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#torn arteries
thetoxicvault · 1 year
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CARCASS
Torn Arteries (7 Piece Box Set) (2021)
Nuclear Blast Europe
Liverpool / Merseyside / U.K. 🇬🇧
Bass Guitar, Vocals [Vox] – Jeff Walker
Drums, Vocals [Vox] – Daniel Wilding
Guitar, Vocals [Vox] – Bill Steer
Mastered By – Jens Bogren
Mixed By, Engineer – David Castillo
Organ – Per Wiberg
The death / grind highlight exclusively at the Nuclear Blast mailorder. Limited to 2,000 pieces worldwide and only 1,000 deluxe box sets were available in Europe: Including "Torn arteries" Veggie Splatter double LP, CD, 24-page booklet and the Carcass place setting with knife, stainless steel fork and porcelain plate.
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stylistic-nightmare · 8 months
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Carcass - Torn Arteries
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gotankgo · 11 months
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Carcass "Under the Scalpel Blade"
• Torn Arteries (2021)
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kidpix-album-covers · 2 years
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bizarrobrain · 8 months
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"Wake Up and Smell the Carcass/Caveat Emptor" by Carcass - From "Torn Arteries" (2021)
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capitalchaos · 2 years
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Concert Photo Review: CARCASS @ Goldfield Trading Post – Roseville, California
Concert Photo Review: CARCASS @ Goldfield Trading Post – Roseville, California @CarcassBand #Carcass #DeathMetal #Metal #sacramento #roseville #jenniferblack
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thelowestorder · 2 years
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Carcass - In God We Trust
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stayallnite · 1 year
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nowplaying Torn Arteries by Carcass out of Torn Arteries
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virgofem · 2 years
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hey kids, remember to cherish every day here on earth and if you have a partner, tell them how much you love them all. the. time. literally no amount is enough. tell your friends and family too. if you feel down, reach out - there's help available. life's short, try to enjoy it while you can. don't worry too much. it's all gonna be okay.
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uhlunaro · 11 months
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CANINE TEETH
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pairing: older!leon x gn!reader
summary: A mission leaves you wracked with survivor’s guilt. Leon helps the only way he knows how.
words: 3.3k
warnings: blood, explicit injury descriptions, death (unnamed characters), smoking, angst with a happy ending
notes: an anon requested hurt/comfort and i absolutely ran with it. RE lore is confusing so forgive me if things are wrong.
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You’re bloodied from the waist up, and you dread Leon’s first sight of you.
The bioweapon just would not fucking die—at least, not without taking half your squad with it. Their bodies have been laid out on the pavement, away from all the rubble, and the bullet casings, and the fresh blood.
Some faces you don’t recognize, and the ones you should have been mutilated beyond human comprehension. You help identify most of them by way of tattoos and birthmarks and the slivers of their faces still left intact. An eye here, the twist of a mouth there, a crushed nose. 
Some time between sifting through the leftovers of the town, picking out the pieces of your friends, and breaking for a quick smoke, you’re corralled into the medical tent. The small space remains just as solemn as the streets, if not for the groans of pain and cries of grief. Civilians and personnel alike, packed in close on rickety cots. The smell of blood, so potent it clings to the back of your throat, is what gets you. Churns away at your insides. Always has.
During times like these, you fucking hate your job.
The medic—Marcus, a close friend, a man who once saved you from a severed femoral artery—waves you over to a recently abandoned bed, the material stained a deep red. Not fresh, but not old, either, and you’re sure any leftover soaks into the butt of your muddy pants.
“Any updates?” you ask, because coping is easier when you don’t. When you stay calm, and professional, and routine.
“Heard talk from the CO’s. Think they’re bracing for a second attack.” His dark eyes cut sharp over the rim of his glasses. “But you didn’t hear it from me. Got it?”
He applies pressure to a jagged laceration on your arm, mutters something about stitches and gauze and the depletion of QuikClot.
But there's no need for any of that. Not when your blood freezes still inside your veins. “A second attack will wipe us out.”
A layer of gauze is wrapped around your half-torn pinky, bent at an angle just beneath the first knuckle, and blood saturates the fabric. If not for the elephant-sized potency of adrenaline coursing through your system, you’re sure you’d be on the floor right now. 
It needs surgery—hell, you’ll probably lose the finger altogether. If you aren’t already dead by morning.
“They’re trying to call for backup. A favor for a favor or some shit.” Your blood slicks up his fresh gloves, bright and glistening.
“From who?”
He leans back into his rickety chair and throws out both arms, almost clipping the hip of another medic passing by. “How the fuck would I know, Mouse?”
“‘Cause you eavesdrop like you’re being paid for it.” You attempt to wipe the itching blood from your cheek, but only succeed in smearing a fresh coat over the left half of your face. “God—listen, we’re all fucking stressed. No need to be an asshole.”
“That’s not…” He sighs out a long, exhausted breath, and that exhaustion rolls off him twelve hours thick. Reads clear in his pallor, in the state of his clothes, in the slump of his posture. You feel bad for him, for everybody stuck neck deep in the mud of this bullshit situation. Yourself included. “That’s not what I meant to say. But we’ve all watched our friends get ripped apart, so forgive me if my fuse is non-fucking-existent.”
You both begin to stare at each other as a group of soldiers file into the tent, a battle of wills keeping you glued in place. Marcus is fucked up over this, and so are you. It’s a stupid thing to get angry over, but tensions are high, and you’re fit to burst at the goddamn seams.
“Mouse.”
Just like that, you feel small again. Weak. And you would rather rip the rest of your finger off than turn around and face that voice. “Leon.”
He’s always professional enough to keep up appearances—use your call sign, subdue his voice and body language—but you know him inside and out. Every quirk of his tone. He’s angry, yes, but not at you.
Marcus cuts you a knowing glance, then gives a nod to the fuming man just over your shoulder. “Patched ‘em up best I could.”
“Not good enough, apparently.”
You turn to look at him then, his muscled form dressed all in black, arms crossed over his tactical vest. He glares a hole through Marcus’s forehead, expression severe, intimidating even by your standards.
“He did what he could, Leon.”
He catches your eye a moment, looks again with widened eyes, and his arms twitch open as if wishing to reach for you. To touch you.
Later, you mouth, and you witness a part of him die. Right inside this medical tent, surrounded by the aftermath of a city-wide apocalypse.
He wants to hold you, and you aren’t sure who he seeks to comfort most. You or him. Leon now, or Leon the rookie.
Marcus notices—the man notices everything unfortunately. He shoos you away, orders Leon to watch over you, to keep that finger intact. 
It’s probably lost anyway.
“I thought you quit,” Leon says, as you pull a crushed pack of cigarettes from one of the many pockets of your fatigues.
You stand outside the medical tent, and the headache-inducing smell doesn’t stop.
“Covers up the blood,” you say, lighting the end with a match. Half the tobacco’s fallen out and there’s a tear near the filter, but it produces smoke and that’s all you care about right now. “Not like I can smell any worse.”
You stink of death. A sickly sweet, metallic, rotting perfume that will take days to wash off, long after you’re home safe. The nightmares will come back. You’ll hate the color red for a while.
The blood mats your hair. Dirt packs under blunt-bitten fingernails. You’ve barely slept in two days.
You look like utter shit, near-death warmed over, and still—
Still, Leon dares to love you. He’s here, fresh off the bird. That’s proof enough. 
“You want to talk about it?” he asks, once the cigarette’s been half-smoked and your throat burns from something even worse than nicotine.
If you cry now, you won’t stop. You might drown in the wreckage, take everyone with you.
A better way to go than this, you suppose. 
“Don’t think I can right now.”
You crush the cigarette then, nothing but filter and ash, beneath the toe of your boot. Silently muse for a moment about littering, then look around to the plumes of smoke and the kicked-up dust and the wind-swept trash. The city will be flattened before the day’s end anyway, and you still have a few hours left to go.
The sun settles low in the sky, and the shift from yellow to bathing orange remains in infancy.
Two, maybe three at most.
“The second attack.” You look over at him with empty eyes, worn down and grieving. “They’re waiting for nightfall, aren’t they?”
He sighs, steps back to lean against the concrete wall. “It’s a hypothesis.”
“And you’re the back-up.”
“One of many.”
Leon… well, he isn’t a hopeful man these days. Years of counter-bio-terrorism will do that to you. But now, neck-deep in chaos, he looks hopeful. Maybe for your sake. Maybe for his own. But he looks hopeful, and you almost believe it, too.
“If I die—“
His posture stiffens, and he shakes his head. “We’re not doing this.”
“Leon. Just hear me out. Please.” When he gives nothing but a sigh in response, you continue. “If I die out there, and I don’t get to see you after this is done, you need to know that I love you. And that you deserve better than this.”
“Better than what?” His voice croaks out weak, and you understand how he felt back in the medical tent.
Need to hold him, feel his heartbeat, assure yourself that he’s alive and well and that all this is real. 
You deserve selfishness for once in your fucking life.
“Better than the DSO, and the violence, and all the hurt you’ve carried around since Raccoon City.”
He smiles soft at you, like a candlelight dinner, a late-night kiss, a shared bubble bath. An affection so potent that you almost damn propriety and embrace him right here on the bustling street.
“I’m glad you didn’t mention yourself.”
The smiles that stretches your lips is relieving. A power only he can possess, amusing you at a time like this. “God no. I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Excuse me?”
“Had a really nice bottle of tequila one time…”
“Tequila doesn’t rub your back so you can fall asleep.”
“Hey, anything’s possible.”
You’re in the middle of a war zone, and he has you laughing. And you realize, just as you did all those years ago, that you love him. Would die for him. Would rather die with him—but not like this, not here, ever.
“What are our odds?”
As you join him against the wall, looking out at the rush of people—police, BSAA, civilians seeking refuge—he leans toward you, victim to the same magnetic pull that brought you together in the first place.
“Redfield’s on his way.”
It’s all he says, and you choke out a laugh. “Shit. In that case, this battle’s as good as won.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Not since Edonia.”
“You’re in for a surprise, then.”
The dread that nibbles on your skull makes you fidget, and the concrete wall is rough as sandpaper, spikes catching on your clothes. “I don't like surprises.”
“You’re in the wrong field, honey.”
“Was that an affectionate ‘honey’ or a sarcastic one?”
“I save the sarcasm for everybody else.”
You nudge at his arm, and he stares down at you. Eyes full of stars, constellations, galaxies. As if your presence crafts his universe. “How sweet of you.”
