cutfoot asked:

❛  i  don’t  want  to  know .  ❜

Jaw is clenched tight as the other decides to cut the conversation there. The younger shakes his head as defeat rolls itself into view, and hasty hands gesticulate in frustration. Could they have one civil conversation without it ending up in confrontation?

        “Then why’d you even ᴀsᴋ?” 

@cutfoot​

&.       .      .      .      @cutfoot​​​     /     sc.

darkness   -   it was a presence continuously lurking,   hidden behind the invisible masks that humans wore in order to fit in with a society that david knew would cast them out at any second if it discovered the true nature of.   but there was an intrigue there, a curiosity to what blurred the lines between the undead and the living.   and he sees it now, clouded behind the blue eyes of the other that meets david’s gaze.   caught in the act !    but what was it that he was trying to accomplish ?   a step forward is taken, blocking off the entrance to the alleyway, leaving the man and his supposed victim nowhere to run.   mismatched hues drift down to the unconscious woman laying at the other’s feet, and he can barely help the smirk that curls lips upwards.   oh,   this was going to be fun !     “   -----   what’s going on ?   ”   

‘   no   . . .      DON’T──      ‘               courage    failed       -       and    delicate    hand    reaches    out    for    her    father    in    sheer       panic,       only    to    slowly    pull    back    beneath    the      comfort    of    her    blanket      when    he    turns    around.                   ‘   . . .   check    the    closet    again.      please   ?    ‘

@cutfoot​

an  unnatural  reversal,   healer  placed  into  the  receiving  end  as  amanda  cradles  his  wound     :     the  cut  is  of  little  medical  significance,   sure  to  be  fully  healed  in  time.     it  was  the  slightest  of  miscalculations  on  her  end  that  strung  a  pulley  too  loose  and  sent  a  knife’s  blade  flying  prematurely,   catching  the  side  of  lawrence’s  wrist  in  the  process     —      it’ll  be  the  last  time  she  coaxes  him  into  mechanical  help,   she’ll  need  to  ask  hoffman  for  it  next  time,   and  that  alone  has  her  regretful.     all  her  engineering  prowess,   and  still  she  gets  tangled  in  her  cockiness,   prone  to  slipping  on  the  tiniest  details.     between  gentle  motions  of  a  cloth  to  clean  away  blood,   she  thinks  over  adjustments  to  make  once  her  hands  are  free  of  her  patient.     as  she  lays  a  bandage  over  his  skin,   a  tease     —          ❝     think  you’re  gonna  survive?     ❞          one  brow  raises,   lips  similarly  twitching  with  amusement.          ❝     that  thing  needs  more  work  than  i  thought,   shit.     thanks  for  the  help.     ❞

@cutfoot​     ...     patch.

@cutfoot​   :     we’re nothing alike.   

A     MAELSTROM     STARE   :     the     doctor’s     eyes     the     stormy     blue     of     a     heaving     ocean     ———     anger     ascribed     by     the     wolf   /   man,     born     of     fear     and     the     familiarity     of     fear.     a     beast     bares     ivory     switchblade     fangs     in     the     fog     [   …   ]     moon   -   drenched     mahogany   ;     there     is     a     glimmer     of     something     wild     in     the     darkness     of     his     own     gaze.     ‘   oh,     but———but     we     are!     don’t     you     see?     i     even     got     my     foot     caught     in     a     trap     once!     i     didn’t     have     to     cut     it     off,     but———   ’          blood   -   flavoured     alarum     falling     short     of     retribution,     his     neighbours’     metal   -   toothed     mistrust     broke     skin     and     bone     but     failed     to     scar     (   it’s     silver,     not     steel,     for     the     kiss     of     death   )     [   …   ]     a     lagging     empathy   :     NEITHER     BODY     IS     WHAT     IT     ONCE     WAS.     to     dwell     on     that     horror,     to     give     it     voice     [   …   ]     like     plunging     fingers     into     an     open     wound   ;     they     come     away     slick     and     sticky     with     blood,     leave     body     and     mind     in     panting     anguish.     ‘   well.   ’    

if     lycanthropy     be     the     bitter     root     of     his     curse,     loneliness     is     blooming     aconitum.     myriad     agonies     make     themselves     known     outside     the     door     to     what     was     once     his     home.     (   LITTLE     PIG,     LITTLE     PIG,     LET     ME     COME     IN   !   )     they     call     the     wolf     to     dance     in     the     moonlight     and     he     answers     with     a     restive     dirge   -   howl     ripped     unwillingly     from     lawrence’s     chest.     ‘   you     see     things     differently     now,     don’t     you?   ’     in     desperation     he     seeks     human     company   ;     in     dread     he     recoils     from     it     ———     and     thus     he     carries     on     in     this     push   -   and   -   pull,     MAN     TO     WOLF     TO     MAN     AGAIN,     undecided     and     endless     as     the     cycle     of     the     moon.

