safe with when you woke up.” 

“Oh,” Tim says. “I...I’m glad I’ll at least have seen you one last time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Robin.” His voice is a pained croak, and it’s not entirely because of the bruises wrapping around his throat. “Robin belongs to Jason, and besides, I’ve failed, right?”

“Tim, no.” Dick hushes him gently. He strokes Tim’s hair again, smiling so sadly at him it must hurt. “You won’t ever have Robin taken away from you. Not until you choose to move on, okay?” 

“I can’t take it back, anyways,” Jason says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Not with the blood on my hands. Not with your blood on my hands. I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t make any of this better, but it’s true.”

“Do you want to make things better?” Tim asks. He feels the heavy pull of unconsciousness clawing at the back of his mind, but he pushes it back. This isn’t something he can afford to pass out before he says. Jason nods, expression solemn and so very hurt. His eyes seem less green. 

“I don’t think I can, Tim.”

“You can,” Tim argues stubbornly. Dick’s hand in his hair is making him drowsy, but he pushes through. “I’ll ask you again. Do you want to make things better?”

“More than anything.”

“Then come home.”

[julesvalebright]

Verdancy: Before

(( This story took place about a month ago now. I’ve just been that terrible about getting it out. Previous post is Verdancy: Prologue. CW: Some graphic violence, Void Stuff, minor character death ))

“Be sure to bring this delightful trinket with you to Pandaria, gardener. I’m sure it will serve you well there.” Ather’s roughshod baritone was met seconds later by the displeasure in Julrien’s reply. 

“You’re hilarious,” he smirked, launching a fistful of freshly revived soil at his comrade. Bits of earth bounced harmlessly off Ather’s moss-trimmed vest, just as Julrien’s reaction had, so he ventured on: “We can’t all get by on edgy pot-shots, you know. Some of us actually want--” 

A larger fistful, this time with a bit of finely hewn mulch, spattered the front of Julrien’s tunic. It was met with gritted teeth that slid into an easy grin as he waved about the soil knife still loose in his grasp. A recent purchase of beautiful Dwarven craftsmanship, the ‘trinket’ had replaced many of his usual tools, and had proven invaluable in their downtime at Silithus.  

“Will you two shut up already? I’m tryin’ ta pretend m’not surrounded by children,” Laures’ annoyance drifted like the desert nightfall through the mouth of their tent. She added the heavy toss of her plate boots against its stretched-hide wall for emphasis, which was of course followed by Lucan’s unmistakable laughing sigh. “The same goes for you, ya pig-witted prat,” the half-elven woman snapped, and Julrien could feel her exasperation from there. It was not unusual for the temperamental Laures to take out her frustrations on her twin, just as it was not unusual for there to be plenty to frustrate her. Lucan, for his part, was a deep well of patience, ever gentle as he pushed back. 

“You’re cross ‘cause ‘o the early summons this mornin’,” he spoke softly, his Westfall Common accenting the Darnassian they tended to use at camp. “‘Cause ‘o how you’ve been sleepin’…” Because of how they’d all been sleeping--or not, as it were, Julrien inwardly agreed. Ather grunted beside him, edging away with his back to the tent while the Sin’dorei listened on, his own weariness remembered.

“Lucan! Just let it go, will ya? I’m fine!”

Laures was in no mood for gentle talk. Of all of them, she had come closest in their trials to achieving affinity beyond the flora with which they worked; as such, she was as spirited as the nightsaber whose tattooed paw prints marked each side of her neck, and just as difficult. A heavy silence fell over them, drowning out the crackle and quiet laughter at neighbouring campfires and the distant--constant--clash of stone and steel. Every so often they could feel the swell of the Source at work, their magic welling up from the deep secrets of the earth and its Emerald counterpart in tandem. It was the nature of their work, that connection that spoke its inimitable truth and bound them all to the knowledge. Julrien felt it in that silent moment, listened to its whispers as he’d been trained to do. 

It came as it always did, like sunlight flowing to the tips of his fingers, shot through with ivy tendrils sown in his veins. It used to leave him giddy, intoxicated at the sensation and long after it had passed. It still did, to an extent, though he’d grown used to the vitality of it all in his time with the others. But there was something else to it this time, some subtle difference he couldn’t quite place. A voice, like Laures’, echoing her words… Let it go… let...go… let-... Sylvan ears perked, Julrien kept his focus inside himself, listening hard in hopes of determining what exactly he heard. It was Laures, until it wasn’t. He recognized it changing, felt his chest tighten as aching familiarity crept into its timbre. There was the ghost of grinning teeth in it- their tender pull at the dip of his hip bone, the inside of his wrist; he was sure he saw a smattering of freckles along an upturned nose… felt it pressed into his neck as he strained to listen, still... 

He was scarcely able to breathe by the time Ather’s sudden movement drew him to the present. Behind them, he could at last hear the strangled cry wrenched from Laures’ throat. It took him a moment to recognize the subtle change within had somehow found its way without, falling like great shadows over the open space of their encampment. It couldn’t be… here?

But it was everywhere. Behind him, screams raised the fine hairs at his nape, his bare forearms icy in spite of the desert air. There was no wind. It was the absence of it all that moved on them. The Void. They were under attack, and yet as he and Ather tore back the leafy canopy draped over their tent, it was only Lucan they saw inside. Lucan, with his fist clamped tight about his sister’s windpipe, squeezing with an untold rage, even as he stood calmly in the act. 

Laures’ eyes flew open, glassy and wide, pleading with them not to hurt him, as she made another valiant attempt to find her footing and gain some leverage. The hunting knife at her belt was well within her reach, and yet she hadn’t taken it, couldn’t, Julrien knew, bring herself to end this sudden horror at the expense of her brother’s safety. They were well past that though. Ather had already taken it upon himself to intercept, heavy-handed as ever as he grasped Lucan’s arm with a force to rival that around Laures’ neck. 

“Leave off, Lucan… this is not what you want,” he growled at their comrade, seeming in that moment to tower over them all. Julrien was quick to take advantage of the diversion, only a second or two wherein Lucan--but it wasn’t him, not really--glanced up at the demand. Laures gave a half-hearted shake of her head, hindered at once by even more pressure at her throat, until she all but hung from Lucan’s grip. “Let her go,” Julrien hissed, face turned towards Lucan’s pointed ear as he pressed the serrated edge of his soil knife to the underside of the half-elf’s chin. Lucan, for his part, remained impassive, unblinking at the dark clouds flooding his gaze. He glanced from Ather to the Blood Elf tucked in behind him, unmoved. “Why do you resist us?” he--they--asked, making a mockery of Lucan’s gentleness. Lucan was undoubtedly viewed by many in their group, as well as the larger body of Druids, as soft, even simple. His all-too-Human appearance, and downright cherubic features aside, set him apart along with his sister, who communicated her value through clenched fists and a wicked tongue. Lucan used neither, preferring to defer to louder personalities in most matters. But those in their unit knew him to be the very best of friends: loyal, unassuming, and gifted when it came to soothing both ire and injury. Julrien’s racing heart seized, the chill wrapped around it like a fist as he watched Laures’ red face turn ashen. Lucan’s voice went on: “We are already here, as we always have been. You need only let us in…” From there, it all happened so fast. First came the sickening crack of bone, silencing the strange sibilance spilling from Lucan’s tongue and wrenching from him an anguished, all-too-familiar cry. Next came the rush of stricken air that flooded Laures’ lungs. She spun, gasping and sputtering, away from her brother’s limply hanging limb, which Ather released as soon as she was free. From there, it was easy for Julrien to draw upon the entangling vines of their ken. The soil knife fell to the earth, shifting along with their meager bedding and few, small comforts from home as the thick verdancy split the ground beneath their feet, slithering between them to wrap Lucan in a stranglehold of their own. 

Julrien’s fingers still curled into his palms, still trembled with the effort of keeping this… version of Lucan… in restraint, for long seconds afterward. He exhaled for what felt like the first time since rushing into their modest tent, slumping against the wall with a kick of a heavy, straw pillow. Ather’s steely silence in the wake of his violence had him gritting his teeth, especially set against the twins’ pained wheezes and whimpers. But one look at Laures, and he knew better than to get into it then. 

“Laur…what happened-” he began instead, seeking backstory for the unlikely scene. A toss of his head swept sweat-dampened locks over his shoulder as Julrien started towards their friend. Laures, for her part, uttered a cracked, “M’fine,” alternating between gasping and gaping at the face of her twin held fast by coiled greenery- and something else entirely. It was hideous, this likeness of their half-elven comrade. His saucer eyes no longer held the golden fields of Westfall in their depths; amber irises were eclipsed by darkness as they darted from the towering Ather to the rustling door of the tent. His mouth...at first it was contorted in agony, only for a slow, seething smile to split his lips, exposing too many teeth to the dim light of their oil lamp. Everything flickered, the lamp, that grin… 

The wind had returned, carrying the sounds of pitched cries and clashing weapons, and with it the unmistakable stench of… charred hides? There was only a second when Julrien could swear he heard it, a voice of warning, as familiar as the vacant spot in his mattress. It rang in his ears, urgent under the cackling of Lucan’s stolen voice:

RUN.