“Don’t tell anybody. I have a reputation to uphold.”
Evening turns to sunset turns to night. The streets lay still, a tense silence as you wait. And wait. And wait. All you can do is wait.
Your CO demoted you to a last-resort-only combatant. Bullshit, far as you're concerned. Your friends—good people, with families and lives and struggles of their own—left to rot, and you have no place to lay your anger.
Well. Their empty graves, maybe.
The second wave begins shortly after sundown, and with the city’s power grid all but destroyed, you see nothing but the flashing of bullets. The spray of incendiary. Creatures howl and soldiers fire off coded phrases on the comms.
Raven Team down. Six K.I.A. Requesting backup on East Second Street.
Another frequency.
Three B.O.W.s spotted. Ready to engage.
Another.
I got wounded civilians, two children. Need a medic ASAP.
You vomit right outside the safe house. An effect of broiling anxiety, that feeling of helplessness that made you leave the military and join the BSAA in the first place. You’ve always hated it, and it returns furious, feasting.
You’re sent back to the medical tent. Diagnosed with a concussion. Confined to a cot with a cloth over your eyes to fight an oncoming migraine, to block out the lamplight. Years of training, of war zone activity make it easy to drift off, despite the echo of gunshots and the explosions rocking the tent.
When you wake, daylight seeps through the cloth. The fighting has stopped. The room remains silent.
You right yourself, and the change of scenery leaves you disoriented. Not the medical tent, actually. Not the city at all. A hospital room, with blaring white walls and ringing phones and the beep of your heart monitor.
The blood pressure cuff expands around your arm, and everything hurts.
Movement from the corner of your eye, and you look over to find Leon with a clear, plastic cup in hand. Your head pounds. The light from the large windows blurs your vision.
He realizes before you do. Fetches a bedpan from the corner-room chair and places it in your lap. And you vomit out an empty stomach.
You hate throwing up. Hate the state of your body even more—nothing but ache and soreness and the simple act of moving feels like muscles ripped clean from bone.
“Am I dying?” you ask, once he’s laid you back in bed and cleansed your mouth with lukewarm water.
“Not this time.”
“Everything feels so bad.”
“You look even worse. And I don’t say that lightly.”
“I wanna go home.”
“You can handle staying a few more days.”
Beneath the darkness of your eyelids, you reach for him blindly. His comfort is what you need—a childlike desperation that leaves you in tears.
You blame it on the pain.
His hand cradles yours, moving wires to place a soft kiss on the back of your hand, just above the scrape of skinless knuckles.
“Doc said you’ll be just fine. Just gotta get that fever to go away.”
“Fever?”
“B.O.W. blood can do a number on you.”
“Am I infected?”
“You have an infection, but the tests came back clear.” When your eyes blink open to look at him, he grins. Swipes a thumb beneath your eyes. “No superpowers for you, I’m afraid.”
You lean into his touch, the odd chill of his skin, and sigh out a long breath. “When we get home, can we order pizza?”
“Pizza. That’s what you’re craving?” said unimpressed, almost monotone.
“No. The good pizza from that family business near the house. Ya know, the one where the kids are always counting the money in the cash register.”
“Papa’s Pies?”
“Yeah. That one.”
He exhales a warm laugh, and his eyelids lower as he gazes upon you. Crafting galaxies. “Pizza it is, then.”
Leon stays true to his word. As soon as you arrive home and your appetite returns, you sit down to a meal of grand proportions. Most of it looks like leftovers to you. Not that you’re complaining.
You’ve been reduced to nine fingers, and the surgeon says the nerve damage to your arm is permanent, and you require frequent rest for the next month, but you’re alive. Leon’s unharmed. The good guys won. 
You should be happy. Right?
“Something’s wrong,” he says. Knows you well. Well enough that privacy and emotions cease to coexist.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
You push away from the table, and your chair skids against the floor. “Everything that’s happened.”
“Can’t say I blame you. Wanna talk about it?”
You appreciate the offer, and he means well, but the wounds have barely healed and squeezed lemon sounds horrifically painful right now.
“I think I’ll take a rain check.”
He nods because he understands. Has been there before, time and time and time again. Maybe that’s why you feel so comfortable baring your hurts, flaying yourself open to expose all the decay.
You share in the nightmares, and the toxic coping, and the panic attacks. You supported him when he quit drinking. He stopped you when you craved to cut teeth on broken skin.
Where else would you be without him?
Dead, probably.
You stand up from your chair and collect your plate. “I’m gonna go take a bath or something. I need to relax.”
“What, no invite?”
“Oh, you’re very welcome to join me. Just thought you had calls to return.”
“Calls can wait.” He stands as well. Begins cleaning up the table. “Go ahead and start the water. I’ll be there in a minute.” You walk toward the sink, fully prepared to sort out dishes, but he stops you with a, “Leave it.”
You spin around to face him, and he raises his eyebrows at you. Daring, a pre-threat stare. “I can still do things, you know.”
“And I’m giving you an out. Take it.”
You set the plate on the counter and raise your hands in jesting surrender. Back away toward the bathroom. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Don’t push it, Leon,” you call, rounding the corner into the hallway.
He laughs, a heart-swelling sound muffled by the bathroom wall.
If this is what the rest of your life could be, domesticity and love and rest, then surviving would be worth it.
The water scalds your skin as you sink beneath flower-scented bubbles. He keeps lavender stocked for situations just like this, a routine borne from some off-handed comment that the smell aids you in relaxation.
He strolls in some time later, already bare from the waist up. Takes a moment to shirk pants and underwear, then joins you beneath the steaming water.
If you felt well enough, you’d be jumping his bones right about now.
He complains immediately. Hisses a breath through his teeth. “Are you trying to melt your skin off?”
“I was hoping it would undo the nerve damage,” you grumble, scooting back to allow him room. The porcelain cools your upper back, makes the hair on your nape stand on end.
“That—what?” He tugs your legs over his hip, pins you with a furrow-browed stare.
“I don’t even know. Let’s just blame it on the concussion.”
Everything still blurs at the edges. Memory, thought itself. As if you never woke from that sleep. Sometimes, you question if you even did. 
You’re just so tired.
He massages a palm over your shin, pauses each time the flesh puckers into a raised line. The deep ones still remain—knife wounds, gunshots, claw marks. When you were younger, some mid-twenties optimist with your whole life ahead of you, the idea of permanence terrified you. A symbol of death, in your eyes. Death of happiness, death of freedom, death of beauty.
Look at you now. Married, twenty years deep into a hellish career, scarred from head to toe.
It doesn’t seem so terrifying now. Just a matter of life. A law of juxtaposition.
He kisses the curve of your knee, just below the jagged edges of an old burn. Your scars don’t scare him, either.
“We should go somewhere warm. Lay low for a while,” you say, hand resting on the knee he bent to fit inside the bath.
“Think that’s a good idea?”
“Have any of my ideas been good?”
He pauses to think, eyes roaming over floor tile. “The pizza. I think that’s it, though.” He heaves out a laugh when you kick him soft in the side, and a wave of water sloshes onto his chest.
“Seriously, though. We should take a vacation. Maybe we can drag Redfield along.”
His smile fades. “You wanna bring Redfield.”
“If anybody deserves a break, it’s him.”
“He can take his own vacation.” He moves your legs aside, hovers over you on his knees, braces a hand atop the lip of the tub. “Besides, I was hoping for some alone time.”
His brows raise in a silent suggestion. One you’re much too keen to follow through with.
You pull him into a kiss, tender and slow and lazy. A hand curls over his shoulder blade. You missed this. Him. The warmth, and the butterflies, and the comfort of his skin.
His knee slips against the slick bottom of the tub, and you hold him upright with a grip to each of his shoulders. Water sloshes over the side, puddles up on the floor, and you both stare at each other. Snort back a shocked laugh.
Bath over, you suppose.
“Well,” you say. “I think we have a few bags to pack.”
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foreficfandom · 2 months
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POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (2/2)
(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader)
(FIRST)
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Like a VCR, the scene rewound to another memory. A slightly younger Alastor splattered in tomato juice, breathing hard as he sat crossed-legged upon the ground, tearing off small pieces of liver and forcing himself to swallow.
It rewound again. Alastor's first partaking after gaining his powers. Absolutely drenched in gore and on his knees in a puddle of blood. A torn up lump of indecipherable flesh clutched in half-mutated claws. He remembered he had sunk his hand into the man's opened abdomen and pulled out something. His pancreas, or just a bundle of muscle fiber. As sloppy a killing as his first one. It had taken several attempts before he would refine his work.
The room darkened and static was building. "What. Do you know," he growled.
You didn't answer, just took the pairing knife and, in a blink of an eye, flicked the blade underneath one of the glowing green threads pinning his mouth shut. Alastor's magic reacted violently to the intrusion, like the two of you were standing in a maelstrom. Shattered porcelain and wood splinters flew everywhere.
Just as you suspected, the thread did not yield to the knife's edge. No tool could cut Alastor's bonds, not even under your hands. His shackles were bound by his word, and only his word could break them.
Too bad they also held his tongue tightly so that he couldn't ever try.
You looked deep into his burning, blood-red eyes. "Oh, Alastor," you sighed, "what have you done?"
He didn't reply. Didn't move. He told himself he was overcome with indignation, but you knew he was terrified.
After all, what was a mere demon compared to a god? A lesson already learned thanks to the gash of holy magic still festering on his chest.
Using nothing but a soft breath, you forcibly calmed his magic whirlwind like light pressure upon a crying puppy's head. For the first time in nearly a century, Alastor felt … he felt.
With his weaponized despair slightly pushed aside, something of the original, weak man was revealed to still be curled up deep within.
The small saucepan of broth was beginning to bubble over, so you quickly released him to remove it from the heat. Alastor stood frozen to the spot.
Mortal men had predictable reactions to true power. The Radio Demon is no different.
Before he could think to dissolve away, or lash out desperately, or come to any other useless conclusion, you turned back and hovered a steady hand above his trembling, outstretched fingers. Slowly you touched him and allowed your warmth to penetrate his hollow flesh.
Several agonizing seconds passed. He finally turned his gaze at a snail's pace to stare at the point of contact.
The clammy slide of a corpse's arm as he dragged it through the bayou. The hot gush of arterial blood. The barely tolerated passing grip of polite handshakes. The loving touch of a long dead mother.
His smile pried itself open to take a shaking inhale. But still, no words came out.
