"at every occasion i'll be ready for the funeral"
- the funeral, band of horses
"like a mad dog after a rabbit / i keep running, running"
- mad dog, the crane wives
my name is classified information, but i will answer to hound. i was told to create this blog by an⊠associate, so i suppose iâm here now. i was informed basic information should be included in this post; I cannot provide much, but here is what i can say.
i am 19 years old.
my pronouns are they or it.
i am a mixed russian and middle-eastern jew, in terms of ethnicity; i speak english, hebrew and russian.
please donât ask me about what i remember. i really donât. i swear.
// ooc and a (very long) detailed bio for hound below cut //
the roleplayer:
howdy! my name is also Hound, actually, but my pronouns are he/they/it. hound (the character) is an oc of mine specifically for roleplaying, though their appearance and personality are derived somewhat from my oc Kelev. their background information and more details about their/houndâs backstory can be found on my main blog, @yell-hound, under the #oc: kelev tag! (as a note: Iâm only fluent in English, so if I ever include Hebrew or Russian in my posts, itâs google translated and will probably not be accurate lol)
on this blog, iâll mostly be roleplaying hound as a call of duty: black ops cold war or call of duty: black ops 6 insert character, but i might expand to other fandoms Iâm in later on. there might also be posts here of me roleplaying some of my other ocs (Kelev, or characters from her story, including J, Cipher, Laika, or Samael), but mostly itâll be good, clean (read: whumpy and incredibly sad) hound âfun.â
the character:
[excerpt from classified file âdetails of asset codenamed âhoundââ]
âhound [name redacted] is an approximately nineteen-year-old individual of Jewish and Russian descent. its hair is black and curly, but already graying in the front; it used to wear it long, before the management team decided it was more easily maintained in a shorter cut. hound has considerable scarring on its body. much of the right side of its face and body is covered in burn scars originating from an explosion, which have healed a darker color than its medium-toned skin. other scars include a vertical scar passing through its blind right eye, a horizontal scar over the bridge of its nose, and a scar on the left of its upper lip.
hound was one of [organization redacted]âs earlier successes. it has no memory of its past outside of unconscious instincts and occasional reports of minor hallucinations or odd dreams, and is for the most part complacent and receptive of orders. as expected, hound has displayed a profound inability to function in what most would refer to as âeveryday life,â remaining largely dependent on handlers outside of combat or mission scenarios. on the rare occasions it has become violent or refused orders, it was in a state of confusion and could be coaxed or forced back into a more docile state (see addendum file: incidents involving asset âhoundâ). despite houndâs overall dysfunctionality, it has proven to be an effective and useful asset overall.
[end file summary]
houndâs bocw canon below:
as of recently, hound has been placed with the team currently operating out of the primary Berlin safehouse. while team member A. Mason expressed concerns about its wellbeing and R. Adler and H. Park had complaints about how dependent hound is in comparison to their other asset (see folder âasset codenamed bellâ), hound has proven to be a functional team member and entered a mutually beneficial friendship with âbell.â
we hope to see this assignment improve the efficacy of the team and this asset.
It had taken six hours of meticulous planning for Suki to realise that, really, there was no organising something like this- a beach trip with the amount of people she'd invited, all wildly different. So she'd sent out a date, time, and location, (and a request to only bring small weapons please, she could not handle more bloodshed than absolutely necessary) and let God do the rest.
She sat now on this beach (blissfully empty, for now) wrapped in a cardigan, waiting for the absolute chaos she had brought upon herself to begin.
Ok ok so this is an OPEN RP thingamajig. I wanted to do a summer event thing and the general population voted beach trip so here we are!! Anyone, and I mean ANYONE can join, just don't start a fight (ooc) etc etc.
hound, punctual as usual, is one of the first guests to arrive. theyâre wearing a long-sleeve swim shirt and practically knee-length swim trunks, all in a navy blue so dark itâs almost black, which⊠well. itâs certainly on theme for their typical dress.
they look happier than usual, if by a minute amount, even though suki notices that theyâve got a fading black eye; when they notice sukiâs curious gaze, they snort amusedly, explaining âitâs a product of the new houseguest. cujo. weâreâ well, weâre trying to domesticate him, but itâs⊠an endeavor.â
seemingly not interested in too much small talk, they stalk away to sit cross-legged right at the shore, letting the water rush around them and absentmindedly sorting seashells as they pluck them out of the sand. they seem extraordinarily content with the little organizing task theyâve invented for themself, though every few minutes they look back to see if anyone else has joined the party.
Suki snorted at their explanation, checking them over quickly to make sure the gloomy air was their usual, not dampened by something else. She'd had her fair share of people needing domesticating- that was kind of the job, as a shrink within MI6.
"They- Cujo, I mean- not want to come?" She called from where she still sat, pulling a bottle of water from her cooling bag.
hound sucks in a breath; they were hoping they werenât going to have to explain the⊠difficult situation, but, well, here they are.