But he was too slow to react; they all were. An explosion sounded mere yards away, rocking the encampment as it fed on nearby azerite and blew through the neighbouring tent. The trio were flung to the far wall as the flames roared to life, flashing gold and sizzling into slick blackness beneath. Julrien choked on the scream that ripped through his chest as his hold on Lucan, his magic, burned through his tendons. The strong vines he’d summoned, brimming with Light and Life, languished in his grasp and, and in their stead, the deep well of nothing threatened to swallow them all.  Such a heavy burden… Soon you will see…

Ather’s fingers felt like claws dug into his shoulder as he shook him from his daze, but Julrien could no longer make out his words. He gagged, bitter ash in his mouth as he registered the colours bleeding around him. Thick, dark tendrils burst through the flames, spreading like oil over everything they’d worked for, slowly devouring the Life at his fingertips until he couldn’t hold it any more. He could no longer hear Ather, just as he could no longer see where Laures went, but Lucan--their gentle Lucan--was everywhere at once. His head tipped back...his flailing limbs, grasping and wrenching and filling Julrien’s sight. His laughter... dripping madness like ichor, down Julrien’s spine--

Our time has come… Let go and be free… His world shook, swirling around him in fire and shadow. He couldn’t tell whose hands were on him anymore, couldn’t breathe a word of what he felt as the cackles and crackling faded into his own unsteady pulse. Run, the voice had warned. And he should have- they all should have run from this place. It was a festering wound, a sickness they were not equipped to deal with. His world shook and he shook with it, writhing as it threatened to feed on him like every one of his tangling vines…

...until the very moment his mentor’s palm struck his cheek. A moment passed, and another, and eventually he could sense the solid ground once more. Ather held him from behind, and he felt the desperate press of Laures’ nails in his forearm. Thoridath…their leader stood over him, taut brows belying the stern line of his lips. “We are out of time,” he confirmed, taking just one step aside and jutting a calloused digit in the direction of the portal. Ahead of them, the camp was ablaze with chaos. The Earthen Ring scattered, with enraged elementals bearing down upon their numbers, and the Cenarion crew were scrambling to aid. But Thoridath could not risk their little group; what remained of them had to make it through to the other side, if they ever stood a chance at curbing the assault. “I have Lucan,” the Kaldorei added hastily, and Julrien swayed a little beneath that fervent gaze. He finally nodded, pulling free of Ather’s grasp. 

One arm hooked around Laures’, dragging her forward as they all darted after the Arcane rift. As they neared its shimmering borders, and the promise of safety on the other side, he couldn’t help but pause and chance a look back. Behind them, in the charred remnants of their tent and pieces of their belongings, Julrien could still make out the slender figure of Laures’ twin. The half-elf faced the great Sword of Sargeras, his mutated body trembling with horror… with glee… or some terrible blend of the two. Ather saw quickly towards pulling a struggling and shrieking Laures through, as it suddenly became all too clear that this was the last they would see of her twin. 

Julrien alone lingered, one hand poised to help his friends even as they disappeared through the portal, the other clenched hard at his side. Thoridath, true to his word, had moved towards Lucan, arms outstretched as he seemed to speak to him, the way one might speak to a frightened animal. Lucan, if he heard him at all, did not respond, instead lifting a pair of blades in malformed hands, the ‘fingers’ too long and too monstrous to be recognized. Before Julrien could call out, before his fear could bubble over into words at all, he watched as the soft soul of his friend who once held golden fields in his eyes… plunged each of those daggers into their depths. Someone slammed into Julrien then, with an impact he felt in the centre of his chest. He didn’t see Lucan fall, didn’t catch even a glimpse of Thoridath through the violet-black murk and scorched soil. As he sank backward, there was nothing but liquid flames trickling through to iridescent light, and the scent of sunflowers tickling his nose. 

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

snake eyes

not the next Fae AU chapter update, but instead a short fic that is based on the best damn joke in this AU that I owe my life for

Maya has been gone for about ten minutes, which is about the point that Phoenix starts to worry - not, necessarily, for her sake, but rather the sake of everyone whose paths she may have crossed in that time. He feels less like a lawyer and more a sort of tour guide, sometimes, explaining cultural mores to a group that makes the stakes are much higher than their embarrassment or causing offense to others. (Culturally, the fae do not brush it off or forget it if someone offends them. Even Mia didn't. And culturally, there's a lot humans can do to offend the fae.)

So Phoenix is starting to worry and about to get up to make sure that there wasn't a catastrophe of magic at the front desk - he doesn't know what they wanted with Maya, the bellboy didn't say - when he spots Maya far down at the end of the hallway. The first thing he notices is that she is slumped halfway down the wall, barely holding herself upright at all; the second thing he notices is that her hair, at the ends, is dissipating into black smog. Pearl, next to him, clambering down from her chair because she too has seen Maya, still looks like an ordinary little girl, and Maya's skin is still brown, still human-appearing. It isn't a problem with Phoenix's eyes - it is a problem with Maya's glamour, and now he is worried.

Now he is worried for her.

Gumshoe is talking to one of the other detectives and Lotta seems to have run off elsewhere, so no one gives Phoenix a glance as he ushers Pearl ahead of him down the hall. Maya's skin is shifting colors when they reach her, patchy, like a few splotches of purple paint were spilled onto her skin, and her eyes are hellfire red but still with black irises. Phoenix helps her up by the elbow - her hand is clapped to the side of her neck, claws starting to protrude on two of her fingers. The other hand is pressed against her stomach. "Maya! What happened?"

Pearl flings herself into Maya's side like a little limpet, her eyes starting to burn red now too, and the hotel lights shining just a little strangely off of her skin. "He attacked me," Maya rasps. Her mouth doesn't fully close when she isn't speaking, her teeth too big for it, but some parts of her glamour still trying to hold themselves up. "Stabbed - with."

He looks about for somewhere to go, spots a bathroom sign down another corridor and helps Maya stumble along with him. This isn’t a good place to be, so close to the scene of a crime, so close to so many police, with Maya’s broken glamour, but there is a door for a single-stalled restroom next to the two gendered ones and Phoenix falls into it with Maya. When he lets go of her to lock the door, she nearly topples to the floor, nearly brings Pearl down with her. “Stabbed with what?" Phoenix asks, trying to pry her hand away from her neck, and her claws go from digging into her own skin to his, with a force just shy of drawing blood. The skin on the side of her neck is purple, and darkening to gray in the shape of a welt around a small puncture. A needle? "Who did, Maya?"

"Bellboy," she says. "A - thing. Needle thing. The - with - inside it."

"A syringe?" he asks.

Her claws on his arm loosen. "Thing!" she cries. He thinks that might be confirmation. "Drugs!"

One thing Phoenix never, ever wanted to know was what one of the fae acts like on drugs.

"Said - kidnapping."

"He told you he was kidnapping you?" That seems like a weird way to go about kidnapping someone, just telling them that. Maybe he thought the drugs would kick in sooner, or fully. He probably didn't know what Maya was. He probably thought the injection would knock her out, if she was human. "Did he say why?"

Maya releases his arm entirely and slumps down further toward the floor. "Why?" she repeats. "Why why?"

"Humans don't usually go around just kidnapping people, Maya," Phoenix says, feeling half like a tour guide again, and half like the voiceover on a nature documentary. "Not like you guys do."

"We don't!" Pearl says indignantly. Her eyes flash red entirely, and then they aren't, and she has a thumb, a claw, to her mouth. "Erm, not often. And only little babies. But rarely!"

For all he's been tangled up in, Phoenix has never met a changeling, and if he hasn't, then it probably is rare. "It's okay, Pearls," he says, even though really, that isn't, at all. "I'm just saying, it's a very, very bad thing among humans." Honestly, a bad thing for the fae to do, too, but he's going to leave that for another day. "So he tried to drug you, and the drug didn't take, and you got away - where did he go?" Maya's eyes are closed. Her face twists in disgust. Her mouth is stretching wider, slowly, across her cheeks, toward her jaw. "Maya? Where did he go, Maya?"

"Ate him."

Some days Phoenix wishes Mia had just let him fucking die. "You ate him?!"

Logically, he has known for a long time that she could. She told him as much, and she can't lie, even as much as Phoenix tried to assure himself (lie to himself) that she was exaggerating when she said she could unhinge her jaw like a snake and swallow a person. She had learned how to use the office computer just to look up videos of snakes for a visualization that Phoenix did not want.

"Yeah," she says. Her mouth drops open and her tongue lolls out. She looks a little sick.

"You can't just eat people, Maya!"

"Even when they want to hurt me?"

"You..."

It's self-defense, wasn't it? She didn't act unprovoked - and more than that, it wasn't like she answered a slight with an extreme. He tried to drug and kidnap her. He deserved something coming to him for that.

"Mr Nick!" Pearl smacks him hard on the leg with an open palm, which he is grateful for, because it means she has taken to heart his lesson about not swatting him with claws because he only has so many pairs of slacks to wear with his suit if she shreds one. "He hurt the Mystic! He deserves it!"

"If you say so, Nick," Maya says, grabbing onto his arm and hoisting herself up, still curled over herself a little, still supporting herself on the wall. She doesn't have to do what he said - there was no deal, no contract made, not at this moment. (He probably should figure out what he can afford to bargain away to seal this, though.) "He tasted real bad anyway."

"Wh - what?"

Snakes can regurgitate their meals, for several reasons, including if they ate something far too big to handle. (Maya called this weak, implying that she could handle eating absolutely anything. Maya spent several days researching snakes. The Twilight Realm doesn't have much in the way of wildlife, apparently.) Phoenix did not really ever need in his life to know that. What he certainly did not need to know is that Maya could do the same.

She opens her mouth like a fancy trashcan popping open with a foot pedal, the top of her head just moving in a way it shouldn't, back, to make room for her gaping black maw with its two rows of teeth, and she makes a horrible heaving noise. Phoenix closes his eyes when the wide circle of her mouth, its ring of teeth, starts expanding, and the second gagging sound is drowned out by a heavy thud. With the impact, the floor near Phoenix's feet vibrates.

He opens his eyes.

Before them, picking himself up from where he lays sprawled on the floor, is a man - the bellboy, Phoenix realizes, the uniform and the black gloves and the monocle and the scar down his face. It's a distinctive appearance but somehow if Phoenix had tried to bring it to mind a moment ago, he doesn't think he could have. (There is some sort of magic in forgettability, Maya said once, about the one prosecutor that Phoenix can't remember except that his hair was stupid.)

"You know," the man, the kidnapper, says, adjusting his monocle and slowly standing, dusting off his jacket, "Something I like to say is that people are often not what they appear to be, but you, madam" - he inclines his head to Maya like she didn't just vomit him back into existence entirely unharmed, and when Phoenix looks at her, she is still patchily somewhere between fae and human in appearance - "have informed me that perhaps I have become lax in how I take heed of my own words."