He needn't speak, though. A wordless promise was clear. Bloodied demon he may be, but you were someone who will always grope and crawl blindly towards love even if the world fought against you. It was what powered your magic. True power couldn’t be fueled by flesh, or blood, or minerals or elements or words or fear or anger.
A cursed man bore his terrified gaze into your shining ones, asking one very important question. You relayed a yes through the squeezing of his fingers.
Now this, you thought warmly, is true entertainment.
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reaveries · 5 months
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▬  risk
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"I will save your life. I'll try for you."
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pairings: re2 officer!leon kennedy x fem!reader
summary: while trying to escape the police station in the midst of the infamous raccoon city disaster, rookie police officer leon s. kennedy finds a young woman in need of his help.
content warning: descriptions of violence and gore
word count: 4.4k (estimated 21 minutes reading time)
a/n: this .... has been in my drafts ......... since april. you're finally free........
masterlist archive of our own
Revised for clarity 12/30/2023.
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Leon’s gun had always been a mere extension of his arm, a tool to be honed and wielded with precision. The academy, with its spiral target walls and foam-filled mannequins, had served as his training ground, preparing him for the hopefully unnecessary evil of one day having to take a life. This unspoken burden came with the territory—an occupational hazard in the line of duty. But no amount of half-hearted demonstrations and target practices could’ve equipped him for a night like this.
Until tonight, he’d never seen a body fall lifeless due to his own hand. But if he had, he wouldn’t have expected it to stumble from its spot of decay, staggering towards him with a newfound vigor that defied everything he thought he knew about morality and his fragile existence.
Tonight has been a night of unholy firsts, and the air about him suggests it has only just begun.
The pungent metallic scent of arterial spray assaults his senses as he steps out of the shower room. His heart sinks in his chest as he takes in the sight of carnage in the westmost corridor of the police station. Uniformed men and women lie in crumpled heaps against the walls. Their bodies are mangled and torn, some so abhorrently disfigured that they’re scarcely recognizable as humans. The presence of the dead was something he was uncomfortably growing comfortable with, and yet to imagine the animosity it must’ve required to create this scene… 
Well, it unsettled him, to say the least. He could’ve known them if things had gone differently.
He steps over their quiet corpses with his pistol in one hand and a flashlight raised in the other. He nudges one with the toe of his boot, aiming for their skull if they so much as twitch. But their bodies remain convincingly still, slain beyond any chance of revitalization. His grip tightens on his gun as he presses forward down the narrow corridor. If this is the result of those infected creatures he’s become acquainted with, they could be lurking ahead, waiting for him. 
The rain outside stings as it pelts his cheek, dampening his uniform that’s already slick with sweat. He ignores it.
Ahead should be the S.T.A.R.S. office if the map he found is correct. Hopefully, he can find relevant information about Claire’s brother in there, something to help her find him if he should ever see her again. With a deep breath, he reaches out to turn the knob when a groan suddenly creeps from down the hall. But there’s something different about it. 
It sounds alive, pained, and distinctly human.
“Is someone there?” He calls out, his voice echoing down the long hallway. The sound reverberates off the walls and fills the silence, and for a moment, there is nothing but his own breathing. 
Then a low growl echoes back at him.
With an annoyed huff, he raises his gun and aims for the corner he anticipates the creature to hobble from behind. But before he can catch a glimpse of it, something moves in the darkness. It's too fast for him to comprehend, a blurring figure scurrying towards him like a feral animal. He watches in horror as it crawls along the ceiling, its movements disturbingly fluid.
As it draws closer, the moonlight catches on to the glistening texture of its skin. A grotesque tentacle-like tongue unfurls from its mouth, swinging through the air like a scythe.
“What… what the fuck?”
He fires two rounds into the fleshy matter of the creature’s head, but it makes no difference. Doesn’t even flinch. The rookie officer prepares to fire another round when the monster flings itself off the ceiling and lunges its body through the air directly toward him.
In a split-second decision, Leon throws himself into the office, his body slamming against the door before he scrambles to his feet and secures it behind him. Outside, the creature is relentless. Its wet, clobbering movements spasm through the walls. With his back pressed against the door, he braces himself as the monster rams into it with a sickening force that rattles the hinges. 
It takes all his strength to keep it from buckling under the creature’s assault. The force of each blow makes his arms tremble, and he can feel his grip slipping. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, and his heart thunders in his chest as he fights to hold the door in place. 
But then, just as suddenly as it began, the onslaught ceased. Leon takes a deep breath, his heart still pounding, and listens for any sign of movement outside.
He waits a second, then slowly pulls himself away from the door.
With his chest heaving, a word comes to mind.
Licker. 
He remembers the warning about these beasts scrawled on a note left by a likely deceased officer. His naive self didn’t expect to encounter one so soon.
He takes a moment to survey the room, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The abandoned desks and personal items left behind tell him that S.T.A.R.S. personnel were just as underprepared for a viral outbreak as the rest of the city. The first thing that catches his eye is a trauma kit on the wall. He crosses the room and flips it open, finding it fully stocked. Dressings, hemostatic agents, antiseptic. A sense of relief washes over him. He reaches into his pocket to make room for the essentials, but to his dismay, finds them full of various necessities. There’s no space to carry anything in this damn uniform. With a sigh, the lid is closed and left as it was found.
“Hey!” 
He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden noise. 
“Please tell me you didn’t die,” a disembodied voice says. The end of their sentence tapers off with a shallow breath. With a sharp turn of his head, he tries to place the direction it's coming from. There’s no familiarity in their voice, which is no surprise considering he’d only become acquainted with a few officers during his orientation.
“Where are you?” He calls out, raising his flashlight in search of an answer, hoping for a door or some kind of opening.
“Linen closet. Down the hall.”
Their muffled words become clear as he approaches a far corner of the office, likely sharing a wall with the room they’re in. “Did it get you?” they ask, quieter this time.
Leon takes a deep breath to steady himself before responding. “Almost, but I’m alright,” he assures them. With a glance back to the door, he continues, “Listen, I know how to get past that thing now. Just… stay put. I’ll come to you.”
“Please be careful,” the stranger pleads. Something in their voice rings as desperation, lending to the pit forming in his stomach. It’s more than likely that whoever this is is a victim of the outbreak, clinging to their last shred of humanity before the virus consumes them. The thought of putting down another person, to see the life fade from their eyes—he’d like to avoid it if possible.
With the barrel of his pistol, he cracks open the door and peers into the corridor. It’s just as he left it, but there’s no sign of the monster anywhere. He holds back a sigh of relief as he opens the door further and steps into the hall. The ceiling, where his eyes are permanently trained, is empty. The revolting shape of the licker is nowhere to be found. 
He pushes forward, boots ghosting across the floorboards and pistol drawn. His breathing is slow, his muscles tensed. He’s convinced the creature can hear the blood rushing through his veins. When he reaches the end of the corridor, he halts and peeks behind the turn of the hall where the linen closet should sit. 
His heart drops.
It’s there.
Of course it’s there. Why should anything be easy for him?
Perched in the corner, its sinewy body is raised on its haunches and pressed wetly against the wall. Rows of jagged teeth have overgrown the confines of its decaying jaw, and long bone-like talons sprout from fleshy hands. 
He can't afford to freeze up. One misstep is all it takes, and he’ll be gutted like the rest of them. He reaches for a hook on the holster hanging at his hips, fingers trembling as he fumbles for the cold, smooth canister he's grown familiar with. This might be his only chance.
With one finger, he hooks the pin and yanks it. The sound of it clattering against the tile echoes throughout the hallway just as a cloud of white explodes, engulfing the creature as it lunges toward him. It falls to the floor in an instant, writhing in agony as the grenade pierces the air with a sharp ringing noise.
No time to think. Leon sprints to the door, feeling the hot stench of decay brush past him as he avoids the stunned beast. The door flies open against his weight, and he forces it shut behind him.
He leans against the door, panting heavily as he tries to steady himself.
As he catches his breath, a voice whispers in the darkness.
“You made it.”
His eyes dart to the corner, where a young woman sits leaning against a washing machine. Her uniform is in bad shape, torn at her midsection and stained to the hem. It looks like blood is seeping through, smearing her fingers red as she tries to stanch the bleeding. The sight of the mess has him quickly closing the space between them.
She looks him up and down as he kneels beside her.
“You’re an officer?” She asks with knitted brows. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“Leon Kennedy. I just started today,” he answers quickly, the adrenaline causing a noticeable waver in his voice.
She laughs but winces and screws her eyes shut. “And I thought my first day sucked,” she says through her teeth.
“Did that thing do this to you?” He asks, his tone gentle yet urgent, getting straight to the nagging thought in his mind.
She shakes her head, looking down at the wound with a suppressed grimace. “I thought the hallway was clear. And then, out of nowhere, it just…” Her mind seems to wander at the thought. “It came through the window. There was glass flying everywhere. It scratched me pretty good.”
Leon tilts his head to the side, trying to get a good look at the wound. Her uniform makes it difficult to see the full extent of the injury. However, the amount of blood is enough to give him an idea of the severity.
“‘Scratched’ is an understatement,” he says, looking back at her.
A dazed sort of smile finds its way to her face. “I like to be optimistic.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, or maybe precisely because of it, his smile mirrors hers. She’s not infected. Thank God.
“So do I,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright? Then we can think about getting out of here.”
She nods and attempts to sit up straighter.
“Can you, um,” he starts to say, gesturing to the hem of her uniform.
“Yeah, I can take it off. I’m not shy.”
A blush creeps up his neck as she nimbly moves to undo the buttons of her uniform. Leon averts his gaze, suddenly transfixed by the desolate corner of the linen room. His fingers pluck idly at the skin around his nails. But from the corner of his eye, he catches her struggle to shrug off the top. It gets caught on her shoulders and refuses to slide down.
“Here, let me,” he offers reluctantly.
The room falls silent, the only sound being the soft rustle of fabric as he coaxes the shirt down her arms. She draws a sharp breath as it grazes over tender bruises and scrapes, and a strange sense of intimacy seeps in, making him feel guilty for having to undress her. As the shirt falls to the ground, revealing her white undershirt, his eyes are drawn to the dark magenta stain blossoming across the fabric. 
There, at the center of it all, is a shard of glass, roughly the size of the palm of his hand. Its edges are sharp and erratic, protruding from her lower stomach. 
It’s critical, he realizes.
“Sorry if it’s not the prettiest thing to look at,” she says, eyes fixated on the ceiling.
He shakes his head. “It’s not that bad,” he lies, hoping it sounds convincing. 