âno. he, uh, he did want to come. but andrei and i made an executive decision.â the sentence hangs in the air between them and suki, the explanation for their choice unspoken; cujo canât be trusted around this many people, or really in public at all, especially with adler present. heâs not cujoâs adler, evidently, but there were too many variables and risks for bringing cujo to the party to be a particularly good decision.
hound pauses for a second, swallowing awkwardly. they never like talking about the cujo situation, because between all its moral complexities and houndâs, well, subpar communication skills, theyâre always a bit worried it makes them (and, more importantly, andrei, because heâs supposed to be the mature and pure and ethical one) seem⊠morally dubious at best. âin terms of andrei, iâm not sure yet whether heâs coming today or not. depends on whether he thinks he can leave cujo alone without massive property damage and/or casualties or not.â
Suki simply nodded, with another one of her signature warm smiles. Of course, there was something Hound wasn't telling her- but she had promised multiple people that she would leave her job at the door and try to relax. So she pushed her therapist instinct deep down (but not too deep, let's be realistic) and took a sip of her water.
"No problem," she said in her doting-British-grandmother voice. "I have a polaroid, if you want to take pictures for him." She waved the object in question, as if to underline her suggestion.
hound actually smiles at that, an extraordinarily rare expression on their face. âi⊠i would like to do that, actually. i think heâd enjoy it.â well, when they give him the photos heâll probably snap and curse them out, but they know he appreciates their little gifts when thereâs nobody around to see it.
âoh, uh. while weâre talking, i had a question.â hound adds hurriedly, awkwardly fidgeting with their hands. âi know this is supposed to be a casual event and youâre not here âon businessâ, but i was wondering if youâd ever be willing to stop by? iâve been thinking about it and. i think cujo could probably benefit from having someone to talk to.â
they subconsciously take a step back, some little animal instinct telling them that sukiâs gonna be annoyed, sheâs gonna be angry that they tried to proposition her at what was supposed to be a fun event. and suki is an unknown variable and suki is, admittedly, the slightest bit intimidating and that means suki has the potential to be a threat. hound is half-tempted to say ânever mindâ, apologize, turn tail and run, but. well. if thereâs any chance sheâll say yes, hound knows very well that some actual, professional assistance could be a lifesaver for cujo.
It had taken six hours of meticulous planning for Suki to realise that, really, there was no organising something like this- a beach trip with the amount of people she'd invited, all wildly different. So she'd sent out a date, time, and location, (and a request to only bring small weapons please, she could not handle more bloodshed than absolutely necessary) and let God do the rest.
She sat now on this beach (blissfully empty, for now) wrapped in a cardigan, waiting for the absolute chaos she had brought upon herself to begin.
Ok ok so this is an OPEN RP thingamajig. I wanted to do a summer event thing and the general population voted beach trip so here we are!! Anyone, and I mean ANYONE can join, just don't start a fight (ooc) etc etc.
hound, punctual as usual, is one of the first guests to arrive. theyâre wearing a long-sleeve swim shirt and practically knee-length swim trunks, all in a navy blue so dark itâs almost black, which⊠well. itâs certainly on theme for their typical dress.
they look happier than usual, if by a minute amount, even though suki notices that theyâve got a fading black eye; when they notice sukiâs curious gaze, they snort amusedly, explaining âitâs a product of the new houseguest. cujo. weâreâ well, weâre trying to domesticate him, but itâs⊠an endeavor.â
seemingly not interested in too much small talk, they stalk away to sit cross-legged right at the shore, letting the water rush around them and absentmindedly sorting seashells as they pluck them out of the sand. they seem extraordinarily content with the little organizing task theyâve invented for themself, though every few minutes they look back to see if anyone else has joined the party.
Suki snorted at their explanation, checking them over quickly to make sure the gloomy air was their usual, not dampened by something else. She'd had her fair share of people needing domesticating- that was kind of the job, as a shrink within MI6.
"They- Cujo, I mean- not want to come?" She called from where she still sat, pulling a bottle of water from her cooling bag.
hound sucks in a breath; they were hoping they werenât going to have to explain the⊠difficult situation, but, well, here they are.
âno. he, uh, he did want to come. but andrei and i made an executive decision.â the sentence hangs in the air between them and suki, the explanation for their choice unspoken; cujo canât be trusted around this many people, or really in public at all, especially with adler present. heâs not cujoâs adler, evidently, but there were too many variables and risks for bringing cujo to the party to be a particularly good decision.
hound pauses for a second, swallowing awkwardly. they never like talking about the cujo situation, because between all its moral complexities and houndâs, well, subpar communication skills, theyâre always a bit worried it makes them (and, more importantly, andrei, because heâs supposed to be the mature and pure and ethical one) seem⊠morally dubious at best. âin terms of andrei, iâm not sure yet whether heâs coming today or not. depends on whether he thinks he can leave cujo alone without massive property damage and/or casualties or not.â
It had taken six hours of meticulous planning for Suki to realise that, really, there was no organising something like this- a beach trip with the amount of people she'd invited, all wildly different. So she'd sent out a date, time, and location, (and a request to only bring small weapons please, she could not handle more bloodshed than absolutely necessary) and let God do the rest.