He has small, heavy-lidded eyes that Phoenix can't tell the color of, but with the Sight, there is nothing for Phoenix to see to signify that he has it - and that they look to this kidnapper any more than this half-human horror and an ordinary man and an ordinary little girl, all standing in a bathroom. What must he be thinking right now?

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a course of action I must reconsider, and" - he bows, this time, again to Maya - "may we never meet again."

By the time Phoenix processes exactly all of this - that Maya eating someone doesn't necessarily mean that she killed him, and that the kidnapper seems to have taken this remarkably in stride - and realizes that, Maya's wrath or no, that man is a kidnapper and there is hotel security that needs to be alerted to this situation - "Hey! Wait!" - he is long gone, and Phoenix is standing outside a restroom about a dozen yards from a crime scene.

A murder and an attempted kidnapping. What a night.

“Hey, Nick.” Maya is on the threshold, still leaning heavily on the wall, her hair still darkly wisping, but her skin has smoothed over and her eyes merely look bloodshot. “Pearly said there was a murder? Let’s check it out!”

“The Jammin’ Ninja was killed,” Phoenix says, unable to actually remember the names of the actors, “and the Nickel Samurai is under suspicion.”

“Then we have to do something!” Maya pushes herself up off the wall and stands triumphantly with her fists raised for about a second before stumbling forward and nearly knocking Phoenix off his feet. He staggers and winces as her claws dig into his arm in her attempts to regain stability. “You have to defend him, Nick!”

Is he seriously going to get badgered into defending another one of her favorite TV heroes? “I do?”

“Yes! I nearly died, Nick! Do it for me!”

“You did not nearly--”

“Nick! You’re a defense attorney! You have to! He’s a hero! The Nickel Samurai would never!”

He can feel his Nick the cultural translator persona clawing its way to the front of his skull again. “Maya - you do know that these TV shows are fiction, right?”

[hoodoo12]

A Summoning

I was asked about a Demon Rick. My muse immediately gibbered in delight. I scribbled and posted a snippet. My muse bit my ankle and I wrote the rest.

Artwork by the delightful and talented @ravenousscorpian is embedded! Be forewarned, it is very much NSFW.

NSFW. Demon Rick/reader.

⁂

There was a feeling of a vacuum, like the air was being removed forcibly from your lungs. You sucked in a breath, coughed at the taste of dust and other, less savory things in your mouth, and blinked to regain some vision.

The light had fled, just like the air.

Slowly, the small points of flame returned atop each candle. You automatically counted them. They were all lit. That was important.

The being surrounded by them stretched, each limb cracking at the joints . It lifted its head, its ebony horns catching the dim candlelight and splintering it, and a split tongue tested the air, like a snake. Slit pupils, surrounded by irises of molten gold, opened more widely as they took you in.

“You’ve called me back,” it said. Its voice was low and gravelly.

“Yes,” you replied. You sat very still, in case movement enticed it to attack.

It chuckled. The noise was deep, echoing as if it were in a well. “After last time? After what happened you dare to try again, you dare to say the words? As if last time--”

“I don't want to talk about last time,” you interrupted shortly.

It shut its mouth, but the smile it wore was knowing and sly.

“I want something else this time,” you continued, “something . . . more.”

It held your gaze for a moment, then casually looked at the candles and chalk on the wooden floor surrounding it. One of its talons idly scratched a groove into the floor, but it didn't, you noticed, actually mar the chalk sigil. The nail did, however, draw through the wet, red splashes and drips that had been applied.

The beast’s tongue tested the air again. You watched, your heart pounding in your chest as one tip of its tongue delicately tasted the fingernail and the substance it had collected underneath.

Those golden eyes flicked to you again.

“You used your own blood!” it said. Although it sounded mostly surprised, a small hint of wonder wound its way into the tone as well.

“Yes,” you agreed again. Your heart was now in your throat; you struggled to remain collected. “I told you I wanted something more. Something . . . special, this time.”

The demon crouched before you widened its eyes and grinned. There were too many teeth in its smile. Twin tails flicked in excitement behind it, and now both taloned hands dug into the wooden floor as if it were sand.

“Step inside this circle, angelbaby, and let's get started,” it replied in glee.

You knew better than to just step over the outer chalk circle. Even as it whispered sweet things to tempt you, you gave it instructions and the stipulations that must be met. It became more agitated with your list as you continued, and suddenly its faux docility vanished. It hissed and rushed you, jaw unhinged, its multiple rows of teeth flared as if ready to separate your head from your body with a bite. It was forced to pull up short at the barrier.

You didn’t flinch, looking down its dark maw.

Its feigning threat ignored, it sat back on its haunches and watched you with narrowed eyes.

“Do you agree?” you asked. You hoped it didn’t notice that you were squeezing your hands into fists to control your trembling, but it probably did.

It lazily scratched up a little more of your blood from the floor. It watched its claws as it said in a mild tone, “You don’t need me to agree. You called me here, I am your servant.”

You smiled, and made sure the gesture reached your eyes.

Emboldened by your smile, it continued. “I am yours to command. Is that not enough?”

“No,” you replied.

It hissed again, and unseen, its tails tremored behind it, filling the air with the warning of a rattlesnake. There was a tensing of all its muscles, like it was preparing to spring at you again.

Once again you ignored these threats.

“Do you agree?”

It writhed in a way that earthly creatures could not. It managed to look petulant, hungry, and angry all at once.

“Do you agree?”

The third time you posed the question it was bound by ancient laws, laws written in lost languages, to answer.

It panted as if under duress. Its talons tore chunks from the wooden floor below it, but again, did not touch the chalk. On its knees, it spit and hissed and growled, and finally, when it could no longer stand your seemingly nonchalant attitude, waiting patiently, it roared, 

“Yes! Yes I agree!”

There was a moment of stillness between you.

You gave it a second, then lifted your eyebrows. You prompted, “And . . .?” 

It glared again, but followed through the requirement to demonstrate compliance: It used its own claw to open a gash on its chest. Its blood, a syrupy, dark-colored ichor that looked like it should come from an old wound instead of running through veins, splashed onto the floor. It burned the wood where it hit. Some fell on your blood, and there was a bubbling when the two mixed.

It pulled its hand away. Blood coated its fingertips, and it stretched its hand out towards you, stopped again by the barrier of chalk.

Now was the trickiest part of all. You stayed on your knees too; that was an obligation. You leaned towards it, silently calculating how fast you knew it could be and if you could react quickly enough to avoid it. Would it would grab your hair? Would it would swallow your head in a bite? Would it would drag you back to the unspeakable realm where it resided . . . while your mind flashed through the worst scenarios, you darted forward, snake-like yourself, through the protective chalk circle, and caught an offered blood-coated finger in your mouth.

Its blood tasted and burned a little like acid but you licked the finger clean anyway.

The demon laughed from the bottom of its chest. You looked up to meet its eyes. It’d agreed to your conditions and it had spilled its own blood willingly within the circle. Your blood had been consumed by it, and you had swallowed some of its. Let it think it was in control. It wasn’t, and deep down, it knew that.

This was for you.

It still couldn’t leave the circle, so you’d drawn it large enough for both of you. You crawled towards it, and it shifted impatiently. Your gaze couldn’t help but slip down its body, to its groin, which was semi-hidden in shadows cast by the candlelight. Even though it was dark, you could see the bulk of its cock, resting between its thighs.

“Angelbaby,” it cooed as you came nearer. Its talons caressed your cheek. They didn’t draw blood, or if they did, it was a razor thin line that didn’t sting yet.

You made your way next to it. Its body gave off sticky heat. It leaned into you, and its tongue licked the side of your face where its claw had been, leaving a tacky trail of spit. You cupped its jaw as well.

“What’s your name?” you asked, as if making conversation. You knew it, but needed to hear it from the demon’s mouth.

“Rick,” it whispered, close to your ear.

You smiled sweetly and pressed a kiss to the corner of its mouth. “Rick,” you repeated, with a nod.

Then it growled slightly, as if it suddenly realized you’d tricked it. You’d taken a little more control by it offering its name without demanding yours in return.

You didn’t let it brood, however. Brazenly you moved into its personal space, practically crawling into its lap as its arms caught you. Its nostrils flared as your smaller, cooler body pressed against it. You ran your hands over the arcane symbols branded into its torso, and even brought your fingers up to lick more of its blood from the wound it had opened on itself.

Its talons pressed into the skin on your sides.

“Lay back,” you told it.

It hesitated for a moment, then obeyed.

You smiled down on it, and climbed over its body. Its shiny skin was an odd combination of leathery and sharp, like it could abrade you if you rubbed too hard the wrong way. The heat of it warmed your inner thighs and groin, and as you moved upward, you felt its cock grow. It was thick and ridged, and you paused to let the wet line of your pussy press along it for a moment. Then you ignored it, continuing your way upward.

Reaching its shoulders, you looked down at it while it looked at your torso. Its tongue extended further out from its mouth than should be possible and slipped between your tits, settling on one and curving around your nipple. Its saliva was thick and gummy.  

After teasing your nipple to a peak, its tongue retreated. A thin rope of spit bridged your tit and its mouth.  Strong clawed fingers dug into your waist and lifted you effortlessly off his upper chest.

“Your cunt smells delicious,” it whispered, and it lowered you back down, straddling its head, onto its mouth.

There was no gentle teasing. As soon as your pussy touched its lips, its tongue delved into you.

You couldn’t help but arch your back at the sensation as you cried out.

The demon licked and sucked at you with abandon; if you hadn’t given it explicit instructions you would have been worried it would literally devour you. But instead it turned that energy into nuzzling and shoving its tongue deeply into your cunt, licking you from the inside, twisting and curling in ways no cock could ever do.

It held you in place, one hand wrapped around your leg, the other at your shoulder, holding you down onto its face. Its hands pinched. You scrabbled for a handhold and grabbed its horns to steady yourself. They were warm, like the rest of it, solid and ridged in your hands. At first you were careful to stay away from their wickedly sharp tips, but as it continued ravaging your pussy, your concern with that was pushed to the wayside.