@cutfoot​ liked for a small starter 🧡

This man wouldn’t be the last doctor he had ever met, nor would he be the last, but Sean was always grateful for the souls who took this burden on; to heal. To study for so many years, always learning, spreading themselves thin. It was a calling that Sean respected, but struggled to fully comprehend. They were introduced by way of a kind woman who had been his patient. She had become a part of Sean’s life and insisted on introducing him to the doctor that had assisted her in her recovery. Sean gathered people to him, forming flocks. So too did this doctor.

“What is it that drew you to this line of work doctor?” Sean asks, genuinely interested in why someone who looked so young would specialize in such a typically sad practice. “I must confess I don’t often find myself around medical professionals.” A pause, “Not recently at least.” The barest quirk of his lips, an inside joke he sup poses.

“    Well    ,    how    does    that    make    it    any    better    ?    ”    /    @cutfoot​

“    okay    ,    i    get    that    you’re    feeling    super    negative    right    now    ,    and    maybe    that’s    you’re    whole    vibe    or    whatever    ,    but    i’m    just    gonna    say    it    :    no    one    likes    a    buzzkill    .    and    you’re    being    super    buzzkill - y    right    now    .    ”

@cutfoot​    asked    for    a    starter    :    LAWRENCE   &   HENRIKE .

«        you    could    start    telling    me    about    what    you    recall    from    the...        »    the    therapist's    voice    follows    the    infuriating    tempo    of    the    clock    behind    her,    as    her    eyes    settle    on    the    man.    she    does    not    frown,    nor    does    she    seem    particularly    apologetic    for    the    slight    pause    she    had    to    take,    «        incident.        »    her    pen,    left    perpendicularly    next    to    a    sheet    of    paper,    remains    there    ;    she    knows    that    clients    who    are    doctors    themselves    tend    to    be    more    obstinate    in    their    desire    to    treat    their    emotional    wounds    by    themselves    ;    as    if    mind    &    brain    chemicals    worked    the    same    way    as    stomach    &    throat.    «        those    sessions    are    already    paid,    doctor.    we    can    both    sit    in    silence    if    that    is    your    wish,    but    it    will    prevent    me    from    signing    the    papers    for    your    work    rehabilitation.        »    

‘     larry...     ’          when  alison  says  his  name,   she  pillows  it  with  exhaustion.     it’s  always  best  to,   she  knows  now,   or  else  let  it  be  pricked  with  marital  thorns     (     their  bodies  are  ripe  for  scratching,   for  clawing  and  seeing  if  it  leaves  behind  wet  blood  under  their  nails     ...     she  prefers  her  nails  unblemished  for  now,   red  only  with  the  paint  of  a  manicure.     ).          ‘     if  you’ve  figured  out  how  to  turn  whatever  you’re  feeling  on  and  off  like  a  switch,   then  i’m  happy  for  you.     i’m  thrilled.     ’          exasperation  thins  her  smile,   tight  and  flat  as  any  look  in  a  family  photo     (     they  are  turning  two  -  dimensional  now,   she’s  learning     :     lawrence  is  a  façade  of  professionalism,   alison  the  picture  of  love  when  he  can’t  afford  to  be,   the  entire  image  gold  -  framed  and  cracking  at  the  corners.     ).     she  sits,   once  more  becoming  the  furniture  they  fill  their  space  with,   high  price  tags,   form  over  function,   and  every  stray  thread  hidden  on  the  other  side  of  the  cushion.     her  voice  quiets.          ‘     but  i'm  tired  of  sitting  around  and  waiting  until  you  decide  it’s  time  to  let  me  in  again.     ’

@cutfoot     ...      “ but you're here. so stay. “

a  cacophony  of  breath,   cheeks  ablaze  with  anxiety     :     this  is  not  carla’s  proudest  moment.     reason  would  dictate  that  she  keeps  this  a  private  matter,   something  to  be  shared  only  with  her  therapist  at  a  later  date.     instinct  demands  otherwise,   and  loneliness  leads  her  to  dr.  gordon’s  office  door.     she  attempts  to  gather  herself  together  as  one     (     as  the  upcoming  dr.  carla  song,   whose  days  aren’t  tumultuous  and  who  spends  more  nights  in  her  own  apartment  than  another’s     ),   knuckles  tapping  against  the  window  with  familiar  ease     ;     a  calming  inhale  is  pulled  in  as  she  lets  herself  inside,   door  behind  her  an  easy  click  closed.     there  is  comfort  in  this  office,   even  if  she  can’t  find  it  in  him.          ‘     —     dr.  gordon.     ’

@cutfoot,

meme   ↷   accepting   ↷   @cutfoot​ 💬   for  strahm !

      ❝   what's  in   that  bag   and  why  are  you   hiding  it   here ?   ❞

throttle

throttle .   aggressively  wrap  your  hands  around  my  muse’s  throat .

Scott had only come here for an interview. Upon hearing the news that the same doctor that had been trapped in one of Johnny 'Jigsaw' Kramer's games as his assumed dead best friend- how could he resist the opportunity? The small 'documentary' that had been in the works had been left forgotten, a dormant product after the catastrophic ( but luckily not fatal ) failure of a home-made 'game'. But when word had gotten out, courtesy for the wonder Mr D that Dr. Lawrence Gordon had transferred hospitals, a second rush of passion had erupted in his heart.