She sat now on this beach (blissfully empty, for now) wrapped in a cardigan, waiting for the absolute chaos she had brought upon herself to begin.
Ok ok so this is an OPEN RP thingamajig. I wanted to do a summer event thing and the general population voted beach trip so here we are!! Anyone, and I mean ANYONE can join, just don't start a fight (ooc) etc etc.
hound, punctual as usual, is one of the first guests to arrive. theyâre wearing a long-sleeve swim shirt and practically knee-length swim trunks, all in a navy blue so dark itâs almost black, which⊠well. itâs certainly on theme for their typical dress.
they look happier than usual, if by a minute amount, even though suki notices that theyâve got a fading black eye; when they notice sukiâs curious gaze, they snort amusedly, explaining âitâs a product of the new houseguest. cujo. weâreâ well, weâre trying to domesticate him, but itâs⊠an endeavor.â
seemingly not interested in too much small talk, they stalk away to sit cross-legged right at the shore, letting the water rush around them and absentmindedly sorting seashells as they pluck them out of the sand. they seem extraordinarily content with the little organizing task theyâve invented for themself, though every few minutes they look back to see if anyone else has joined the party.
Saint stood quietly in the corner of the casino, perfectly moulded into the backdrop despite his scarred features. His hands were tucked into his pockets, fingers curled carefully against his palms.
He was watching Hound and Casino interact. There was something uncanny in his yellow-grey gaze and the way he had his head slightly tilted, like an animal carefully observing its prey.
Malcolm's gaze flickers over to saint for a brief second before returning to hound.
"as I was saying, I have Intel. you have resources. I'm willing to...create a partnership with you. in return for immunity. my presence here is proof of my sincerity, otherwise I would have one of my secretaries here."
Malcolm says leaning back his body tense it was obvious no matter how much bravado that he put on, he was nervous if not downright terrified.
Houndâs eyes narrow slightly. They can tell Casinoâs practically quaking in his bootsâ understandable, considering heâs in a secluded room with two people who could both kill him in three seconds flat and donât seem particularly inclined not to. They lean in a bit closer towards him, just to watch him squirm as they get just a little closer to him.
âThis is⊠tempting, really, but Iâd love to be enlightened on exactly what weâll be receiving as compensation for helping you. The intel is tempting, but considering how desperate you seem for immunity, I have a feeling we should be asking for more than that.â
Honestly, Hound thinks the intel would be worth itâ they know this guy is sitting on a veritable gold mine of informationâ but Casino seems terrified enough that they think they might be able to get something more for their trouble. Maybe itâs not the most moral thing to do (a little part of them says âyou used to care so much about that, what happened?â) but life isnât cheap, and neither is their field of work, and they have a feeling they can sweeten the deal for themself if they lay it on a bit thick.
They shoot a glance at Saint; heâs been silent for a while, and Hound makes an attempt to subtly indicate that if he has any of his own demands, he should probably make them now.
Malcom leans back into the plush couch of the private room of the casino. It had been awhile since he had gotten any news about anyone, watching from the sidelines was entertaining, but getting involved is..exhilitarting.
"just wait and see...." malcom murmurs to himself adjusting his hood further down his head hiding his face behind shadow.
he would wait, and wait to see who would show their faces tonight.
Saint was there, standing in a dark corner. He'd been watching Malcolm for a while, and was trying to decide whether or not to make himself known. His garroting wire hung around his wrist, and he had somehow managed to sneak a pistol into the casino- not that he'd need it if things somehow went haywire.
He ran a hand over his newly buzzed hair, stopping to drag a finger over the scar running along his throat.
He didn't need to let Malcolm see him. He just wanted to do what he did best- stalk his prey, learn their every weakness to exploit them.
Hound stalks inâ arguably louder than usual, but still quiet enough that itâs vaguely unsettling. Theyâre generally displeased with this whole affair, but their mood brightens the tiniest bit when they make eye contact with Saintâ it seems theyâve got at least one ally here. They give him the slightest nod of greeting before continuing on their way, avoiding making Saintâs position too obvious to any of the other âguests.â
Unlike Case and Saint, Hound isnât in the mood for subtlety tonight. They stride right over to Malcolmâs couch, and, without asking, sit right down. They lean on the armrest as casually as they can muster, trying to push their little power play just that little bit further. âA casino for the venue. Ironic,â Hound observes conversationally, before deciding that mincing words just isnât worth it. âWell. What are we here for, hacker?â
i⊠well, i just wanted to talk with you. itâs been a while since we last spent any time together, has it not? my apologies that i havenât contacted you since; iâve been busy. bell and i started a new job, so we had to move apartments, and it turns out having a real job is more time-consuming than i expected.