There was no controlling the wanton cries of pleasure you made.

On your knees, you rocked your pelvis down hard onto its mouth. It didn’t breathe air like you did, or it was able to go without for a longer period of time, because it didn’t gasp or complain. It did extract its tongue from deep inside you to lick your clit. That made you stiffen and tighten your grip on its horns. You wrenched its head back as the two halves of its tongue encircled the engorged nub; it didn’t seem to mind you directing exactly where you wanted it to focus its attention.

In fact, you could feel a growl or a laugh vibrating in its chest as it lapped at you.

That tremor rose until it was pulsating through its mouth. It tickled and stimulated, and you laughed as you cried out. Euphoria burst inside you and you came, hard, on its face.

It didn’t let you ride that crest gently. At the very peak of pleasure, it kept heavy pressure on your clit, making your nerve endings continue to fire. Wave after wave of bliss rocketed through you. You writhed and moaned, rocking with your core. You lost the ability to hold yourself up at all on your knees and fully sat down on its mouth. That made it chuckle again, and slickly its tongue wiggled from your clit back to your cunt, slipping back inside you.

That made you jerk and cry out again.  Your throat was sore from the undulating moans you made, and when it finally deigned to remove its tongue, your pussy felt soft and swollen.

It took you several minutes to be able to catch your breath enough to begin to move off its face. Every muscle in your legs trembled, and your hands hurt from squeezing its horns in a grip that had been too tight. You crawled carefully backwards, back to its chest. Strangely, now the heat from its skin felt nice between your legs.

Its golden eyes watched you, and a hint of a self-satisfied smile played around its lips. Its long tongue swept over its chin and cheeks, cleaning off all the wet your pussy had left.

You dared to reach out and draw your fingers along one curve of the horn arcing out from its head, giving it a soft caress, and it exploded into movement below you.

It lifted you, twisted you, as it rose from its prone position. Startled, you couldn’t help but cry out, and that roused it further. It was not gentle as it threw you down onto the floor. Your knees hit hard and you automatically caught yourself with your palms. They skidded on the wooden floor, smearing some of the chalk sigils you’d made, but it wasn’t enough to destroy them completely.

Before you could gather yourself or turn, it was between your legs. You had a split second to feel the blunt head of its cock slip along your pussy from clit to entrance, then without any further niceties, it mounted you and snapped its hips forward.

You wailed. You’d seen and felt the massiveness of its cock as you’d climbed up its body, but that didn’t prepare you for the girth that filled your cunt. It stretched you almost to the point of being unbearable. You went to your elbows, crying, panting, and couldn’t help but try to pull away.

That excited the demon, or made it angry. Its grabbed your hips waist and held you in place; you could not fight its strength. Holding you still even as you struggled, it pushed forward relentlessly until seated fully within you. Its balls were hot against your clit.

The burning, both from the stretch and from the heat of the beast, was almost too much to bear as well. Above you, the demon paused, panting itself now that it was buried in a pussy not exactly designed for it. That momentary stillness gave you just enough reprieve to force yourself to relax. The burning became a balm, loosening your muscles to accept it more easily.

When it began to fuck you, you’d relaxed enough that although it stretched you widely, it was mostly pleasurable again.

It was not considerate or moderate in any way. It pounded into you, too fast, too hard; you had to splay your elbows for support even as your chest was on the floor. Each thrust pushed you forward, each backward pull of its hips dragged you along with it. The moans it forced from you earlier became sobs, tinged with both bliss and pain.

Behind you, it howled as well. One hand left your side and long fingers entangled into your hair. It yanked your head back and leaned over you. Its body was large and heavy enough threaten to press you to the floor, and still it had enough leverage to continue fucking you with a force and a pace that was no earthbound being could copy.

You felt teeth on the side of your neck and tried to ignore it. You still felt like you were being simultaneously skewered and split, but its cock was so warm and filled you so completely you couldn’t mind. Each rigid plate along his length ignited nerve endings inside your cunt, and you found yourself raising your hips to meet each thrust.

It felt your encouraging movements and the teeth latched onto your skin a little bit tighter. Panting between its fangs, each of its exhales filled your lungs. You cried out, opened-mouthed, each time the bony points of its hips met your ass.

The thrusts that rocked your body became shallower, staying deep inside you, and erratic. The talons that still gripped your waist dug in, slicing your skin.

You made a new, higher pitched cry of pain at that, and involuntarily tears filled your eyes.

The demon jerked your hair to one side, and your head followed. The tears fell and ran in a thin stream down your cheek. Smelling it, the beast released your neck and leaned even further over. Its tongue lapped the salty tears from the side of your face.

That seemed to be a catalyst for the end.

Fully seated inside your cunt, it paused. You could feel its ribcage rise and fall with its panting. You clenched your pussy as best you could around it, during this moment of anticipation, and in a roar it came.

Its come was white hot lava inside you. It burned. Its cock pulsed through its ejaculation, but it was nothing you couldn’t stand. You felt full to bursting. The amount of come it dumped inside you put pressure in your abdomen that was oddly pleasurable, and with the beast still clutching you and its cock still buried to your cervix, you came again as well.

You lost your bearings then. It was a different pleasure, a deeper pleasure than when you’d been on its face, and just as it took several moments for the demon to regain its senses, it took you some time too.

It was chuckling. Its laughter shook your body as you came round again.

The demon extracted itself from you. After such a vigorous impaling by a massive cock, you felt hollow and empty.

Unstoppered, a copious amount of semen flowed down your thighs. It still stung the tender flesh there, but you ignored it. Released from its grip, you turned over. The chalk markings you’d meticulously drawn were dusty on your sweat-slick skin.

The demon lounged too, although it didn’t lay again. It crouched, balancing with its tails behind it. From between its legs the last of its ejaculate dripped from the end of its cock onto the floor, where it smoked when it hit. It watched you with eyes that were meant to be lazy, but you knew were alert and cunning.

Once you caught you breath and sat up again, the beast gathered you to it. It held you easily, cuddling you as a human lover would, a mimicry that you saw through but allowed. It was nice to be caressed, even with wickedly sharp nailed hands.

Contorting into positions while holding you that would be impossible for an earthly being, it cleaned the wounds it’d opened on your side with its tongue. It even went as far to clean the cut on your inner forearm you’d given yourself to bring it to this plane. The twin halves of its tongue lapped independently, and it did a thorough job.

Sated and still feeling lingering jolts of pleasure, you finally pushed it off you. Its eyes flashed possessively, but it let you go, and stood with you. In a gesture of good will, and to complete the ritual, you lowered yourself enough to lick the head of its cock, and lap away some of the residual semen that still coated it. The taste wasn’t too bad, now that you’d been filled with it.

Come was as good as blood, for an exchange.

The demon purred as your lips closed over its cock and your tongue swirled in a circle anti-clockwise around the shaft, but before it could become erect again or its large hand could take hold of your head to keep you in place, you released it with a soft wet noise, and backed completely out of the chalk circle.

That deep hum of enjoyment shifted scarily to a snarl, but there was nothing it could do. Still bound by the circle, it watched you with hooded eyes as you began the chant to send it away.

“You’ll never be free of me,” it hissed in a warning.

You didn’t answer it, reciting the guttural words of the spell from memory.

“You’re bound to me now, having tasted my blood. Tasted my come! You’ve come on my tongue. You’ll never be satisfied with another’s cock, now that I have filled your cunt!”

You continued as if you couldn’t hear it.

Its tone deviated to something sweet, to tempt you.

“Angelbaby,” it cooed. “Don’t send me back. I’ll stay with you, I’ll obey you. I’m yours, don’t you see? You’ve called me here, we’ve taken pleasure in each other, let me stay with you! I’ll protect you, I’ll be your pet, I’ll fuck you whenever you desire. Let me stay, and I swear against Satan’s Generals and the Hellfiends they command that your claim over me will be absolute.”

You continued. Only a few more lines, now.

It could feel the impending pull of your words, ushering it back to the unspeakable region that spawned it. Once more it hissed, and made one last attempt to sway you.

“You’ve fucked a demon,” it announced, as if you didn’t know. “You’re tainted. Your association with me means you’ll never be allowed entrance to Heaven.”

Two words from finishing the chant, you paused.

“I’m no saint,” you allowed.

“No,” it agreed amicably. “You’re something special. You’re my angelbaby.”

“I’m no angel, either.”

“You’re more an angel than me. They’ll say I’ve corrupted you, and deny you eternal joy.” It held out a hand, palm up, to entice you to rejoin it in the circle, or to have you allow it to escape. “Filled with demon seed, you’re no longer pure enough for them.”

“They’ll say my capacity for goodness corrupted you,” you countered, “since you fucked a human’s pussy. They’ll not allow you full access to Hell.”

The beast’s golden eyes widened at that sudden comprehension.

“No! N-no! Don’t send me back! Don’t send me with that stigma--” it shrieked.

You gave it a smile.

“Rick, begone,” you said, bringing the ritual to its closure. You would never tell it that if you hadn’t learned its name, you couldn’t have sent it back so easily.

In a second vacuum, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. The fear on its face and its outstretched hands as it pled with you were burned into you mind’s eye. The room suddenly felt quite empty.

You sighed. There was a dull ache between your legs, and you were still coated in sticky ejaculate. The beast had been right, even if you didn’t admit it; you were bound to it now, and it to you. And you were both caught between Heaven and Hell; both too contaminated by the other for either place.

With another sigh, you began snuffing all the candles. You’d let the future your decisions would bring handle itself.  

fin

[nyancheetosmusical]

Jeremy meeting the Human Squip (HSAU Ch.1)

Here’s the story alongside some (kinda crappy) illustrations of how Jeremy meets the Squip after he gets a human body through….questionable means.

Slightly graphic descriptions of scars, cuts, stitches, and blood ahead, and some cartoonish drawings of said injuries. If that is an issues for you, be warned.