Apparently, it doesn’t, because she looks down for the first time and sees it.
“Jesus Christ!” She exclaims breathlessly. Her hands fly to hover above the shard, afraid to touch it. “You have to take it out,” she says with certainty, clearly unable to bring herself to do it.
His medical training at the academy left much to be desired, but even he was aware of the cardinal rule when it came to injuries such as these. Under the best of circumstances, the object should never be removed, lest the victim hemorrhage and bleed to death. However, he’d wager that they were far from the best of circumstances, and the alternative wasn’t enticing. Leon takes a deep breath, then places one hand on her shoulder and the other on the shard of glass. Their eyes lock, a silent agreement passing between them.
“Stay still,” he instructs, his voice wavering slightly. He hesitates for a moment before pulling it out in one swift motion. He can feel her muscles tense beneath his hand as she reacts to the jagged edges scraping against her insides. A torrent of hushed expletives tumbled from her lips, the pain etched deeply in her features.
“There,” he says softly, immediately deciding not to let her see the piece of glass once he realizes its morbid grandeur.
He can see the relief wash over her face, but it's short-lived as her condition quickly deteriorates. The sudden change startles him. Her eyes have started to glaze over, and her head falls limply to the side. Her words are barely audible, lost in labored breaths. 
“Hey,” he says urgently, reaching to cup her cheek. She responds with a groan and closes her eyes. He taps her cheek more desperately. “Hey, stay with me!”
With his other hand, he brings two fingers to the tender spot between her jaw and her neck. Her pulse is rapid but faint. Below, the stain spreads further along the cloth of her undershirt. He quickly lifts the hem, his fingers trembling as they brush against the cold skin of her stomach. Blood gushes from the wound at a frightening rate, dripping onto the floor and pooling. 
His heart races as he frantically searches for something to stem the bleeding. It ends up being the closest thing: her discarded uniform. The fabric immediately darkens as he applies pressure. 
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
The blood seeps through, coating his fingers. 
"Come on, stay with me," he pleads.
The blood flow slows a little, but only after having wholly soaked through her uniform. He undoes his vest and shrugs out of his shirt, leaving him in just the long sleeve he wore beneath. He brings the shirt to her waist and ties it tightly to keep the fabric firmly in place. As he secures it, her hand finds his arm. He looks down at her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are glassy, and her breathing shallow.
"Don't worry, I've got you," he says, trying to sound confident.
Her fingers tighten around his arm, and she mumbles something. He leans closer, straining to hear her words. 
“Don’t let me die here,” she repeats, her voice barely audible. “Please.”
He feels a lump form in his throat. "I won't... I promise."
He leans back against the wall, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. Breathing heavily, he runs a hand through his hair. Only then does he notice her blood staining his uniform, his hands, and the floor around him. He wipes his hands on his pants, but even in the dim, cold light of the linen room, it’s clear it isn’t going anywhere. 
This isn’t going to be enough to stabilize her; even someone with as little medical knowledge as him can see that it would be a miracle if it did. 
But despite that, amidst the chaos and the overwhelming odds, he still clung to the tenuous belief that he could save her life. He can do what he couldn’t for the others, who’d been only slightly out of his reach and beyond saving. Saving just one person would mean this all meant something, and that he, though just one person unsure of what he’s up against, could be the catalyst for a transformative ripple, a flicker of defiance in the face of the unknown evils inside this building.
It would mean everything.
He glances at the door, feeling his stomach drop with the knowledge of what he must do. The hemostatic agents, the antiseptic—those are her lifelines. If he doesn’t act now, she will die in this small corner of the police station, and she’ll have him to thank. Acknowledging this fact sets him in motion.
In a swift movement, he picks her up in his arms, careful not to exacerbate her injuries. She stirs uncomfortably for a moment, then settles against him. Blood drips from his shirt at her waist and trickles down his arm before pittering on the tile. It’s neverending. 
“Don’t make any noise,” he whispers down at her. Her eyes are screwed shut, but she nods in understanding.
Here goes nothing. He nudges the door open.
Once again, he is greeted with a quiet stillness. The corpses are still lost in a dreamless sleep, and light rain rhythmically blows in through the empty window frames. It could be somewhat comforting if he were ignorant of the foreboding presence lurking in the nearby shadows. With each soft step, he gets further from the haven of the linen room. He passes the expired stun grenade and is approaching the turn of the hall once again when she shifts in his arms. She presses her forehead against his chest, brows furrowed in an effort to stifle her pain. He can’t imagine how it must feel.
He pulls her closer, hoping to offer a modicum of reassurance. We’re almost there. 
It can be said with absolute certainty that he has never moved as slowly as he did turning that godforsaken corner. And for that, he’s been blessed with a clear pathway. Somehow, the creature has not made its presence known. A thought nags at him, daring him to consider that he may have underestimated its intelligence. That it will rear its grotesque head any minute, and its mouth will pull in a sadistic grin, enravished with the idea that he could’ve fooled it once again. 
But this is not the case. There, in the imperceptible darkness, inches above his head, there is a shift. It’s slight enough that he almost misses it. He doesn’t need to look up to know what it is—to know that it’s there, to know that he’s directly below it.
Somehow, he missed it.
His muscles tense, but there’s nothing left to do but continue forward. 
Just a few more steps. 
He places one foot cautiously before the other, careful to avoid shattered glass. The air feels thick with apprehension; every breath a calculated risk. 
Then there’s a tug on his pants. 
A deep, gurgling groan erupts from one of the corpses by his feet, and it pulls itself toward him. On instinct, he brings his boot down to silence it, crushing its skull beneath his heel before it can sink its teeth in. The woman gasps instantly, startled by the sudden jerking movement. Fuck. 
Run.
The walls blur, and time seems to slow as he sprints down the hallway. The woman’s cries intermingle with the sound of talons scraping against the floor, padding down the corridor with a ferocity he doesn’t need to see to know. 
Before it can reach him, he forces the office door open and kicks it shut behind him. He ignores the sounds of it screeching and thrashing about and hurries over to one of the desks, swiping the clutter to the floor before setting her down on the cool wooden surface. He wastes no time in retrieving the trauma kit and rummaging through it, letting items fall haphazardly to the floor.
The seconds are slipping through his fingers. 
“You’re gonna be okay,” he says between breaths. 
She watches him through furrowed brows, blinking slowly as he quickly removes the blood-soaked uniform from her waist. She says nothing, whether due to sheer incapability or hopeless acceptance.
He doesn’t notice either way. 
His hands move quickly. He’s too lost in his efforts to see her watching him. Before the darkness creeps in, her lips form a short, one-word apology that gets lost on its way out, unheard by even her. The whisper of remorse dissipates in the air and fades. Then the world follows suit.
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An uncertain amount of time has passed when she begins to stir. The room is blurred beneath the heaviness of her eyelids, but its meager contents slowly reveal themselves: plain wooden desks, some chairs, and personal belongings that confirm she’s in the room she suspects. She’d only been in this office once before when working on an intense, high-profile assignment. Even then, her visit was brief. There’s no reason she should be in here.
She pushes through the clouded haze and props her elbow on the desk to raise herself. Immediately, she’s struck with a burning fire in her abdomen, crumpling her back onto the cold surface. It felt like an electrical fire. Spreading quickly with a force that raised the hair on her skin.
Looking down, she saw the crimson stain on her undershirt, and the memory of the attack came back to her with a visceral shudder. The horrifying creature, the unrelenting pain, and the man who saved her. His name eludes her, the residual memories feeling like a half-forgotten dream. His face, too. Until slowly, the memory begins to sharpen, and she can see his face with full clarity. The young officer had been handsome, with an angular jaw and straight nose that lent him a serious, almost stoic look. Yet there was an undeniable boyishness to him, from the tousled hair falling into his eyes to the way he moved with an easy grace that belied the sharpness of his features. Yes, the stranger had certainly been an easy sight for her weary eyes. 
“You’re awake.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin when the memory began to speak. She realized just then that it wasn’t a memory at all and that he’d emerged from a corner of the room upon hearing her awaken. 
“How are you feeling?” He asks when she doesn’t respond. He’s tense, but his nervous expression seems sincere, and a strange sense of trust begins to settle over her.
“Hurts,” she grumbles. Her throat ached too. Everything ached.
His mouth flattened into a thin line, and his brows furrowed in sympathy. “I know, I’m sorry,” he says.
She notices his hands tremble slightly as they reach out to touch her, brushing warily against the exposed skin at her hip. He doesn’t seem to mind the blood staining his fingers or the hair falling into his eyes as he checks the dressing. Once it’s clear it meets his standard of approval, he looks up, and his light eyes finding hers expectantly, searching for signs of discomfort.
Then it comes back to her. 
“Leon,” she murmurs absently, testing how it sounds out loud. 
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "That's me," he says softly. 
She studies his face once again, taking in the way his features soften as he smiles, the gentle curve of his lips, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. 
“How long have I been out?” she asks hoarsely.
He pulls the hem of her shirt back down, covering the tender skin once again. “Not long, a few hours maybe.”
She tries to sit up once again, but her body protests with a sharp pain at her side. He places a hand on her upper arm, steadying her. 
“Take it easy,” he urges her in a whisper.
With a wave of her hand, she dismisses his concerns and her pain. She pulls herself off the desk and straightens her shirt. “I’m fine,” she assures him. “I feel like shit, but I’m fine.”
“You look better,” he says, observing her closely. “You have more color in your face.”
A faint smile graces her lips. “I think I have you to thank for that. If you hadn’t found me, I would’ve been done for,” she confesses. “I’d already made peace with it by the time you got there.”
He offers a modest shrug. “I’m not sure about that. You seem like you’re made of tougher stuff, deputy.”
His words prompt her to tilt her head, inspecting his face and searching for any remnants of recognition beyond their recent encounter. But apart from that, there's nothing.
“Oh. I ran your badge while you were out,” he admits, his gaze momentarily directed toward the floor.
“Is that so…” She crosses her arms with a touch of amusement in her voice. Her inner resolve slowly finds her once again. “So was all this done to impress your boss on the first day?”
He chuckles quietly, now somewhat sheepish in the presence of his superior, in a world where such distinctions no longer hold much meaning. Oddly enough, his laughter somehow finds its place seamlessly amidst the heavy air surrounding them. 
Despite the lurking horrors outside the sanctuary of this room and the even grimmer uncertainties ahead, for a brief moment, none of it matters. She stands there as a testament to his actions, breathing proof that he made a difference. Placing himself in the epicenter of this diseased storm no longer feels like ill-fated martyrdom. Within these walls and in the face of the darkness that looms beyond, they are not simply spectators to a morbid narrative; they are, instead, influential participants. All hope isn't lost.