âŠiâll stop with the rambling. itâs been a while since iâve spent any time with my friends besides bell. i have a day off soon, and iâm in your region, so i was wondering if you would be interested in spending some time together? i know that there are some good restaurants in this area, if you would be interested in talking over lunch, maybe, or dinner.
âŠsounds good. what cuisines do you enjoy? iâm partial to middle eastern and mediterranean foodâ tastes like homeâ but i know it can be a bit too spicy for european sensibilities.
really, itâs your choice; iâm up to anything as long as itâs fairly local and not unreasonably expensive.
We're all here to have fun and forget the hardships of our reality, have fun with each other and write out the characters we came to love. Fleeing into fiction for a few hours to lift our spirits. We are only people behind the blogs, people that are nothing like these characters.
See, the reason for this post is a very important one. There has been an incident recently that showed me (and the people my blog is connected with) that some of the users of Tumblr seem to forget that we are not the characters we play. I get that some of you really want to go out of your way to get a conversation with these fictional characters and we're all here for that. I'm not even going to address the people that are really crossing a lot of boundaries here (you guys are a different breed, you know who I'm talking about) but I really want to remind the others of something.
This is fiction, not the reality. Any regarding topics that may be triggering some past-traumas or other mentally hurting things can easily be skipped by avoiding certain messages or blogs. We are not the fictional figures we are writing. Learn to tell fiction and reality apart.
We always welcome new people that want to join our RP and we really love every OC that you guys create. But please remember that this is not what we actually stand for. For example: I do love to write for Adler but I do not, in any way, condone his actions. We are still people behind these blogs, some of them even minors. Be mindful and respectful.
*hooded figure approaches and forces a chloroform soaked rag over Houndâs face. He finds himself in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair and bleeding from a somehow reopened scar*
Do you know why youâre here? You do know drugs are illegal right? Or at least the ones you were injecting with someone else. We have eyes everywhere. Do you have anything to say to defend yourself?
*the hooded stranger grabs a knife and traces it against Houndâs scars*
Hound⊠well. Hound is out of it.
They blink sluggishly, trying to get the world to stop spinning for long enough that they can figure out where they are. Itâs dark, dark and cold, especially so considering that Houndâs been stripped down to their undershirt and cargo pants by the disguised figure holding a knife to the track marks marring the inside of their arm.
They think they hear about half of what the person said, something about drugs being illegal and eyes everywhere and having to defend themself. It feels like every thought is moving through molasses, making it nearly impossible for Hound to string together what their captor is trying to tell them.
âWho⊠âre you?â they slur, eyelids heavy; the only thing keeping them from passing out is the adrenaline beginning to flood their veins as the gravity of the situation slowly sets in. Houndâs head drops toward their chest, too exhausted and dazed to keep staring straight at the figure. Their captor, seemingly annoyed, grabs them by the chin and wrenches their head up so Hound will look them in the face, despite their unfocused gaze and tenuous hold on awareness.
*the hooded figure grows annoyed, muttering something about noncompliance and Hound being âtoo high to comprehend whatâs going onâ.
âI ask the questions here, Hound. Do you have anything to defend yourself against the usage of LSD?â the hooded figure hissed. âIâd hate for something terrible to happen if you didnât follow exactly what iâm asking.â The figure starts slowly pushing the knife into Houndâs arm before returning it to a side table. It leaves a mark, though surprisingly it wasnât enough to actually break the skin. âNow, I want a confession from you. Just be honest and this will hurt a whole lot less than it could be.â
Hound looks up at the figure pleadingly. They still arenât quite sure whatâs happening, but theyâre pretty sure thereâs something theyâre supposed to be doing and theyâre not doing it.
â âM sorry,â they mumble. âI donâtâ whaâs happening?â The gears in their brain are starting to turn slightly faster, and they manage to register the words âLSDâ and âconfessionâ and manage to piece together what theyâre pretty sure their captor wants to hear.
ââŠHurts without it,â Hound slurs, shamefully turning their face as far away as they can, given the hooded figureâs grasp on their chin. â âs all too much. To live with. Wâout the drugs.â They sluggishly glance back over at their captor, who doesnât look particularly satisfied with the answer, but they try their luck anyways.
ââŠI wasâ was good. Do I get to go now? âM tiredâŠâ
The hooded figure looks surprised momentarily before returning to a state of anger. âLook, I didnât want to do this, but I have no choice. Actually, I was looking forward to this but youâre pretty pathetic. Itâs not gong to be fun to hurt you. Nevertheless, iâm getting my moneyâs worthâ. The hooded figure picks up the knife and stares at it thoughtfully before gripping it. âWell, maybe this will change your mind.â It begins lightly sawing at one of Houndâs fingers with the sharp grey knife, smiling to himself and seeming almost proud, as though this was some major accomplishment.