He knew he had to keep moving, but it was hard. Everything hurt. The world flickered in and out of focus like static. It hurt so bad. Never had he felt so powerless, so not in control. It was a battle simply to get the body to move at all; fighting for control from some silent, unknown source. Nothing made sense. There was just pain.

___

The biting December air hurried Jeremy along. He hadn’t planned on staying at Michael’s until two in the morning, but they had so much to catch up on. Things had started out a little awkward- it had been two months since they’d last hung out- but after Michael ordered a pizza and booted up his N64, the natural rhythm between them returned. All in all-

Jeremy snapped his back, coming to a stop on the path as he fixed his posture. His hands had almost gone into his pockets. With a sigh of relief that he’d remembered in time, Jeremy pulled his hands up- and a sinking feeling overcame him. The Squip was gone; Jeremy was sure of that, Michael even made him drink some Mtn Dew Red with his pizza earlier, just in case. But it seemed that parts of the Squip might be harder to get rid of than others.

“S-shit, man,” he said softly, twisting the hospital bracelet anxiously around his wrist. The sensation of the bracelet passing over the scars the Squip’s “conditioning” had left was oddly soothing; it was like the bracelet was there, then wasn’t, then was, then wasn’t….Now, at 2 AM, on a path in the middle of a public park, was not the place to begin psychoanalyzing the damage the Squip left. With a sigh, he resumed his walk through the quiet night.

A few minutes later, he was stopped by a rustle in the bushes. He had been passing through the back trails of the park, where sidewalks and park benches turned to unkempt forest and stoner hang out spots. As such, you never knew if it was a deer or a pot head that was going to pop out of the bushes. Curious to see what he’d meet this time, Jeremy stepped forward to peer into the bushes.

___

Where was he going? Why was he even bothering to move? Maybe if he stayed still the pain would go away.

No. Keep going. Stop questioning. Keep going. Through here.

Something jabbed into one of the regions of the body that had been burning with an unbearable pain.

Suddenly, agony. What is this? Is this death? Something was screaming. It was the body. Was he screaming too?

___

A muffled, mangled scream interrupted the rustling. Jeremy took a step backwards as pained, dry sobs began to fill the silence the scream had left.

“Hey man, is everything okay in there?” He called out hesitantly. If this was another stoner crying because the price of McChickens went up, Jeremy did not want to deal with it again. The sobbing paused. He shifted uneasily.

“Right, so I think I’m just gonna-”

Without warning, a small dark figure clawed its way out of the bushed and onto the sidewalk in front of Jeremy, causing him to shriek and jump back. “Dang, dude, you almost…” he trailed off as the crumpled mess of a person trembled face down on the pavement, still half in the bushes. It was dark enough that he couldn’t make out much, except for a ripped black jacket, pale skin, and- wait, was that pool of liquid there before? It was dark and thick, and the blue-ish glow of the moon was turning it a blackish-purple…

Oh shit.

Jeremy jumped forward and knelt by the person, trying to flip them onto their back. “Dude, you’re bleeding really bad, what’s-” Jeremy felt the sentence die in his mouth. Before him was a very small boy, not too much younger than himself, shirtless except for that dirty black jacket, shaking like a leaf. That wasn’t the strange part.

The kid’s eyes, sunken deep into a starved face, gave a slight blue glow. Instead of pupils and irises, a single straight black line in each eye searched the world without appearing to see anything. Without warning, the line in the boy’s right eye flickered into a circle. It was tall and clean, like a 0 in a calculator. He didn’t seem to notice though, even when it flicked back into a line.

Both sides of his pale face were crusted in dried blood; moving the hair covering his ears, Jeremy could faintly make out shiny metallic somethings sloppily piercing his earlobes where earrings would have gone. The area had scabbed up, but fresh blood still glittered brightly in the moonlight. “What the..." Jeremy leaned back as a wave of nausea came over him. Doing so let him catch a glimpse of the boy’s chest, and another wave of sickness crashed over him.

Dead center of his chest was the cut out of a perfect, clean outline of a circle. The wound appeared to have trouble scabbing up, as blood and new skin glistened between pathetic clots. Electricity scars, originating from all side of the circle, arced all across his chest in jagged fractures. Below that, over his abdomen was a lengthy cut running side to side across his body, eerily straight and precise. Two similar scars sat on either side of his waist, curving around, presumably to his back. Although they all had been sewn closed neatly, each one was nasty and bruised. The incision on his left had split open, and blood was seeping steadily out.

Jeremy stared in shock. This kid didn’t smell like pot, and these were injuries he had never seen before. And what was with his eyes? Something was really wrong with-

His thoughts cut off as he felt a hand wrap weakly around his wrist. The boy’s eyes suddenly focused, and the right eye became a line.

“J-jeremy Heer-r-r-re….” an unbelievably raspy voice somehow had come out of the boy’s mouth. A pit opened in Jeremy’s stomach. Something was very, very wrong here. He tried to wrench his hand back, but the strange boy’s grasp became vice-like. The right eye flicked to a zero. “H-h..help me….”

“Back off, dude, how do you know my-”

“Jer-er-eremy Heere….” That voice, why did he recognize that voice?

“Dude, you’re really freaking me out-”

“Jeremy H…..he….Hee….Heere….” And instantly, Jeremy froze, his blood turning to ice in his veins. He was falling, a deep fear stirring inside him.

That voice.

It was him.

It was his Squip.

Oh no. Dear God no. This can’t be happening. He can’t be back, he should be gone. Please no, i dont know what youre doing or how youre doing it but please stop i will do anything please just-

“Com-m-me back…” The sobbing snapped Jeremy out of his thoughts. He had stood up and began to back away. The- the thing, his Squip, reached after Jeremy. The glow in it’s eyes began to flicker.

“Jer-r-emy, he-help me…it hurt-t-t-ts….”

“S-stay away from me! I don’t know what you’re trying to do, b-but stop it! You’re supposed to be dead!” The zero in the right eye flipped to a line. Seeming to have ignored the warning, the Squip painfully began to drag himself forward, eyes burning with such pain and fear that, for a moment, Jeremy wanted to run over and- no. No no no. That’s just what he wants. “Get away from me!” Stumbling backwards, his heart began to race. It can’t come back. I can’t lose Michael again. I can’t go back to that.

Still the Squip dragged itself forward, eye flickering to a zero. A thick trail of blood followed.

___

The effort to move was monumental. But it was the only chance.

It had recognized Jeremy’s voice. Jeremy can help. Jeremy can make the pain stop. Jeremy can help.

Jeremy was standing up.

Jeremy was backing away.

Jeremy was going to leave.

“S-stay away from me, man! I don’t know what you’re trying to do, b-but stop it! You’re supposed to be dead!”

Jeremy is leaving

The pain is never going to go away

Jeremy can help

Jeremy needs to help, it hurts and it hurts and it won’t ever stop and w h a t  i s  h a p p e n i n g

move forward

get jeremy

keep

moving

survival is

necessary

“Get away from me!”

A horrible wave of something washed over him, far greater than the pain wracking this body. It took hold, paralyzing him.

Wh

What is

I

I ’ m

___

The Squip suddenly froze, his piercing stare boring into Jeremy. The body still shivered, but seemed like it was paralyzed.

Stay away please stay there…

Jeremy continued stepping back slowly, arms held out front protectively, as if the quaking crumple of a person could attack him at any second. He mustered up the courage to speak.

“Just stay AWAY. I-I don’t need you to be cool or happy or anything anymore. I don’t know how, but you’re still just in my head. You’re not real. So j-just…” He couldn’t do this anymore. He had to go. Jeremy turned to run.

“J-jeremy….I’m sc-scared…”

“I…” that was not what Jeremy had expected. “O-Of what?” he countered, trying to ignore the mix of emotions swirling in his gut.

“It’s….it’s so q-quiet….so alon-n-ne….I fe-feel…”

“No, you don’t ‘feel’, you’re just some stupid computer that’s stuck in my brain and I just want you out of my head, how can you say-”

Jeremy quickly unclenched his fists. Something was wrong. His hands were slick with blood. Thick, dark blood. It was odd, he didn’t think he had any cuts. It was almost as if…

No.

That’s not possible.

There’s no way.

Jeremy slowly turned around. The Squip had collapsed completely into a widening pool of blood.

“Jeremy….everyth-th-thing hurts….please make it-t-t-t stop….”

Without warning, a tear splashed onto Jeremy’s bloody hands, washing away a small splotch of blood. His tear. A tear of anger and fear and worry and worry and confusion and frustration. And he was frustrated. Frustrated he had taken the Squip in the first place. Frustrated what the Squip had made him do. Frustrated how much the Squip had actually hurt him. And now, frustrated that the thing he now feared the most was apparently alive and had a body and he was feeling pity for it.

The Squip seemed like it couldn’t say anything anymore, let alone move. It just lay there, shuddering and whimpering weakly.

Jeremy took a step forward.

And hated himself for it.

He took another step forward and hated himself even more.

This is a terrible idea

Why am I doing this

He deserves this

And yet he did not stop approaching the pathetic little thing that shivered in its own blood.

___

Darkness closed in. It was going to be like this forever, a world of pain, and now the new feeling he had discovered, the first one he had ever felt; fear.

Horrible pain and fear. Forever.

And then he felt the body being turned over gently. And he could see the stars again, this time without a gun pointed at him. And they still glowed and danced with the same beauty as they had before. And it was almost….good.

And the pain was beginning to fade, but so was everything else. He felt the body being grabbed under the arms and carefully lifted off the ground until only the feet were touching.

“J-just so you know, I hate you more than you can imagine.” Jeremy’s voice. It came from somewhere. Jeremy must be holding him. Jeremy came back for him.

And as he felt the body beginning to be dragged along, the Squip for a moment felt something that was not pain or fear.

It was something….

Good.

It was good.