With a smug smile, he finally lifts his gaze to meet hers.
“Did it work?”
212 notes · View notes
ay-heart-collection · 26 days
Text
Story writing: The Assassin Lesson
Greetings everyone. I am trying to get back some story ideas of heart back in my mind with AI support.
I understand that many people feel resistant to AI currently, but I think it could be a chance for some of my buried ideas digging back to light. I think it should be OK for make use of it for drafting and brainstorming. Wish you will accept it and like it.
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The Assassin Lesson
In a training site of an assassin group, the mentor lady of the group stood before her class of aspiring young assassins. The leather suit covered by hooded cloak outlined her beautiful body curves. Her piercing gaze surveyed the room, which cause the atmosphere become thick and heavy, but brought a hint of anticipation to the class.
As one of the master of assassin in the group, the lesson of the mentor lady was focusing on the fatal spots of the human body. Before she began her lesson, she brought a beautiful female with a slender figure to her students. She was a young thief captured in an incidental encounter during a mission. Her upper body had been stripped naked, with her wrists bound with tight restraints, stood at the front of the class. Her eyes wide with fear.
"Today, we shall delve into the skill of piercing the human heart."
The mentor lady began, her low and commanding tone sending shivers down the spines of her students. With a swift motion, she spread out a drawing of a human heart, its delicate form sketched meticulously on a piece of parchment.
Walking towards the captive, the mentor caressed the girl carefully, and made use of some simple drawing tool against her bare chest. Soon, a line art appeared between her petite but firm breasts, aligning it with the actual size and position of her ribcage and her heart beneath. The students leaned forward, their eyes fixated on the scene unfolding before them.
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"Now, observe," the mentor said, her voice unwavering.
"The human heart was protected beneath the ribcage, nestled within the chest cavity. To truly strike a fatal blow, one must understand its position and structure."
She pointed to the various parts of the heart drawing on the captive, her finger tracing the major arteries and ventricles. The young thief’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath shallow and uneven. Which felt like the mentor’s finger directly touching her myocardium.
"The atria, the ventricles, the aorta," the mentor continued, her voice filled with an unsettling mix of knowledge and detached fascination. "Each component is vital to the heart's function, and each represents a potential fatal spot."
The young thief visibly trembled, her eyes darting around the room, searching for an escape that was not forthcoming.
"One wrong move, and the heart's delicate rhythm is disrupted," the mentor said, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "A swift and precise strike, however, can send the body into an irreversible state of shock."
At this point, the mentor paused, allowing her words to hang in the air, the weight of her lesson sinking in. The students exchanged glances, fully aware of the power they were being entrusted with.
"Now, my dear students," the mentor said, her voice rising with an unsettling intensity, "let me introduce the tools we mainly use for piercing the heart.”
The mentor's eyes gleamed with an aggressive pleasure as she revealed an array of common weapons used on the table with a quick motion. As she began explaining each weapon in meticulous detail, the captured girl's terror was palpable, her eyes widening in fear as she gazed upon the deadly tools before her. Feeling as if these sharp edges had already torn her horrified heart.
"First, we have the thin, needle-like stiletto blade," the mentor said, her voice dripping with a chilling enthusiasm. "Its slender form allows for precise entry, slipping between the ribs without causing unnecessary damage."
As she spoke, the mentor demonstrated the correct posture for piercing, gently pressing the stiletto against the girl's exposed skin, mirroring the intended action. The girl's heart beat erratically, a visible thumping against her left breast. She shivered, her body tensing involuntarily at the sensation, a cold sweat forming on her forehead.
"Next, we have the wickedly serrated dagger," the mentor continued, her voice filled with a sinister delight. "Its jagged edges can tear through flesh and bone, ensuring a quick and devastating stab."
With a swift motion, the mentor mimicked the piercing action on the girl's skin, her hand moving in a delicate manner. The young thief let out a stifled gasp, her heart pounding even harder in her chest, as if resisting the impending violence. Beads of crimson blood welled up where the blade had made contact, as a testament to the sharpness of the weapon and the fragility of human flesh.
The mentor's eyes narrowed, relishing in the power that played out before her. She continued her lesson, each weapon explained and demonstrated with excellent precision.
"Now, behold the slender yet deadly rapier," the mentor said, her voice taking on a haunting resonance. "Its long, piercing blade can navigate the narrowest of spaces, reaching the heart with deadly accuracy."
The mentor positioned the rapier against the girl's skin, her hand poised to demonstrate the thrusting motion. The captive's breathing grew shallow, her body trembling uncontrollably under the weight of her fear. As the mentor made a swift but soft thrust, the young heart skipped a beat, as if mirroring the terror coursing through her veins.
As the mentor moved through the remaining weapons, the captured girl's terror only intensified. The mentor's explanations were accompanied by demonstrations on the girl's soft skin, each movement were calculated and precise. The pain and fear etched on the captive's face mirrored the darkness hidden within the mentor's own soul.
"In the next section," the mentor lady paused a second, staring at the captive. "We are to demonstrate the precise locations where the weapons should enter the body, piercing the heart." The terrified thief stood frozen, her eyes wide with fear, as the mentor approached her with a gaze of dominance.
"Pay close attention, my dear students," the mentor commanded, her voice laced with an eerie calmness. "As we delved before, the human heart was well protected within the chest cavity. To penetrate the heart efficiently, we must aim for specific entry points. Allow me to explain."
The mentor positioned herself behind the captive, placing her hands on the girl's shoulders, as if guiding her through the macabre lesson. The captive's body trembled beneath the mentor's touch, her breath was quick and shallow.
"First," the mentor began, her voice resonating with authority, "We have the area between the 3rd and 4th rib, near the sternum. This position allows for a quick and efficient stab, aiming directly at the center of the heart's chambers."
With precise movements, the mentor's hand mimicked the action of a weapon, her fingers hovering just above the inner side of the captive's left breast, indicating the location. The captive flinched, a shiver coursing through her body, as if she could feel the cold steel of an imaginary blade piercing her flesh.
"Next," the mentor continued, her voice low and steady, "we have the space between the 4th and 5th rib, commonly known as the apex of the heart. Representing the tip of the left and right ventricles. Striking here can disrupt the heart's rhythm and lead to swift incapacitation," the mentor paused a bit, "And this is actually my favorite piercing spot."
The mentor's hand shifted slightly lower, held tightly under the left breast of the young thief. Her heart raced in response, the rumbling apex hammering against the palm of the mentor. She bit her trembling lip, her eyes darting nervously between the assassin students and the weapons displayed on the table.
"Moving on," the mentor said, her tone filled with a chilling precision, "we have the area below the xiphoid, right below the heart. Here is the blind spot of the ribcage coverage. A well-placed strike here can cause severe damage from the bottom of right ventricle."
The mentor's hand descended further, hovering just above the captive's abdomen, her fingers poised as if preparing to strike. The captive's breath hitched, her body tensing as if bracing for impact. The room seemed to grow colder as she saw the focused eyes of the assassin students.
"And finally," the mentor concluded, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper, "We have the area over the clavicle. This position allows us to bypass most of the chest armor and ribcage, to penetrate the atria and aorta directly, provided the weapon is long enough."
The mentor's hand moved to the captive's collarbone area, caressed the pulsating veins underneath. The captive's eyes widened, a mix of terror and realization reflecting in their depths. The mentor's teachings had painted a dark path ahead, one that demanded a cold and calculated approach for her fellows students.
"And NEXT..." the mentor scanned the room, her eyes flickering with amusement.
"Is the time for PRACTICE."
Hearing this, the captured girl’s heart sank to the bottom of abyss. She knew that her doom was imminent. Her heart raced uncontrollably, pounding against her chest as if desperately trying to escape its impending fate.
The mentor asked her students if any of them would like to recommend themselves for the upcoming practice session. Excitement filled the air as most of the girls eagerly raised their hands, their faces lit up with anticipation.
With a sinister smile, the mentor selected a student from the eager faces. The chosen student stepped forward, took down her hood, her eyes shined with expectations and determination. The mentor allowed the student to have her pick of weapon and piercing spot, relishing in the power dynamics that played out before her.
The student's gaze lingered over the arsenal of deadly tools, selecting a weapon with a menacing aura. She ran her fingers along the blade, savoring the anticipation that filled the room. With a wicked grin, she turned to face the captive girl, her voice dripping with delight.
"I choose the serrated dagger," the student declared, her voice tinged with a chilling excitement. "And I want to strike at the apex of her heart, just like the mentor I admire."
The captive girl's eyes widened in terror, her breath catching in her throat. The mentor's own smile widened, seeing the fear etched across the captive's face. She nodded approvingly, allowing the student to proceed with her choice.
The student approached the captive girl, her movements deliberate and calculated. The air grew heavy with tension as the serrated dagger glinted ominously in her hand. The captive girl's heart was beating in an insane rhythm, facing the incoming intent to kill with full of fear and despair.
As the student positioned herself, the mentor watched intently. Her eyes glimmering with a twisted joyous. The student's hand trembled with anticipation, staring at the throbbing point below the left breast of the shivering young thief. Her blade poised to strike. The captive girl's body tensed, her eyes locked on the weapon that would soon pierce her vulnerable flesh.
"Don’t blame me." whispered by the young assassin.
In one swift and merciless motion, the student thrust the serrated dagger right between the 4th and 5th rib, torn the captive girl's heart from the apex. The room seemed to freeze in that moment, the sound of the blade piercing flesh echoing through the air.
The captive girl let out a choked gasp, her eyes widened with agony. Her body kneeled down, convulsing with the searing pain that seeped through her being.
"Come, my dear," the mentor held up the young thief, and let the outstanding student to listen to her last heaving chest. "Remember this faltering heart sound, representing our power, and the fragile of life." Her desperate heartbeat, staggered with the spurting sound of blood, echoed in the mind of the student.
Her heart, the very core of her existence, reacted with a final surge of desperation. It beat wildly, as if fighting against the intrusion, a futile attempt to cling to life. But the cruel reality of the situation prevailed, and with each weakening beat, the girl's life force slipped away.
The mentor watched with a twisted satisfaction as the young thief's body slumped, lifeless and still. The room fell into an eerie silence. The mentor's eyes gleamed with a sense of accomplishment, reveling in the darkness that had unraveled within her students.