The second the pain starts, Hound is a lot more aware. They make a startled, choked-off noise at the first cutâ their pain tolerance is unsettlingly high, itâs only the unexpectedness of the injury that gets to them.
Hound gasps, and then screams in earnest, when their captor starts digging the knife into the second joint of their finger. The pain and horror is flushing the last of the lethargy out of their system, and they struggle against their bonds, trying to pull their wrists free from the ropes binding them to the arms of the chair.
When the mutilation is finally over, Hound tries to keep their eyes averted from their hand as their chest heaves. Through the radio static consuming their brainâ shock, probablyâ the realization dawns on them with some kind of sick humor that their hands are even now. Half of their right pinky has been missing for as long as they can remember (although thatâs only really a few years) and theyâre dimly aware that now theyâre missing the same amount of their left ring finger. Something about it is so funny that they almost laugh, but the sound morphs into a sob halfway out of their mouth.
Hound shivers uncontrollably, a mix of adrenaline and pain and shock overwhelming their system. They hear the sound of metal on metal as the knife is placed on something obscured in the blind side of their vision.
They still donât know what their captor wants to hear. They still donât know what to say to make him stop.
The hooded figure breathes a sigh of joy, which is quite odd considering the circumstances. He picks up the now disjointed finger and quickly places it in a semi stained envelope with the words âTO [name blurred]â, written in big letters by what looks to be sharpie. He turns back to Hound and sighs once more. âLook, iâm getting paid by the hour, and itâs only a few days before youâre getting picked up. Just try not to struggle. The more you protest, the more limbs will be cut off. And we donât want you to be completely broken, now do we? You should have known to make better choices. Well, we canât change the past.â The hooded figure thinks for a moment. Hound notices a nail clipper by his feet. The hooded figure leaves momentarily; it is likely heâll come back with something much deadlier, perhaps a chainsaw.
Hound slumps over, chest heaving, trying to breathe through the pain. They hear their captor come back, dropping something on the floor behind themâ they try to turn their head to see what it is, but canât crane their neck quite far enough for it to be in view. The figure walks around to Houndâs front again, and now that theyâre more conscious and coherent, they take the opportunity to try and reason with him.
âI still donât really understand what you want from me, but Iâm willing to talk. I canât tell you whatever it is you want to hear if I donât know what it is.â Hound pauses for a second as a particularly strong shudder racks their body. âAnd, even though Iâm not sure it matters to you, I donât just⊠take things because I want to. I have a reason, I swear.â
They squint at the envelope, trying to read the name, but their vision is blurring so much that theyâre forced to stop trying. ââŠI know you said that Iâm not supposed to ask questions, but what do you mean, âgetting picked up?â IâllâŠâ they think for a second, trying to figure out how to spin this conversation in their favor. âIâll cooperate more if you tell me, and that should make things easier for both of us.â
Slipping from his chair, and landing on the cold wooden floor of one of the Rookâs rooms, Woods let out a small grunt.
As he began scrubbing the bloodstained floors, small pieces of shattered glass embedding itself into his legs (something heâd manage later, he told himself), he found that he still didnât regret not breaking up the fight.
Hound walks up behind Woods, trying to step loudly so they wonât scare the shit out of the older man by sneaking up on him. Theyâve been hanging around since the Easter party, and Woods hasnât thrown them out yetâ they might as well give him a hand with whatever heâs up to.
âDo you want some help with that?â They ask quietly, noticing the visible discomfort on Woodsâs face as he scrubs at the hardwood with a singleminded determination.
Woods had a hand on his knife until he glanced around, seeing Hound, and apparently deeming them not a threat, either out of their appearance or how Frank had seen them with Bell.
âWouldnât mind some.â
He grunted. Even as stubborn as he was, he could admit when he was in over his head. With his legs deciding not to cooperate today, it wasnât like he could sweep the glass up.
âHound, right? Bellâs friend?â It was a surprise he even remember their name, though mentally, Hound was mainly remember as one of Bellâs little friends.
ââŠyes,â they say. It feels like an oversimplification, but they donât really want to explain everything that went down with Rook and everything thatâs happened since, so instead of splitting hairs about it they kneel next to Woods, grab another threadbare rag out of the bucket of soapy water, and get to scrubbing. Theyâre more used to cleaning up bloodstains than they would like.
While theyâre scrubbing at a spot thatâs dried down especially stubbornly, Hound accidentally dips the sleeve of their ragged flannel in the film of water and soap now covering the floor. With a mildly frustrated huff they roll their sleeves up, mindlessly scratching at the ever-itchy track marks peppering the inside of their arm. The thought casually crosses their mind that they could use another hit sometime soon after the fiasco that ended the Easter get-together.
Oh, shit. It only takes Hound a few seconds to realize that Woods probably doesnât know what they and Bell have been getting up to since Hound moved in with Bell, and it would probably be better if he never found out. Theyâre 99% sure they rolled their sleeves back down far too late to keep it a secret from him much longer.