[fieryfafarfanfics]

Foolish Attention

for my homegirl @silverbuttercups coz she gave me an idea about sakura meeting marx’s cat, maxwell whom i talked about in my previous drabbles hehe. this kiiinda got out of hand but u know me fppft love ya bby <3

 Marx actually prided at the fact that Maxwell loved him more than anyone else.  The cat was fickle, spoiled, and all around quite mean around strangers or people he didn’t like. Even when Camilla or Elise tried to get close to him, Maxwell would either hiss openly or hide in the corner until either sisters finally gave up on the attempt. That being said, at times, Camilla would be a bit stubborn and managed to hold the cat – scratches be damned – for Elise. At times, Maxwell would finally calm down in Camilla’s arms after receiving a few kisses and scratches on the back of his ear.  However, that sense of serenity would disappear in a blink and he was back to wildly fidgeting if he saw Marx.

 Leon was hopeless with the rare breed. Marx knew his younger brother wanted to pet the creature as well. But given how egoistical Leon was and how contradictorily heartbroken he vaguely looked every time Maxwell rejected him, Marx would often hold the cat in his arms while Leon silently – but joyfully – petted the cat’s head.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, Marx really felt bad for Kamui every time she tried to come near Maxwell.  The cat would hiss, growl, even bared his claws and sharp teeth at the sight of the Nohr princess. Marx knew Kamui never had any bad intentions on the cat. Hell, he knew Kamui was exceptionally great at animals. But Maxwell was a grim exception. Even if Marx held the cat in his arms for Kamui to pet, the cat would either wiggle violently or tuck his head between one of Marx’s armpits.  Marx knew it was because the cat could sense danger in Kamui’s dragon blood. But she was young at that time, and the first prince knew it would bear no good results in revealing Kamui about her true heritage.  Time flew by quickly around them now, and Marx guessed Kamui had forgotten about her sorrow at Maxwell’s aggressive nature against her. She did find something – or someone – else to cuddle with, after all.  So in all, besides the fact of how his cat poorly treated the others, Marx actually loved the fact that Maxwell was exceptionally loving around him.  That is, until she came into the prince’s life.  “Ehehehe…” Giggling softly at the cat nuzzling her right cheek, Sakura brought Maxwell closer. “You’re such a cute little boy, aren’t you?” Pink lips kissed the top of the cat’s head, drawing out more and more purrs that could practically be felt in her soft hands. Her back gently pressed against the headboard, she placed the cat on her lap and began scratching the back of his left ear.  Utterly delighted at the constant attention, Maxwell gently bumped her chin with his head. Eyes closed and front paws gently kneading her stomach, the cat purred loudly as if the queen of Nohr hadn’t given him any attention at all.  It was an obvious lie and Sakura hadn’t stopped giving him attention ever since she moved into the castle.  Eyes practically twinkling at the animal’s spoiled behaviour, Sakura brought him up for another squeeze. “Gods, I love you so much!” Legs bent closer to her body, she opted to pepper soft kisses on his left cheek.  Louder and louder the cat purred. His tiny paws cozily pressed her chest, Maxwell lifted himself up to gently bump her forehead with his muzzle. His purrs only matched her giggles; the bedchamber echoed nothing but the lively sounds of the two.  As well as the bitter, stiffened growl of the king.  From the moment he woke up, Marx could feel that pitiful seed of jealousy blooming in his heart. As happy as he was to hear her laughter first thing in the morning, once he saw the reason for such a joyful melody, he did all that he could not to take the damn, precious cat and place him outside of the bedchamber.  It was too laughable, he knew. Of course Sakura loved him with all her heart. Of course she chose to be with him even after the dreadful war. To have her by his side, to hug her and kiss her and to have her hug and kiss him back, Marx knew her feelings were mutual and sincere and he had absolutely no right nor reason to feel threatened by the position in her heart.  And yet…  He began to wonder if this was what it’s like to be so foolishly in love.  Without a word, he sat up. Curly hair a blonde, dishevelled mess, Marx lowered his head until the curly bangs shielded his expression.  Upon realizing that the mattress had shifted, Sakura quickly looked to the left. “Oh, good morning, dear!” Instantly but carefully she placed Maxwell to the right side of her legs. Her smile never once wavered, and it widened all the more so when she saw him. “Did…Did I wake you? Sorry…” Guilt meekly rooted around her beating heart, Sakura carefully turned to face him.  To see that Marx gave no immediate response, she felt her smile twitching.  “Dear…?” Concern etched along with the guilt, Sakura slowly leaned closer and bent down to try and meet his gaze. “Marx, my dear, are you alright?” Left hand pressed firmly into the blanket and mattress, the Nohrian queen slowly reached out with her right hand. “A-Are…Are you actually ma—?”  Questions and concerns vaporized in a blink once she felt his hand around her right wrist.  And before Sakura could ask again, “Ma—Ma-rx—oomph!” she shouted instead at the sudden pull and the feel of her face being nuzzled against his chest. Instinctively her left hand went up to his shoulder. Heartbeat picking up its pace in a dizzying speed, Sakura squeaked inwardly once she felt her body falling forward.  Her head was starting to spin.  “M-M-Marx!” Finally tilting her head slightly so that her words brushed his collarbone, Sakura gawked at the still silent king. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong—?”  “I love you…”  Well, that shushed her.  Though body still comfortably pressed against him, Sakura still managed a peek. “I—excuse me, dear?”  “I love you.” Shamelessly Marx repeated his words. Shamelessly he tightened his hug. Now lying on his back, the Nohrian king carefully pulled her upwards until she was lying on top of him. “I love you so much, Sakura.” Strong arms firm but gentle around her petite frame, Marx peppered a few kisses to the top of her head.  Gods, she smelled so heavenly.  “Look at me…” Rationality began to fade as her scent intoxicated him. “Only look at me…” Air briefly held inside his lungs, Marx pressed a deep, lingering kiss to her forehead.  Gods, sometimes his way of affection could put her into cardiac arrest.  One eye closed at the feel of warm lips, Sakura only gawked at him with breath-taking irises of fuchsia pink. Both hands were tucked together between each other’s chests. Slim fingers meekly brushed and tickled the scarred, smooth plane of his skin. She felt the rapid beat of his howling heart. She felt the faint tremble that tickled her body. “I want you, Sakura…”  Well, he really was dead-set on killing her this morning.  “I want you so much…” Again she felt his mouth kissing her burning forehead. “And I want you to want me too…”  As dizzyingly embarrassed as she was right now, Sakura flinched in confusion at his sudden intensity. “Marx, my dear…” Hands firm on his chest, she tried to push herself upwards.  Unfortunately, her attempt only tightened his hug.  “Don’t leave me, my queen…” He brought her closer like a child hugging a doll. “I want—need you by my side, now and forever.” Eyes fluttered shut, Marx traced his kisses to the silky, pink strands. “So please…only love me…” Face nuzzled into the pink hair, Marx exhaled shakily. “And not…M-Maxwell…”  Well, that was apparently more than enough to give her the strength she needed.  Eventually distracted by his emotions, Marx then flinched when Sakura finally managed to wiggle and push herself free from his embrace.  A pair of fuchsia pink eyes met a widened set of striking violets.  “Marx…?” Her voice was a mere squeak. “Are you…jealous?”  To hear that question aloud, although she didn’t technically shout, Marx cringed so openly.  He could never find it in his heart to lie to her. And even if he did, Sakura was all too quick to see through him.  “Oh…” Pretty pink lips parted to a plump pop, “my Gods…” Her hands still pressed to his chest, Sakura slowly, carefully lowered herself until her elbows brushed the hard, warm body.  Now Sakura wasn’t mocking him. Honest to Gods, she wasn’t. She could never find it in her heart to make fun of the love of her life. But shock was obvious in her face, and even she knew she was incapable of stopping herself from acting without a second thought sometimes.  He didn’t deny nor confirm her suspicions.  But Gods, the deep flush of red in his face was more than enough to give the answer the needed.  It didn’t help that laughter began to bubble out of those plump pink lips.  “My love, don’t laugh at your husband.” Staring emptily at the ceiling, Marx firmly held back a groan to feel her body shaking from the constant laughing.  Her face already nuzzling his chest the moment she got her answer, Sakura slowly shook her head left and right. Both hands loosely clutched the front of his nightshirt. Both legs gingerly rubbed the sides of his left leg.  “I-I’m sorry—” Snorts popped out between her poor attempt of an apology. “Y-You’re just…so cute!” Again laughter rang inside the huge room. Face still hidden on the smooth plane of his chest, Sakura then gasped silently to feel those strong arms that she loved so much wrapping around her delicate frame.  “Sakura…” Embarrassment practically boiled at the top of his head. His face now brighter than the colour of Sakura’s mesmerizing irises, Marx finally let out a low, unsatisfied groan before tipping his head to her direction.  Before he could say anything, however, the king was brought to stunned silence once he felt her lips upon his.  Pop. “I love you so, so, so much, silly!”  Well, apparently it was now his turn to be brought into a stupor.  Taking advantage of his adorable bafflement, Sakura meekly scooted closer until her nose brushed his own. “I love you so m-much…” She kissed his mouth again. “I…I have eyes only for you, my dear...” And again. “No matter what,” Chup, “nothing can ever steal my heart away from you.” Chup.  “Not even Maxwell.” Her giggles lulled so sweetly in his ears. Her smile beamed a perfect shot straight into his heart.  Gods, he really was foolishly in love with her.  “Gods…” Sighing lazily, Marx tugged her closer and pressed that pretty pink smile with another kiss. Their eyes fluttered shut, he only let out another sigh – albeit slower, this time purred with pure love that meant for her and only her – and gently nipped her upper lip.  Even with Maxwell now blatantly rubbing his body against the two, the loving king and queen only focused their attention on each other.  Sakura actually prided at the fact that Marx could be adorably jealous at such a silly thing. END

[animehead]

The Evolvement of Jesse McCree

Fandom: Overwatch

Pairing: Eventual McHanzo, maybe others 

Warnings/tags: Slowburn, violence, disability, werewolves, loss of limbs (arm), werewolf!McCree, alternate universe, lazy editing

Characters (in this chapter): McCree, Gabriel, Ana, Hanzo, Genji 

Summary: Jesse McCree has big plans to open a diner, but an attack by a vicious animal leaves him injured, and forces him to pick up where he left off. But Jesse quickly discovers that learning to recover and get on with his life is the least of his problems. 