"Observe, my dear fellow students," wiped the stains on her student’s cheek, she declare to everyone with determination. "This is what we have, the power deciding life and death. But remember, the fleeting nature of life binds us all. We have to be skilled to avoid becoming the next fallen heart."
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The End
102 notes · View notes
cerise-on-top · 3 months
Note
Hi❤️
I was wondering if u could write about how you think Laswell, Rudy, Alejandro, and Valerie whould react to having a spouse who works in the funeral business (or more specifically a mortician) Thank you!! I love your stuff btw!!!
-🍒
Hello! Sure I can! Thank you for the request! In all honesty, I did not know exactly what a mortician actually does, but I tried to research it! Sorry if it isn't as accurate, I tried! And thank you for the compliment!
Alejandro, Rodolfo, Valeria and Laswell with a Mortician!S/O
Alejandro: Alejandro has a deep connection with his culture, meaning he also has a fair amount of respect for the dead. He’s not particularly religious, not Catholic and not a follower of Santa Muerte either, but he does hold certain beliefs since that’s what was ingrained into him from his parents. He has an even higher opinion of you once you tell him that you’re a mortician. You dress the dead, you embalm them, you make sure they’re well taken care of before they’re being bidden farewell to by their friends and family. That’s one of the highest honors anyone could ever achieve. He’s lost far more people than he would like to admit, but sometimes he would comfort himself knowing that you might be the one to tend to them, making sure they would be well respected and would reach the afterlife in more than just torn rags. He’s well aware you’re not the grim reaper and won’t transport the dead to the afterlife yourself. Still, he knows your job is also a rough one and that one must be talented in many fields in order to work as a mortician: You need to know how to work with finances, you likely need to have a good immune system, you need to not be squeamish around the dead, you need to have a degree, you need to agree to work during odd hours and so on. He’s well aware of all of that, but he also knows that working with the dead can take its toll on you when grieving families tell stories of their deceased ones. Alejandro will do what he can to support you, he’ll let you vent whenever you need it, be your support system in general. There’s barely any job holier than yours, so whatever it is you need, you have his full support and his full respect.
Rodolfo: In all honesty, Rodolfo would not know what exactly it is that you do. He’d have a general idea, yes, but you’d have to tell him. It’s not like you won’t ever have the opportunity to do so, though, since he’ll be more than happy to ask. How was your day today? What did you do? Anything interesting happen? He’ll listen intently and try to figure it out from there, but if he has questions he will ask them. In all honesty, he’s not the biggest fan of corpses since they’re usually a bad sign, especially on the battlefield, so he sometimes does wonder how you do it. Working with corpses every day? Touching them like it’s nothing? He can do so too, although he gets a bit queasy when he has to touch one with his bare hands. Especially one that has been dead for a while now. That’s why he has a lot of respect for you, you have a tough job but you do it well, and for that he applauds you. If you ever need some advice or just need someone to vent to, he’s more than happy to be of help. He’s really not bad at finances and it isn’t that easy to shake him anymore either, so you can tell him whatever you want. No judgment from him either. He supports you and will listen, but you might not want to go into excruciating detail about how you replace the blood with formaldehyde through the arteries. Something like that won’t leave his mind for a while, but he appreciates the honesty and another learning opportunity. He still has some ties to his culture, but not as much as Alejandro. Your job is formidable and potentially dangerous, but he won’t romanticize it. Will ask you if you’re doing well, though. Although it’s not as likely to become sick as one might think with the right equipment, he’ll always worry about you potentially catching some sickness. Would jokingly ask you whether or not you’re afraid of zombies.
Valeria: Might disguise her genuine question as a joke, but she would ask you if you also cremated people. Naturally you do, it’s part of your job. Say yes and she’d ask you how booked you are. She is serious about having you cremate some of the people she gets rid of, in all honesty. So if you ever have too much work, it’s likely because of her. Tell her to slow down and that a cremation machine can’t burn that many bodies in a day and she might listen to you, from time to time. You’ll still end up with extra work, but it won’t be as severe as before. She has a weird fascination with your job. Tell her all about it, she’ll genuinely appreciate it. You can even tell her the most disturbing things. Plus she’ll eat up the weird things as well, such as you hearing strange noises at night as you put on the makeup of a deceased woman. Will crack jokes about how it’s the dead haunting you in particular just to see your reaction. The stronger you react, the more likely she is to continue. Her favorite part of your job is the cremation, actually. Fire is nice, fire is passionate, fire leaves little trace. Isn’t above sponsoring your funeral home either, buying you a nice and powerful cremation machine to make the process go faster, gas costs and consequences be damned. While she does have a pretty good grasp of what you do, you can expect her to sometimes ask weird questions. Have you ever cremated someone alive? Do corpses stink? How long would it take for an embalmed corpse to be broken down? She doesn’t particularly worry too much about you getting sick, she knows your equipment is there to handle most of the things that might be considered dangerous, but if you ever complain about it, she’s more than happy to find more useful equipment. Not the best at listening to you vent about how rough your job is, but she tries. She’s great at finances too, so you can always go to her as well, but she doesn’t do as well with the emotional part. The people lost someone? Let them be sad for a few days, it’s got barely anything to do with you. She’s not the most empathetic towards people she doesn’t know or care about.
Laswell: She’s worked with quite a few morticians throughout her life, mainly to get a good look at a corpse and see if there are any clues left that might help her. It’s usually the job of someone who performs autopsies, I know, but sometimes you just need to do the job yourself if you want it done right. She knows fully well what you do at your job, she knows many people, after all. Although she does find it interesting that that’s the job you want to do for the rest of your life. You could be anything, yet you wish to work with the dead? It sounds a bit macabre to her, but she respects your decision. Not at all squeamish around the dead, she’s probably had to handle a few corpses herself throughout her life. Whether it was with gloves or not she’d rather not tell. Although she knows a whole lot about your job, she’ll ask you anything and everything about it either way since you seem fairly happy whenever you get to talk about it. You’re a skilled person in many regards, which she can definitely respect. If someone she knows well or likes dies, then she’ll likely refer the immediate family to you, she knows you do your job well and with lots of love. That way you can keep your job and always keep the money coming, but you’ll also never run out of anything to do anyway. If you ever find yourself in need of a good and trustworthy pastor, she can refer you to one. Laswell knows all kinds of people, plus she’s more than happy to help you out whenever you need it. She’s well aware you did your studies well to be where you are right now, so you’ve more than earned that support. But, like all the others too, she’ll also support you emotionally. Being a mortician can be draining, so she’ll listen to you whenever you need and, if it’s what you want, give you some advice. While she’s not always empathetic towards people, she can be, but most importantly, whatever helps you is good for her soul as well. She does want you to flourish in your job.
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vulpisnocturna · 7 months
Note
Maybe this is little too late but what about 23 with Itachi?
Not too late at all!
23)  Free use kink. Character and Reader have agreed that Character can have sex with Reader anytime they want, even if Reader is otherwise occupied, not in the mood, etc. It's a big turn-on for Character to be able to use Reader for pleasure at literally any time, any place.
NSFW - MDNI
Warnings: consensual somnophilia, fingering, vaginal sex, praise kink, creampie, Itachi’s not blind af
Itachi was not the type of man to have many lewd dreams. Most of the time, he had nightmares. Sometimes, he had nightmares disguised as memories of a peaceful time, and those were the worst type of dreams, because he would wake with a heavy heart and a lump in his throat, and a crushing emptiness inside him that could never be filled.
However, he was a man with a tight leash on his emotions, and he almost never lost control. He almost never had any type of lewd dream. But he had that night, and he’d woken up impossibly hard and straining to feel you, any part of you, to reach over and make you feel good, to hear those sounds that pleased him to no end.
And because you had made it clear that you wanted him to touch you whenever he wished, even when you were busy, even when you slept, he did just that. He moved silently, as he always did, but with the added care of not wanting you to wake up straightaway. This was a game, and Itachi’s life lacked entertainment. So he made up for it by posing a challenge to himself. Would he be able to make you cum without waking you up?
He ghosted his fingertips over your waist and hip as you slept on your side, hiking up his shirt that you always wore to bed and slipping the duvet off of you to gaze upon you. Even in the darkness, Itachi could make out your features with his sharingan, and his fingers could feel the softness of your skin, and the swift change when the air and his touch made it pebble with goosebumps.
To him, you were a marvel of nature. Some kind of amalgam of everything that was beautiful and pure in that wretched world, something that made living worth all the suffering that he endured. Someone that made him want to live, to make amends, to heal with the same hands that had torn so much apart.
And with those same hands, the fact that he could make you experience bliss and make you so lost within your pleasure that you could not think made him feel good about himself.
Being with you, pleasuring you, loving you, it was all he could do to let his vulnerabilities, his truth, slip through the walls he had built when he had taken the mission that had destroyed so many lives.
And so he touched you in all the places that made you sigh and squirm, he kissed above your collarbones, skimmed over your pebbled nipples, traced your inner thigh. Instinctively, perhaps, your legs parted for him, and he gently traced between your thighs, a slight smirk stretching his lips at the dampness of the fabric of your panties.
He had always found you so pliant. And you were, even as you slept, and Itachi slipped his hand under your panties, his fingers parting your skin so his middle could gently circle your clit. Softly, lazily, a subtle caress that made your lips part and your back arch a little, a soft moan pouring out of your mouth and making Itachi’s cock twitch in his trousers. He placed featherlight kisses on your neck, his tongue darting to trace the pulsing artery as his fingers easily slipped inside you, curling inward.
‘That’s my sweet girl’ he whispered, a sense of self-satisfaction washing over him as you whimpered and started gently rolling your hips into his hand, still asleep, possibly dreaming of him.
He rubbed along the parts of you that made you mewl and moan for him, peppering your throat with kisses and licks and the occasional small suck. He liked marking your skin. Liked seeing you wear the marks of his love, and perhaps, he liked making it known you were his. It was selfish and possessive, but Itachi felt that way nonetheless, and judging by the way you sometimes asked him to do it yourself, and how you moaned for him when he did, he could surmise you did not mind.
He coaxed moan after moan from you, straining against the fabric of his comfortable trousers when you slurred his name in your sleep, letting him know that he was at the forefront of your mind even as you slept, ignoring that your dreams were reality.
‘My pretty girl. You are so close, I can tell. I can always tell from the sounds you make and the way you tighten around my fingers. You’re doing so well. Just a little more and I will fuck you just like you want me to- and you will wake to find me buried inside you, and you will look so sweet as you realise what is happening’ he murmured, his other hand now palming his cock, relieving some of the tightness he felt as he waited for you to cum. He wanted you to do so whilst you slept.