A cursory glance over told Woods everything he needed to know. Or their silence regarding Rook in general told him that they might know just a bit more than Woods thought.
Watching them roll their sleeves back down hurriedly, Frank spoke.
âKid, I chewed C4 in âNam to get a decent high. I ainât judging.â
He said flatly, with a hint of amusement in his tone at either the memory or Houndâs attempt to hide their drug-usage. Hell, back when Frank had grown up, women still regularly drank during their pregnancies.
âJust donât go overdosing. Bell doesnât need to deal with any more of that.â
And with that, he went back to scrubbing the bloody floors.
Hound just blinks at him, not quite over the cognitive dissonance between what they were bracing for and how Woods actually reacted. They expected yelling, maybe horror, probably an angryâ or at the very least, sternâ command to leave the Rook and never come back.
âIâm sorry,â Hound says. Theyâre not quite sure for whatâ maybe that they stopped cleaning, maybe that Woods had to learn their secret without wanting to, maybe just the idea that their general existence is a threat to Bellâs mental health. Really, theyâre sorry that Woods and the others have to exist anywhere near them, but they think thatâs a bit too mopey to say out loud.
Instead, they decide to change the subject, getting back to the task at hand. ââŠDid it really work? The C4, I mean. Not that Iâm getting any ideas, thatâs just⊠well, I suppose itâs par for the course considering what you all were getting up to in Vietnam, but it sounds like an absolutely insane thing to try.â
*hooded figure approaches and forces a chloroform soaked rag over Houndâs face. He finds himself in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair and bleeding from a somehow reopened scar*
Do you know why youâre here? You do know drugs are illegal right? Or at least the ones you were injecting with someone else. We have eyes everywhere. Do you have anything to say to defend yourself?
*the hooded stranger grabs a knife and traces it against Houndâs scars*
Hound⊠well. Hound is out of it.
They blink sluggishly, trying to get the world to stop spinning for long enough that they can figure out where they are. Itâs dark, dark and cold, especially so considering that Houndâs been stripped down to their undershirt and cargo pants by the disguised figure holding a knife to the track marks marring the inside of their arm.
They think they hear about half of what the person said, something about drugs being illegal and eyes everywhere and having to defend themself. It feels like every thought is moving through molasses, making it nearly impossible for Hound to string together what their captor is trying to tell them.
âWho⊠âre you?â they slur, eyelids heavy; the only thing keeping them from passing out is the adrenaline beginning to flood their veins as the gravity of the situation slowly sets in. Houndâs head drops toward their chest, too exhausted and dazed to keep staring straight at the figure. Their captor, seemingly annoyed, grabs them by the chin and wrenches their head up so Hound will look them in the face, despite their unfocused gaze and tenuous hold on awareness.
*the hooded figure grows annoyed, muttering something about noncompliance and Hound being âtoo high to comprehend whatâs going onâ.
âI ask the questions here, Hound. Do you have anything to defend yourself against the usage of LSD?â the hooded figure hissed. âIâd hate for something terrible to happen if you didnât follow exactly what iâm asking.â The figure starts slowly pushing the knife into Houndâs arm before returning it to a side table. It leaves a mark, though surprisingly it wasnât enough to actually break the skin. âNow, I want a confession from you. Just be honest and this will hurt a whole lot less than it could be.â
Hound looks up at the figure pleadingly. They still arenât quite sure whatâs happening, but theyâre pretty sure thereâs something theyâre supposed to be doing and theyâre not doing it.
â âM sorry,â they mumble. âI donâtâ whaâs happening?â The gears in their brain are starting to turn slightly faster, and they manage to register the words âLSDâ and âconfessionâ and manage to piece together what theyâre pretty sure their captor wants to hear.
ââŠHurts without it,â Hound slurs, shamefully turning their face as far away as they can, given the hooded figureâs grasp on their chin. â âs all too much. To live with. Wâout the drugs.â They sluggishly glance back over at their captor, who doesnât look particularly satisfied with the answer, but they try their luck anyways.
ââŠI wasâ was good. Do I get to go now? âM tiredâŠâ
The hooded figure looks surprised momentarily before returning to a state of anger. âLook, I didnât want to do this, but I have no choice. Actually, I was looking forward to this but youâre pretty pathetic. Itâs not gong to be fun to hurt you. Nevertheless, iâm getting my moneyâs worthâ. The hooded figure picks up the knife and stares at it thoughtfully before gripping it. âWell, maybe this will change your mind.â It begins lightly sawing at one of Houndâs fingers with the sharp grey knife, smiling to himself and seeming almost proud, as though this was some major accomplishment.
The second the pain starts, Hound is a lot more aware. They make a startled, choked-off noise at the first cutâ their pain tolerance is unsettlingly high, itâs only the unexpectedness of the injury that gets to them.