A/N: Bear with me. I’m rusty, and a bit new to writing Overwatch fic. 

Chapter One

Although the key fits, it takes a bit of elbow grease to get the door open. Jesse McCree shifts his stance, leans forward, and shoves his shoulder against the door. He does this twice. The first time with a curse, the second with a grin as it finally gives way and swings open.

He takes a step inside the building, coughing slightly as he inhales several years’ worth of settled dust.

“Christ,” Gabriel Reyes says next to him, thumb and index finger pinching his own nostrils shut. “What the hell is that smell?”

“Yeah,” Jesse chuckles, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. “Ripe, ain’t it? Got a bit of a kick to it.”

The two of them step further inside the building, fanning at the air, and looking over the place. It was a popular diner at one time, Kept up with the hustle and bustle of the years before him. Built in the 50s, but with an 80s feel to it. If he closes his eyes, Jesse can imagine the diner full of people. Good food, good conversation. Friends and family. All it needed was a bit of organizing, a shitload of cleaning, and it’d be as good as new.

“You sure you want to do this, kid?”

“Relax, pop,” Jesse says. He reaches over to pat his father on the shoulder. Gabriel wasn’t his actual father, but he’d taken care of Jesse as if he were his own. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Gabriel’s signature on that co-signer line, Jesse wouldn’t even be standing in this rundown diner, planning for its grand opening, and his future.

“Running a business is a lot to take on. We could always just sell it.”

“Barely let the ink dry, and you’re already counting me out, huh?”

“It’s not that.” Gabriel walks over to one of the tables, and fiddles with a section of chipped laminate on its surface. “There’s something off about this place. Rubs me the wrong way.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Jesse replies. “Other than it being a shit hole right now. Couple weeks, I’ll get her all fixed up, and you’ll be singing a different tune.”

“You know, most twenty-five year olds would rather be out chasing tail than taking on the restaurant business.”

“Well, I ain’t most twenty-five year olds, am I?”

Gabriel snickers, scratching at the hair along his chin. “Yeah, you damn sure ain’t.” He looks around the diner, dark eyes narrowing at all the work that needs to be done to get the place in order. “Well, then. Where do we start?”

Jesse walks toward the bar, lifting up the part of the counter that will allow him access behind it. It pulls from its hinges, rusty screws sticking out of the lower portion of the countertop like long, stained teeth.

“Hell, I reckon’ anywhere.”

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Jesse thinks as he stares at the mountain of trash scattered around the diner’s dumpster. He thought he was doing a good deed by feeding a couple of stray dogs the rest of his lunch. But they clearly weren’t satisfied with his offerings and went digging around in the garbage, pulling trash bags out with their teeth, and leaving the mess strewed around the back of the restaurant.

“Damn, mutts,” he mutters, crouching down to pick up some of the mess. He supposes it could have been worse. The diner isn’t open yet, which means the dumpster is only filled with the garbage he and Gabriel have dragged out of the diner for the past six weeks. Picking up shards of broken wood, and the occasional Twinkie wrapper was better than having to pick up spoiled food.

It’s probably time for him to head home. The sun went down hours ago. But knowing that he was just a few short weeks away from the diner’s grand opening keeps him there after hours. He still has so much to do. The interior and exterior are mostly done, but there’s still the matter of hiring people. He doesn’t know the first thing about that, but it has to be done. Can’t run a restaurant all by himself.

A spring breeze blows past, cooling sweat slicked skin, and rustling the leaves of the many trees in the wood directly behind the diner. With a handful of shredded plastic, Jesse stands up, tilts his head back and stares upward. It’s a full moon tonight, big and beautiful, like a giant pearl smack dab in the middle of the sky. Clouds sail past, like puffs of cotton. The leaves rustle again, and that’s a bit peculiar.

There’s no breeze.

He tosses the plastic into the bin, and wipes his hands on the thighs of stained jeans. The rustling continues, leaves smacking against one another, pulling his attention away from the remainder of the mess he needs to pick up.

“You mutts get on outta’ here now,” Jesse calls into the woods. “Go on now, get.” He turns, facing the woods, trying to spot one of the dogs.

The rustling stops immediately, leaving an eerie silence behind. Jesse takes off his hat, and scratches at the skin above his right eyebrow. It’s difficult to be sure. Trees and moonlight have the habit of casting shadows, and tricking the eye. But he’s certain he sees one of the dogs next to one of the trees. He narrows his eyes, makes out its form crouched low, head bowed, sniffing at the tree’s trunk.

“Hey.” He slams his hand against the trash bin a few times, strong palm smacking against metal, the sound loud in the quietness of night. “I said scram. Stop sniffing around. I ain’t got nothin’ left for you.”

The dog raises its head, muzzle incredibly long and extended. Maybe it’s the moonlight. It has to be the moonlight. Its eyes seem to glow, a startlingly bright yellow, pupils big and black, centered in the middle of its irises. It opens its mouth, teeth like sharpened porcelain, long and white. It lets out a low growl, deep and guttural. The most threatening, terrifying sound a dog could ever make.

And then it raises up on its hind legs.

And Jesse realizes, eyes wide, staring at the large hunch of a back, and the long hanging arms, that whatever that thing is standing next to the tree, it sure as hell isn’t a dog. It’s not. It just isn’t.

“Aw, hell… Fuck!”

Jesse bolts, boots pounding against the ground, legs carrying him as fast as he can go. He hears the animal racing after him. The thing that definitely is not a dog is closing in on him, moving at speeds no animal should be able to run. He reaches the diner’s back door, throws it open, and rushes inside. But it’s all futile. He’s not quick enough. The animal is right behind him, slams its strong, furry body into the center of his back, causing him to fall forward.

Jesse screams. Claws tear at his shirt, his back, and pierce his flesh. The animal is a weight upon him, sharp teeth digging into his shoulder, breaking skin, and drawing blood. He feels heat where he’s been bitten, so hot he can’t stand it. It paralyzes him, leaves him unable to move, only scream as the animal continues to attack him.

The pain is unbearable.

He doesn’t feel it when the creature forces him onto his injured back, and snatches away his left arm with his teeth, severing it completely from the bone. But he knows it’s happening, can only yell for help, and even that’s  in vain because there’s no one there to hear him. There’s nothing he can do but wait for his inevitable death. To silently apologize and ask for forgiveness from the people he’s hurt in his past. To apologize to Gabriel for not sticking around long enough to make him proud. If he’d known he was going to die tonight from being attacked by a beast in the diner he worked so hard for, maybe he would have done things differently.

“Hindsight,” he whispers, and follows with a depressed chuckle. So this is how it ends, scared and alone, unfeeling, and at someone, something, else’s hand. Well, yeah. That sounds about right for him.

He closes his eyes, and waits for the creature to finish him off. He’s lost so much blood that his vision begins to blur. “At least I won’t see it coming,” he murmurs, the room spinning around him. He blinks at a space on the floor where there’s nothing but blood where his arm should be.

The animal howls, the sound so loud it rattles the new glass windows. Not the windows, he thinks when it howls again. He hopes they don’t shatter. They cost so damn much. So much money for some fucking windows. He can no longer open his eyes. His body lies motionless on the floor, waiting for the creature to deliver the final blow.

“At least I won’t see it,” he says again.

And then… darkness.

He doesn’t come to all at once. Instead it’s in snapshots, Gabriel shouting his name, the blaring alarm of sirens, the hushed murmur of voices. He’s moving, the ground several feet below him. Then darkness. He comes to again. Latex glove covered hands, blood soaked bandages, and a clear, plastic tube resting gently across his face. Darkness. Bright lights now. White halls. People in scrubs rushing up and down the halls. A child crying. Maybe an adult? Someone asks him for his name. He can’t answer.

“Jesse,” he hears Gabriel shouting his name. Must be serious. Gabriel hardly ever calls him by his first name, unless he’s in trouble. Did he do something wrong?

“You can’t come in here, sir,” someone replies.

Gabriel’s shouting now. Arguing and throwing around curses. Jesse hears the word ‘security’ screamed, and the scuffle of a fight.

“Calm down, pop,” he whispers, wishing he could say it louder, but he doesn’t have the energy, or the strength. Darkness again.

Brown eyes flutter open. He’s awake. More importantly, he’s alive. Now it’s just the matter of figuring out where he is. A room. Dimly lit. The diner maybe? Nah, it’s not the diner. Too small. Doesn’t smell like fresh paint. Home? Nope. Doesn’t smell like vanilla candles stunted by the scent of stale cigars. A television. That’s nice. A bit small, though. Chair next to the bed. Looks leather, but it’s probably not. Big ole’ white erase board on the wall inquiring about rates of pain. Ah, well, that clears things up.

A hospital.

He sits up, winces, and lies back down. His back aches, stings. He reaches up to survey the damage, except there’s nothing where his hand should be. Or his arm for that matter. They’re both gone. Vanished. Zilch. Zip. Nada. Nothing.

He screams, his only other arm gripping at the bandages wrapped around his elbow. Someone runs into his room, holding him, tells him to calm down. She has a nice, soothing voice. Old woman with silver, whitish hair that reminds him of Christmas tree tinsel.

“Calm down. Calm down.” She puts an arm on his chest, pinning him down against the bed. “All right. Easy now. You’re okay.”

“My arm’s gone,” Jesse says, frantic and shock making his words break. “It’s gone.”

“But you’re alive,” she says. “You’re here. Breathing. Do you understand me?” She takes his free hand, careful of the IV needle he has taped into it, and presses it against his chest even through his panicked flailing. “Feel.”

“Nah, nah.” Jesse shakes his head. “This ain’t right. It ain’t right.”

“Life hardly is. But we make do. Now take some deep breaths. In and out.” She waits until Jesse follows her lead, breathing long and slow, chest rising and falling. “Very good. Perfect.”