And Itachi had a knack for getting what he wanted in bed. Because what he wanted was always you. You were the priority, his sole focus, and everything he did was for you: every touch, every lick, every kiss and bite and push of his fingers, every part of his body was consumed with the idea of making you come undone. Consumed with seeing the effect he had on you. That in it of itself was bliss for him.
And when you asked him to be rougher than he would have if you hadn’t, even then it was about you. He was unrestrained and sought his own pleasure too, but he made you scream and cum more times than you could count, just because he could.
Just because, just like that very moment, you would pant and sigh and moan and cry as your orgasm washed over you, even as you slept through it. And Itachi had won.
He praised you again in a hushed voice, slipping his fingers out and sucking them clean, moaning quietly at the taste of you. He wanted to bury his face between your legs, but he could not wait anymore. His dream had left him wanting with a burning passion, and he needed to feel you around his cock.
He gently turned you on your stomach, slipping your soaked panties down your legs and spreading your thighs, taking off his clothes and looking up at your face as he guided his cock inside your cunt. It was the best thing Itachi could ever hope to feel: wet, tight, warm, perfect around him. He groaned, bracing himself on his forearms and hiking your shirt up to suck on one of your nipples, tearing a little gasp fom you as he buried himself to the base of his cock.
‘Mh-‘tachi’ you moaned, louder, your voice slurred only by pleasure now as your eyes set on him.
‘Hello, my love. You feel perfect. You have been so sweet for me. Keep making those sounds’ he said, not giving you the time to conjure a reply as he kissed you passionately, gripping your thigh and your jaw and tracing your lower lip with his tongue. You melted in his arms, your fingers curling on the skin of his back, drawing him closer, holding him as if you couldn’t get enough of him.
Itachi groaned, his forehead against yours, his thrusts getting rougher and deeper. You let out a whine, your back arching, your nails sinking in his shoulder blades.
Itachi liked the feeling. The pain only made him lose control more, and he liked knowing he was making you so aggressive and rough when he fucked you. So he continued at that pace, his necklace dangling against your chin with every push of his hips against you.
‘Itachi- so close…’ you moaned, holding onto his biceps, your legs high up around his waist. Itachi was getting closer and closer too, so he straightened up, giving you a lust-laden look before he lifted your legs on his shoulders, moaning at the feeling of depth that position granted him.
You must have enjoyed it too, because your head thrashed from side to side, your chest heaving with every pant and gasp, your hands fisting and clutching the sheets for dear life.
‘That’s it. You’re taking me so well, mh? Are you going to cum for me, my love?’ he pressed, watching you, entranced, as you bit down on your bottom lip and clamped around him, throbbing with your orgasm, making him moan at the feeling. His head hung back towards the ceiling, his eyelids growing heavy with bliss as he got rougher, keeping his eyes open so he would not miss a single thing, from the way your mouth was agape, to your scrunched up eyes and messy hair around your beautiful face.
‘Good girl. You feel like heaven-‘ he breathed, his voice strained as he gave a few more thrusts before he came inside you, just as he loved doing. One day, he thought, you would stop taking your contraception and he would create a family with you.
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angelkissiies · 1 year
Text
CLOSE CALL
pairing : abby anderson x reader x ellie williams
cw : canon violence, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, use of alcoholic beverages, a little more angst as seasoning.
proof read : yes | no | kinda
a/n : this is taking place in jackson, joel is alive and well. ellie and abby are good friends and the world is still gross and infected but a little more peaceful.
word count : 3.8k
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The crisp morning air bit at your fingers as you held your rifle to your chest. It was only 5am and you found yourself walking alone outside of Jackson's walls with nothing but a gun and a place in mind. It sounded like a good idea in your earlier state of delusion, but now as you trekked towards the abandoned ski lodge- the regret crept in. As much as you enjoyed the solitude of the lodge, something kept nagging at you to turn back. A voice in your head was screaming, but the forest remained silent. No infection, no people, no danger. So, despite your self preservation instincts begging you to turn around, you continued to push forward.
“Goddamn I hate this hill.” You huffed, coming to a stop in front of the town's lookout tower. The road to reach the lodge went directly through the heart of the tiny town, taking you along through the ancient routes of people long forgotten. Though, the sentiment wasn’t enough to keep you from hating this place. Through the past few years living in Jackson, you’d had quite a few secret rendezvous outside of the walls, most of which took place here. With it being the most easily accessible, empty, town- teens quite enjoyed the trek. Especially when it led to what was now duped, ‘the love shack.’ A,K.A. The only house on the block that still had a bedroom intact. One that you had fallen victim of more than once with all the wrong people.
Though, you weren’t allowed a moment to dwell on your regrets as your ears tuned into the familiar sound of infected. Their growling sent your body into flight mode, and before you could even figure out where they were, you began to run. “Fuck.” You hissed, hearing the sounds grow nearer, as you ducked into a cluttered alleyway. The nook was nestled between two old apartment buildings, giving the illusion of an escape route. Yet, as you pushed your way through the maze of old, rotting trash from years gone by- the only hope was to crawl on top of the dumpster and into one of the broken windows of the building.
As you pushed yourself up, ignoring the possibility of more infected- or god forbid, worse- being inside this unmarked and unsearched building, you took half a second to recall the patrol schedule for today. A monday, early morning- Abby and Ellie. As always. Whilst that gave some comfort, you had to focus on the situation at hand- not the possible rescue from the girls you’d been actively avoiding. Now, It was not knowing or death and for once you chose the former. From the eyeline on top of the dumpster, you caught a small glimpse of a pack of at least six infected running directly past the alleyway in search of a meal. For now, they seemed to be off of your trail but surely, your luck would run out eventually. So gingerly, you swept the glass shards from the window seal, avoiding giving away your position, before stepping into the wrecked studio apartment.
From a glance, you could tell that someone had really loved this place. There were remnants of posters and artwork that hung on rusted nails, torn into pieces from the years as they wore the paper thin. The walls had taken on a dusty green color from the pursuit of moss but before, it patched together in a shade of blush unbeknownst to most people who had passed through this place before you. It was enough to let your guard down, to slow your reactions as the world felt a little gentler in that moment.
What a mistake.
Before you could even take a breath, the hands of something unknown to you had wound its hands in your hair, violently jerking your head back to access your arteries. It had been completely silent, giving you no time to reach for your gun that you had let rest against the wall.
“Fuck! Get the fuck off!” You screamed, attempting to grip the mutated stump that posed as a head. It growled, something deep and raspy near the lobe of your ear, sending a jolt of undeniable panic into your bones as you struggled to get the upper hand. You couldn't die like this, no, you wouldn't die like this. So with a harsh kick, you threw your leg back against the stalker's kneecaps, sending the being onto the floor and promptly allowing the smallest of windows to unravel yourself from its grip.
It was going to work, you were almost free, when a gut wrenching noise echoed out through the building. Clicking. From this distance, you couldn’t tell how many there were, but from the sounds of it there was more than one. Anything could’ve happened on this short trip, but somehow it just happened to be the absolute worst thing that could've happened on any trip. Survivors' luck, right?
You couldn't open your mouth, the idea of alerting the clickers too much for you to handle. So you had to maneuver silently, using what strength you had left to keep your grip on the stalker's throat- which in turn kept its mouth arms length away. You didn’t have much on you, as you thought this was just going to be a short day trip to the lodge, so you made due with the things you had. Things being a ballpoint pen that was nestled into your front jacket pocket, just within reach.
Suddenly, gunshots rang out. Startling yourself and the creature vying for your flesh. Giving you just enough time to grab the pen and jam it into the eye socket of the stalker, shoving it as deep as you could with the palm of your hand before it finally slumped over- its weight collapsing completely on top of you. With a shove, you rolled the thing onto the floor and found your footing, smoothing your hair down as you grabbed your gun and catapulted yourself out of the clicker infested apartment building, throwing no hesitation to your fall onto the iced over ground.
“Abby, behind you!”
Oh fuck.
You dodged through the mounds of trash, throwing yourself back out onto the street. The scene was quite what you expected, seeing the two girls dismounted from the horses slaughtering the infected that you had just been running from.
Abby noticed you first, her eyes widening before moving back to look at Ellie. “Uh, Els. Don’t look now but we have company.” She grunted, throwing the infected off of her and crushing its skull with her boot. It was one of the last ones, the other being nestled in Ellie’s arms- head disconnecting from its spine.
She didn't hesitate to spin around with her gun aimed directly at you, arm slacking gently once she realized it was you. “(Y/n), what the fuck are you doing out here?” She chided, tucking her gun back into her waistband, moving her hand to wipe the sweat from her brow. Her brown jacket was now splattered in blood, adding an intimidating aura to the woman as she zeroed in on you.
You didn’t dare look over to Abby, the idea of the both of them staring you down with such vexation making your knees weak. “Nothing, I'm doing nothing. No need to worry.” You assured, keeping your destination a secret as you shifted your weight from foot to foot. You had made a show out of avoiding the two women within the walls of Jackson that now you had no escape from the uncomfortable tension that saturated the air as you spoke.
Abby approached slowly, eyes skimming over your body before they landed on the semi-hidden splatter of blood by your neck. Not even to mention the bruising that had begun to develop in place of the stalkers ravaging fingers. “Is that blood?” She asked, raising a hand to brush your hair back, away from the harsh contrasting blood against your skin.
“What happened, are you bit?” Ellie voiced her worry, moving to your opposite side, eyeing Abby’s hands as they moved to scour the area for any signs of infection. She was one to worry, after all, her immunity protected no one but herself- which made it hard to stay grounded when the possibility arose.
“No, no bites. I'm fine.” You responded, attempting to wriggle out of Abby’s soft yet firm grip. “Seriously, I handled it. No need to worry.”
The women exchanged a look before Abby turned her attention back to you, “That aside, you are not supposed to be out here. We have to take you back.” She stated matter-of-factly, her arms winding back to cross over her chest. The tan jumper she wore pulled at the seams, stretching to account for the tensing of her muscles as she moved.
An exasperated sigh left your mouth before you could control it, earning a sharp look from the girl to your right. “No, I'm sorry guys but I'm not going back right now. I’ll head back in when I'm done.” You stated firmly, moving to turn away from the women, only halting when a hand clasped around your wrist.