Hound gasps, and then screams in earnest, when their captor starts digging the knife into the second joint of their finger. The pain and horror is flushing the last of the lethargy out of their system, and they struggle against their bonds, trying to pull their wrists free from the ropes binding them to the arms of the chair.
When the mutilation is finally over, Hound tries to keep their eyes averted from their hand as their chest heaves. Through the radio static consuming their brainâ shock, probablyâ the realization dawns on them with some kind of sick humor that their hands are even now. Half of their right pinky has been missing for as long as they can remember (although thatâs only really a few years) and theyâre dimly aware that now theyâre missing the same amount of their left ring finger. Something about it is so funny that they almost laugh, but the sound morphs into a sob halfway out of their mouth.
Hound shivers uncontrollably, a mix of adrenaline and pain and shock overwhelming their system. They hear the sound of metal on metal as the knife is placed on something obscured in the blind side of their vision.
They still donât know what their captor wants to hear. They still donât know what to say to make him stop.
i see your "traumatized character finally getting a good night's sleep in their loved one's arms" and i raise you "traumatized character freaking the fuck out when they wake up in their loved one's arms because why are they restrained why is someone else in their bed where are they and now their loved one has to comfort them"
*hooded figure approaches and forces a chloroform soaked rag over Houndâs face. He finds himself in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair and bleeding from a somehow reopened scar*
Do you know why youâre here? You do know drugs are illegal right? Or at least the ones you were injecting with someone else. We have eyes everywhere. Do you have anything to say to defend yourself?
*the hooded stranger grabs a knife and traces it against Houndâs scars*
Hound⊠well. Hound is out of it.
They blink sluggishly, trying to get the world to stop spinning for long enough that they can figure out where they are. Itâs dark, dark and cold, especially so considering that Houndâs been stripped down to their undershirt and cargo pants by the disguised figure holding a knife to the track marks marring the inside of their arm.
They think they hear about half of what the person said, something about drugs being illegal and eyes everywhere and having to defend themself. It feels like every thought is moving through molasses, making it nearly impossible for Hound to string together what their captor is trying to tell them.
âWho⊠âre you?â they slur, eyelids heavy; the only thing keeping them from passing out is the adrenaline beginning to flood their veins as the gravity of the situation slowly sets in. Houndâs head drops toward their chest, too exhausted and dazed to keep staring straight at the figure. Their captor, seemingly annoyed, grabs them by the chin and wrenches their head up so Hound will look them in the face, despite their unfocused gaze and tenuous hold on awareness.
*the hooded figure grows annoyed, muttering something about noncompliance and Hound being âtoo high to comprehend whatâs going onâ.
âI ask the questions here, Hound. Do you have anything to defend yourself against the usage of LSD?â the hooded figure hissed. âIâd hate for something terrible to happen if you didnât follow exactly what iâm asking.â The figure starts slowly pushing the knife into Houndâs arm before returning it to a side table. It leaves a mark, though surprisingly it wasnât enough to actually break the skin. âNow, I want a confession from you. Just be honest and this will hurt a whole lot less than it could be.â
Hound looks up at the figure pleadingly. They still arenât quite sure whatâs happening, but theyâre pretty sure thereâs something theyâre supposed to be doing and theyâre not doing it.
â âM sorry,â they mumble. âI donâtâ whaâs happening?â The gears in their brain are starting to turn slightly faster, and they manage to register the words âLSDâ and âconfessionâ and manage to piece together what theyâre pretty sure their captor wants to hear.
ââŠHurts without it,â Hound slurs, shamefully turning their face as far away as they can, given the hooded figureâs grasp on their chin. â âs all too much. To live with. Wâout the drugs.â They sluggishly glance back over at their captor, who doesnât look particularly satisfied with the answer, but they try their luck anyways.
ââŠI wasâ was good. Do I get to go now? âM tiredâŠâ
*hooded figure approaches and forces a chloroform soaked rag over Houndâs face. He finds himself in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair and bleeding from a somehow reopened scar*
Do you know why youâre here? You do know drugs are illegal right? Or at least the ones you were injecting with someone else. We have eyes everywhere. Do you have anything to say to defend yourself?
*the hooded stranger grabs a knife and traces it against Houndâs scars*
Hound⊠well. Hound is out of it.
They blink sluggishly, trying to get the world to stop spinning for long enough that they can figure out where they are. Itâs dark, dark and cold, especially so considering that Houndâs been stripped down to their undershirt and cargo pants by the disguised figure holding a knife to the track marks marring the inside of their arm.
They think they hear about half of what the person said, something about drugs being illegal and eyes everywhere and having to defend themself. It feels like every thought is moving through molasses, making it nearly impossible for Hound to string together what their captor is trying to tell them.
âWho⊠âre you?â they slur, eyelids heavy; the only thing keeping them from passing out is the adrenaline beginning to flood their veins as the gravity of the situation slowly sets in. Houndâs head drops toward their chest, too exhausted and dazed to keep staring straight at the figure. Their captor, seemingly annoyed, grabs them by the chin and wrenches their head up so Hound will look them in the face, despite their unfocused gaze and tenuous hold on awareness.