“You a doctor?” he breathes out, hand tugging at the nasal cannula hooked over his ears.

“Nurse,” she answers. “Leave that alone.”

“What happened to me?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that. But your father might.”

“My father?”

“Gabriel Reyes. He gave the doctor’s quite a fuss downstairs. Almost got himself kicked out.”

“He’s here?”

“He is. Sent him downstairs to get some coffee. Poor thing looks exhausted.”

“He alright?”

“Look at you,” she says, a soft chuckle escaping her lips, “wake up in a hospital bed, and the first thing you do is ask about someone else. He’s fine. You worry about healing.” She stands upright, groaning a bit as she stretches her arms above her head.

He watches her, takes notice of the navy blue scrubs and the several ID badges hanging from a lanyard. There’s a name tag above her right breast. The name ‘Ana’ printed in bold, black letters.

“Oh, before I forget. Here.” She reaches into her pant pocket, pulls out a card, and offers it to him.

He reaches for it, first with what’s left of his left arm, and then with his right. “Guess I gotta’ get used to that,” he says, taking the card and reading it over. It’s a business card for a psychiatrist, Fareeha Amari.

“Not much for talkin’ to shrinks.”

“I highly recommend that you reconsider,” Ana replies. “Give her a call when you’re discharged. You have a long road ahead of you, Jesse McCree.”

“Yeah, well,” he scratches at the thin layer of scruff along his cheeks and chin, “I guess you’re right about that, Ms. Ana.”

The door glides open, and Jesse feels relief wash over him the moment Gabriel pokes his shaved head through the door. “Hijo?”

“Hey, pop.”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Ana says, and leaves out of the same door Gabriel enters.

“How you feeling?” Gabriel asks, settling himself down into the chair next to Jesse’s bed.

“Like I got rundown by a John Deere,” Jesse answers. “What the hell happened to me?”

Gabriel shakes his head. “Don’t know. Was calling you all day. You didn’t pick up. Came to the diner to check on you, and found you half dead in the middle of the floor. You can’t remember what happened?”  

Jesse shakes his head. “I don’t know. I think maybe it was a dog, or something.”

“What the hell kind of dog did you piss off to deserve this?”

“I don’t know, pop.” He runs his fingers through his hair, and then lowers them to his forehead where he rubs at his temples. “I don’t know what I’m gonna’ do about the diner.”

“What you mean, you don’t know? You’re gonna’ heal, and then you’re going to get your ass back in there.”

“What if…” he pauses, thinking back to the attack. Everything’s a blur now, but he still remembers those glowing, yellow eyes, “whatever did this to me comes back?”

“We’ll figure out a way for you to protect yourself. That way if it does, you’ll be ready. But don’t worry about that for right now. You just think about getting better.”

“You’re being awful kind tonight.”

“What kind of dad would I be if I kicked my only son when he’s down?”

“Heh. Probably my old man,” Jesse says.

“Enough.” Gabriel leans forward, and plucks a can of strawberry jello off the portable tray next to Jesse’s bed. He peels the aluminum lid back, and stares down at the contents with a frown.

“Thought you didn’t like jello.”

“I don’t. But you do.” Grabbing a plastic spoon next to a can of cold ginger ale, he raises himself to his feet. “Now stop talking and open your big mouth.”  

“Aw, come on, pop. I don’t need you feedin’ me.”

“Shut up, and open it.”

Jesse groans, eyes closing as Gabriel pops a spoonful of jello into his mouth. “I’ll make sure to return the favor when you’re an old man,” he says between chews.

Gabriel snorts. “Dealing with you, I’m already an old man.”

“Thanks, pop. I’m glad you came looking for me.”

Gabriel offers him a small, tired smile. “Me too, kid. Me too.”

The air is cool and fresh, unlike the taxi they rode to the hospital in. Genji Shimada cradles his arm against his chest, dark eyes scanning the digital marquee board several hundred feet away from the front of the hospital.

“They are giving away free flu shots, brother. Should we get one?”

“Quiet, Genji,” Hanzo Shimada says, after paying the taxi driver with foreign currency that he’s still not quite used to. “Why must you always involve yourself? Raunchy American parties and wheelboards. Now green hair. Ridiculous.”

“Skateboards, brother,” Genji corrects him. “We are only here a short while. We should interact with the locals. They are friendly, and fun.”

“They are idiots. Greedy and loud. And selfish.” He huffs. “Americans. What were you thinking? Look at yourself. You’ll be lucky if you haven’t broken your arm. We’ve been here for five days, and I already have to bring you to the hospital.”

“It’s probably just a sprain. Besides, I’ve received much worse from sparring with you. Or otherwise.”

Hanzo is quiet for a few moments as the two of them move closer to the hospital’s entrance. “I do not like America. I want to go back to Japan.”

“We are only here a few more days.”

Hanzo shakes his head, stepping to the side to allow Genji entrance through the glass, motion sensor doors. “You are so much trouble. What would father think?”

“I assume not much, considering he’s dead.”

“Enough, Genji.”

Genji quietly reads the signs, trying to figure out which direction the two of them must move. “It seems we took the wrong entrance. The emergency room is that way.” He uses his uninjured arm to point down a long hallway.

“Fine,” Hanzo replies with a sigh. “Let us go.”

Jesse surveys the room one last time. He’s only been there five days, but it seems so much longer. He’s still sore, still stressed, and still trying to figure out how he’s going to adjust to only having one arm. But he’s smiled a couple of times, so he’s on a slow track to getting back to his normal self.

Gabriel brought him some clothes to go home in. No more wandering around his room in a hospital gown with his hairy ass hanging out. He pats at his jean pocket, making sure the card Ana gave him is in there. He’s still not sure if he’ll actually see this Dr. Amari, but he supposes a check in or two couldn’t do much harm.

“You got everything?” Gabriel asks him, fingers buttoning up the flannel shirt Jesse’s wearing since he hasn’t quite gotten used to buttoning things with one hand.

“Reckon’ so,” Jesse answers.

“Got the number to the doctor?”

“Which one?”

“Prosthetics.”

“Yeah, got that one, too.” Eventually, he’ll see about getting a prosthetic arm. Something to make him feel a bit more comfortable in his own skin. For now, though, he’s just going to take it easy. One day at a time. Recuperate. He’s got to hurry up and heal. There’s a diner waiting for him with his name on it, and it sure as hell isn’t going to run itself.

“Discharge papers?”

“Got ‘em, pop. Got everything.”

“Then let’s roll out.”

They take the elevator to the first floor. Him riding in a wheelchair being pushed by Ana while Gabriel walks next to them. When they reach the gift shop, he begs Ana to let him walk the rest of the way. A man’s got to have a bit of pride and dignity after having all types of doctors and nurses poking and prodding at him, seeing his unmentionables. She’s probably not supposed to, but Ana concedes, and lets him go about his way without the use of a wheelchair.

“You take care now, Jesse McCree,” she says with a smile. “And give Dr. Amari a call.”

“You can count on me, Ms. Ana,” Jesse replies.

“Look after yourselves.” She waves at Gabriel and Jesse who both wave back.

“Take care,” Gabriel replies.

They begin their journey past the gift shop, then past the emergency room entrance when someone walks right smack into Jesse.

“Oh, pardon me,” Jesse says, and gives a polite bow of his head.

The man who bumped into him says nothing. Long, dark hair tied at the ends with a silk, blue sash. A pattern decorates the fabric, trimmed in glittering gold thread in the design of dragon scales. He stares up at Jesse, intense and unspeaking, dark eyebrows narrowed. His gaze drifts from Jesse’s face to the empty sleeve hanging by his side, and Jesse nearly cringes from the unwanted attention.

There’s a tattoo on the man’s left arm. Jesse can’t quite make it out because it disappears beneath his shirt sleeve. He almost asks if he can see it, but thinks better of it.

“Brother,” Genji says, nudging his older brother with his elbow.

“My apologies,” the man finally says, crosses his arms, side steps and continues on his way, him and the green haired man walking side by side.

“Those two clearly ain’t from around here,” Gabriel says next to Jesse.

“Yeah,” Jesse agrees. “The one with the long hair seemed meaner than a pit bull with a cobra for a leash, didn’t he?”

“Sure as hell did,” Gabriel replies. “Probably don’t know any better.”

“Real pretty though,” Jesse murmurs.

Gabriel raises a brow and shakes his head. “Wanna’ go chase after him?”

“Nah, I’m good. I don’t think love is in the cards for me right now.”

“Who said anything about love?”

“Everything is about love, pop.”

“Everything, huh?”

Jesse grins. “Yessir, everything.”

“Whatever you say, kid. Now let’s get you home.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

After a brief mix up involving where Gabriel parked the car, they find the car and climb inside. Jesse stares out through the window, watching the scenery go by. Just a few days ago he had everything going for him. And he supposes that maybe he still does. Sure, he’s covered in wounds, and is missing and arm, but it could have been worse, right? He could be dead. Gone from the world, snatched away right in the prime of his life.

You ain’t seen nothing yet, Jesse McCree, he thinks, and the thought startles him. What if that thing eventually came back to finish the job? He’d need a weapon, something that would keep him safe. Something that would ensure he had a quiet, peaceful, protected life.

“Hey, pop.” They’re stopped at a red light.

Gabriel unwraps a peppermint and pops it into his mouth. “Hm,” he murmurs around the hard candy.

“What would you say to me getting a gun?”

“You want a gun?” He turns his head toward Jesse. “Thought you said having guns meant someone was overcompensating.”

“Yeah, well. The tune’s different once ya’ manage to survive being killed by something that clearly wants ya’ dead. Anyway, I just want something to keep things smooth. You know, to keep the peace. A peacekeeper.”

“Peacekeeper, huh?”

“That’s right. Peacekeeper.”

Alright then,” Gabriel replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jesse taps his fingers against the arm rest, and closes his eyes. Yeah, a peacekeeper. That’s exactly what he needs.