But how terribly wrong it had gone. Eyes flaring with rage, the bruised fingers of Scott Tibbs had found themselves clenched around the oncologist's throat in the man's own office, teeth grit tight with seething and uncontrollable anger as he began to squeeze tight. Camera left abandoned, clattered to the floor. What power the doctor held with just so few words to be able to evoke such emotion from the man. It had been what he'd said about Adam that had set him off.

"You motherfucker!!! You fucking take that back!"

@cutfoot

there  is  no  easy  translation  of  amanda’s  fear.     confession  feels  like  defeat     :     this  is  her  life  now,   and  any  room  that  was  once  for  doubt  has  been  filled  with  an  utmost  devotion,   blackness  finally  host  to  a  purpose.     she  stands  before  a  tall  task,   grounded  by  small  throbs  of  guilt  that  threaten  her  focus     (     tigers  do  not  flinch  in  front  of  the  prey  they  eat     ;    they  blend,   and  they  lurk,   hunting  and  hunting  until  it  is  time  to  show  teeth.     ).          ‘     hey,   lawrence.     ’          she  keeps  her  voice  light  in  an  effort  to  not  let  it  betray  her.     sympathy  for  his  worry  curls  around  the  letters     (     she  does  not  have  any  to  give,   he  would  not  want  to  take  it     :     but  they  exist  in  impressions  alone,   a  few  selves  shy  of  a  father  and  a  daughter,   so  she  allows  him  a  belief  in  ordinary  softness     ).     the  smile  she  gives  is  a  touch  more  truthful,   saturated  with  bittersweetness.          ‘     i  always  do,   don’t  i?     ’

@cutfoot​     …     "just… come back alive, okay?”

@cutfoot​​   :     why are you asking me for help? 

‘   because     i     deserve     to     suffer.   ’     i     need     to     lock     myself     away.     I     NEED     TO     BE     CONTAINED     AND     HURT     AND     I     NEED     TO     DIE.     but     that’s     not     what     DOCTOR     GORDON     offers,     and     larry     knows     it.     (   MAKE     YOUR     CHOICE   !   )     the     jaws     of     death     spit     up     the     sweating,     bleeding     gift     of     life.     agony   -   born     and     mutilated     beyond     recognition     of     their     former     selves,     these     victims     breathe     in     the     stinking     air     of     each     new     day     like     hungry     children     guzzling     their     mother’s     milk.     underneath     misery   -   laden     words     is     the     silver     sheen     of     hope   :     why     are     you     asking     me     for     help   ?     [   …   ]     i     only     wanted     to     die     /     I     WANT     TO     LIVE.

@cutfoot asked,   what are they confident about?

ashley’s a cocky son of a bitch when it comes to his skills as a sniper, as well as his skills as a slayer in general.   he’ll bark, and he’ll fucking bite.

and he recognizes that he is, to his core, a weapon — because that’s what the program made him.   they made him into a monster.   he knows how to kill a man.   he knows how to kill a vampire just as easily.   and death no longer scares him, it no longer sets him back.   is he afraid of failure?   yes.   because, in those six violent years he spent as a lab rat in the slayer program, failure meant pain.   but the threat of death means nothing to him, and that really plays a lot into how people perceive him — because he’ll stare down the barrel of a gun and he’ll called the gunslinger a coward.   they’ll ask if he can pull before they shoot a round between his eyes and ashley will laugh, he’ll grin like a jackal, he’ll tell them they’ll be dead before they hit the ground.   self-hatred is a terrible weight upon his shoulders, but it does not affect his self-confidence.   and the worst part of this all is, he knows he can kill a man, and he knows he can live with it as well.   it’s never a question of if he can kill something.   it’s a question of when, it’s a question of with what.   

@cutfoot said,   “ i can’t let you do this. ”

TEMPERATURE IN THE ROOM DROPS.   THIS IS THE MOMENT PRECEDING THE EPIPHANY.   graves’ features twist, confusion pulling at a once apathetic visage.   (   the visage was bound to crack when christian, a missing man, was mentioned, discussed, with medical apathy.   the deputies were opposites, yes, interpreted to be enemies by the public, but ashley’s taken lives for the man, he’s killed on his behalf.   and he’d do it again.   )   the deputy finds his voice moments later, gaze unwavering, and he sounds like he’s been struck,   ‘ can’t let me do what? ’

‘ you said you’d help me find him — ’   ashley doesn’t trust anyone, but that doesn’t mean betrayal doesn’t sting.   now, confusion fades into anger.   the kind of anger that immobilizes.   the kind of anger that eats.   that mind is flooded with thoughts, visions of worst-case scenarios.   he imagines christian in the trap, he imagines him half-dead.   note: two guns in a shoulder holster.   a stake.   a death wish.   (   the deputy is always quick to put himself between a threat and his partner.   always quick to take the bullet instead.   he’s killed and he’s bled and he’s willing to die — there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for christian.   )   ‘ the fuck do you mean, I can’t bring him back? ’