Ellie’s grip was tight, not tight enough to hurt you though.“Done with what exactly?” She questioned, her green eyes piercing into your soul as you spun around to face her. You were now stuck between the two of them, avoidance paying into the situation you found yourself in now. “Where were you going?”
You internally kicked yourself for saying anything at all, shaking your head as you jerked your wrist back. Taking a fleeting step backwards to gain some distance, despite the situation at hand- the glow in her eyes took you back to that night.
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚ begin flashback ˚୨୧⋆。˚ ⋆
The haze in the bar hung low as people chatted back and forth about town and social matters alike, the sheer volume deafening as you took another sip from the glass of whiskey before you. It wasn’t your drink of choice but between that and Seth’s homemade hootch- you’d make due with it.
Ellie and Abby sat at a booth on the other side of the room, chatting about god knows what, as they sucked down shot after shot of something you didn’t quite recognize. You tried not to stare, as everyone knows it's not polite, but there was something so captivating about seeing the two of them so happy. So much so that you took to stealing glimpses of the pair, not letting yourself linger too long incase they began to notice. Ellie was wearing a long sleeved green top, the sleeves shoved up to rest around her forearm exposing her tattoo. The sight made your stomach twist, watching in awe as she challenged her companion to an arm wrestle.
Abby happily obliged, knowing she would win. She always won, with her arms three times the size of Ellie’s even whilst relaxed. So she braced herself on the tabletop, stretching her fingers out before locking hands with Ellie. Her soft dirty blonde hair framed her face, leaving you unable to makeout what she was thinking or even feeling in the moment, so you tore your eyes from the sight.
“Hey, (Y/n).” Joel settled beside you at the bar, motioning towards Seth for a drink. He was still chilly, his jacket shedding snow as he shrugged it off and laid it on the seat beside him.
You jumped slightly at the greeting, not expecting someone to actually acknowledge you in your preoccupied haze. “Hey,” You began, your brain moving faster than your mouth. “Joel, hi. What’s up?”
The man chuckled lightly, accepting a glass filled with a dark liquor from Seth’s hands. He took a sip, grimacing, before turning his attention back to you. “Hey yourself, how long have you been here?” He questioned, noting the way you’d been nursing the glass before you. Not many would’ve noticed the way the glass's condensation had created a puddle on the bar, nor how your fingers had pruned slightly from the way you’d been gripping the wet glass. But Joel did, he always did.
“Too long, I think.” You admitted with a shaky laugh, moving to wipe your hands on your pants. It was true, you’d been sitting in your own delusion fueled haze for what felt like nothing. “What time is it now?”
Joel flipped his wrist, checking his watch before turning back to you. “Just about eleven. What’s keeping you, honey?” He asked, finishing off his drink in another fast sip. He coughed lightly, shaking his head as he pushed the glass away. Not even he could stomach more than a little of the homemade bunch. “Why aren’t you with your friends? I saw Ellie when I came in, she’s with that girl- Abby. They seem to be having a lot of fun.”
The mere mention of the duo in the corner made your stomach flip, in a good or bad way- you hadn’t yet decided. The truth was, you’d come to realize you’d harbored feelings for the women, and you didn’t know how to handle it. Their presence made you nervous and the idea of being alone with them felt like you might actually stroke out (lucky eugene, you found yourself thinking). “I-i couldn’t.” You managed, taking a harsh gulp of air before letting your head fall down to rest on the wooden bar top.
“What’s going on with you? You used to hang out with them all the time, right?” He halted, mind running with ideas to figure out what could possibly be keeping you from the company of the women you called friends. “Did they do something to hurt you? Is that it?” He knew it was unlikely, the two being pretty tame in nature, but he wasn’t willing to knock anything out- seeing as your usually bubbly personality had been replaced with a dreary, anxiety ridden one.
“No, no. Never.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, needing to make sure that he knew that it was you. They’d done no wrong, you just couldn’t get past your stupid crush on the duo. “They would never hurt me, They’re too nice. Even Abby, though she seems really mean.” You paused, hesitating as you glanced over at the man.
“Joel, can I ask you a question?”
The man nodded, turning his body to look at your barely noticeable eyes peeking up at him from the bar. “Anything, shoot.”
“Do you think someone is capable of loving two people at once?”
The question had been weighing on your mind, the possibility of you being able to encapsulate that much love in your one body was unlikely. So did it exist? The ability to have fallen head over heels for two people instead of one? You found yourself daydreaming about a life you could share with them, a long life bursting at the seams with love. How could you ever expect to recover from the longing that had engrained itself inside of you, fusing with that makes you who you are.
Better yet, how could you ever not love them?
Joel hesitated, his eyes momentarily darting from you to the girls who sat unknowingly at the center of attention across the room, and for once- things finally started adding up. “Well, sure.” He began, nodding along as he spoke. “I mean at one point it wasn’t believed our bodies could hold so much water. People used to say that, that was too much- but it was true. So, how can we deny the ability for our bodies to hold that much love?”
His words weighed on your heart, the familiar anxious thumping picking up as you found yourself looking to him for help. “I don’t know what to do, Joel. I’ve never felt this way and everytime i look at them- it starts all over again.” You gushed, quieting for a moment before finding the words you had wanted to say the entire time. “I’m not sure what falling in love feels like, but from what I can tell, I feel something like it when I see Abby.. and Ellie.”
A cough drives you from your reticent confession, ripping your eyes from Joel to figure out who might've had the balls to interrupt at such a time. That was, until your eyes landed on two people instead of one. Two women, THE two women you had just confided in your close friend about.
You saw stars with how fast you jumped to your feet, moving to dodge the extended hands that attempted to deter your departure. “Fuck me.” You groaned, throwing open the door to the bar before sprinting out into the snow.
⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚ end flashback ˚୨୧⋆。˚ ⋆
“The Lodge.” You gave in, pointing up to the ski lodge that sat snug at the top of the hill. Doing this, then gave away your personal haven- but for the chance to escape this situation, you’d do just about anything. “I was going there to clear my head.”
Abby hummed in acknowledgement, following your eyes up to the massive ski lodge, it was easily a full day's walk with the way the snow had piled onto the roads. Though, she didn’t quite expect you to know that, considering you usually kept inside the safety of Jackson's walls- tending to the farm animals and harvesting crops in the fall. She liked that about you, you didn’t go putting yourself in danger if you didn’t have to. “You wouldn’t have made it there before dark, you know that right?”
With a sigh you shrugged, avoiding being too close to either party as you shifted your weight from leg to leg, distracting yourself by any means necessary.
Ellie groaned, crossing her arms tightly across her chest as she looked at you. “Okay, out with it. I'm sick of this.” She began, giving Abby a glance as she began to step forward towards you. “We heard everything, yes, but that is no reason to avoid us. I mean-,”
“No, Ellie, you can’t just tell me how I can feel about this.” You laughed breathlessly, shaking your head as you took another step back. “I wasn’t ready for you guys to know, I mean fuck! I was barely ready to know myself.”
The rush of emotion led you to back up directly into Abby’s solid chest, successfully trapping yourself between the two women. If the unexpected intervention wasn’t overwhelming enough, now you had every reason to allow your eyes to well into tears. Their usually bright demeanor being hazed over with a lul of sadness. The two people you valued most in your life witnessed a moment of vulnerability and now you felt they hated you for it, or worse, they were disgusted with you by it.
“Hey, hey.” Abby cooed, hands landing on your shoulders to swing you around- facing her now as the tears began to race down your cheeks. There was nothing holding you back now, the wall was broken- truth splayed out for everyone to see. “Look at me.” She spoke, her left hand sliding under your chin, tilting your head up to look her in the eyes.
The sight was almost enough for her to lose her composure, instinctively wanting to pull you close and wipe away the tears that now streaked down your blushed cheeks. She restrained herself though, using the pads of her thumbs to gently swipe the cascade of tears from your jaw. Abby wasn’t the softest person, in fact- most people in Jackson referred to her as emotionless, but as she stood before you something inside of her felt the need to deaden around you- to create a barrier between the world and you. Something inside of her yearned to protect you, even if it was from herself.
“We wanted to talk to you, that night. After you left, Joel told us everything.” The woman explained, nodding over to Ellie.
Ellie nodded as well, moving to rest her hand on your waist. The contrast of touch was making your head spin, firm and soft. Loving and protecting. “It’s true, I tried to follow you outside but it was snowing too hard. I lost you.”
The tears had slowed, your glossy eyes moving from one girl to the other- searching for the unsaid words they had been dancing around. “I don’t understand, why?” You asked, eyebrows furrowed as your eyes searched Ellie’s for an answer.
Say it.
Please, god, say it.
“We want you.”
“We want to be with you too.”
Your head spun, the words falling from your lips in the form of an inaudible gasp. This wasn’t real life, there was no way that this was real life. Things never work out so well, the girl never gets exactly what she wants- so what was the catch? What was about to be thrown at you in exchange for the love of two women who meant more than the world to you.
“What?” Was the only thing that left your mouth, making Ellie release a small laugh in turn.
Abby chuckled, rolling her eyes playfully before dipping down to your height and pressing the lightest kiss to your lips. It was a mere brush, but the sensation sent a chill down your spine. Her mouth lingering before yours for a couple more seconds, allowing her breath to fan across your face- giving birth to the bursts of color in your cheeks. “I’m with you.” She whispered, taking a step back.
The empty space was quickly filled with Ellie, her smile sending a pang of nerves into your stomach. Her touch was gentle, but beneath the facade, you could see the restraint she was showing. Ellie’s nimble hand slithered around to the back of your neck, the other placed firmly on your collar bone before she pulled you into her. Her kiss was rougher than Abby’s, the surprise falling from your mouth in the form of a small whimper- in which Ellie devoured gratefully- But just as it began, it ended. She pulled away from you, letting her forehead rest against your own. “I'm with you.”
“We’re together. What the fuck.” You laughed, partly in disbelief and partly in delight. The anxiety you’d been harboring dissipated, being replaced with waves of adoration for the women before you. How was this real life? It didn’t even matter anymore, real or not. Staying or fleeting. You’d take what you could get.
Ellie chuckled lightly, glancing back at Abby before checking her watch. “C’mon. You’re on patrol with us today. If we have time at turnover, we’ll head up to your lodge.” She stated matter-of-factly, motioning towards the horses that shuffled back and forth in anticipation. The feeling of momentary bliss refused to fade, engulfing those around you in a haze of new love.
Today was day one of many more to come, and whether it was for the better or for the worst, they were with you.
a/n : part two following the events of the lodge? smut would take place then, let me know your thoughts on a continuation !
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