Whumper has whumpee tied up, and they force caretaker to watch. At least, that's what caretaker thinks is going to happen.
Until whumper puts the tools in front of them, and tells them that if they don't hurt whumpee, then whumper will do something much, MUCH worse instead.
rolling this prompt like the worlds largest blunt and smoking it GAHHH dude your brain is a beautiful place
gonna...gonna go ahead and do a little thing with this:
cw: kidnapped, forced to hurt, implied torture, restraints, psychological whump, mentioned suicideal ideation, death threats, scars, knives, emeto
"What the fuck," Caretaker whispered, knees buckling in the entrance of the basement.
Whumper, who had led them downstairs, flashed them a grin, then turned to Whumpee.
Whumpee, chained to the wall by their purple-bruised wrists. Hanging limp, eyes empty, unrecognizable.
Clothes ripped away to reveal the kinds of intricate cuts that took hours to create. The sort of story detailed into their skin, into flesh, that meant they were forever marked. Forever fucked up.
Caretaker's gaze flickered back to the floor. They couldn't look at Whumpee. Not like this. It felt like a violation of intimacy-- a violation of trust-- of privacy. At least, those are the reasons Whumpee would have looked away if the roles had been reversed. But Caretaker? they looked away because it scared the shit out of them.
Whumper, quietly, almost gently, reached out and ran a hand through Whumpee's hair. He worked his fingers through their curls, untangling the blood-battered mass of scabs and fibers.
Whumpee whimpered into their thick-cloth gag, and the sound made Caretaker freeze, jaw clenched, just to stop from violently puking.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck--
In their attempt to focus on anything else, Caretaker noticed the table in front of them: a tray of tools. Scalpel. Pliers. Something that buzzed when you press the switch.
Their stomach turned, a hand flying to cover their mouth as the afterburn of yesterday's breakfast resurfaced.
âDonât--" Their voice cracked. âPlease.â They couldn't watch. Not this. Not Whumpee.
Whumper tilted his head, attention redirected back to Caretaker. Birdlike eyes glinted, almost laughing. "You think Iâm going to hurt them in front of you?"
A dread-laced question sank through the air. What else would you do?
Whumper let go of Whumpee's hair and circled back to their panic-eyed savior. âNo, sweetheart. Thatâd be predictable.â
He was close now, close enough for them to see the stains on his collar, the gap in his teeth. âYou are."
The metal tray glinted up at Caretaker, beckoning. The sheer gloss of the tools laughed at them.
Caretaker swallowed and looked away. Back to the floor, âI wonât.â
Whumper smiled. Not cruel, not cold. Sweetly.
âYou willâ he corrected, "Or I'll do something thatâll stay with them permanently. When they wake up, they'll remember. When they fall asleep next to you, years from now, they'll remember. It won't matter if they've been rescued, it won't matter how quiet the room is, no matter how much they learn to trust again, they'll always remember what I did."
He leaned in, almost nose to nose now.
âAnd a part of them will always wish they had died instead."
Caretaker wiped at their eyes. They shuddered. "I- I-" I can't--. They couldn't finish the sentence.
They might have to.
âPick up the knife,â said Whumper, and his smile was vicious. "Throw up if you have to, but pick up the fucking knife."
Caretaker grabbed the edge of the table, white-knuckled. They heaved, throwing up violently, until their shoulders shook from tension.
Then, with that same white-knuckled grip, they reached for the knife.
Slipping from his chair, and landing on the cold wooden floor of one of the Rookâs rooms, Woods let out a small grunt.
As he began scrubbing the bloodstained floors, small pieces of shattered glass embedding itself into his legs (something heâd manage later, he told himself), he found that he still didnât regret not breaking up the fight.
Hound walks up behind Woods, trying to step loudly so they wonât scare the shit out of the older man by sneaking up on him. Theyâve been hanging around since the Easter party, and Woods hasnât thrown them out yetâ they might as well give him a hand with whatever heâs up to.
âDo you want some help with that?â They ask quietly, noticing the visible discomfort on Woodsâs face as he scrubs at the hardwood with a singleminded determination.
Woods had a hand on his knife until he glanced around, seeing Hound, and apparently deeming them not a threat, either out of their appearance or how Frank had seen them with Bell.
âWouldnât mind some.â
He grunted. Even as stubborn as he was, he could admit when he was in over his head. With his legs deciding not to cooperate today, it wasnât like he could sweep the glass up.
âHound, right? Bellâs friend?â It was a surprise he even remember their name, though mentally, Hound was mainly remember as one of Bellâs little friends.
ââŠyes,â they say. It feels like an oversimplification, but they donât really want to explain everything that went down with Rook and everything thatâs happened since, so instead of splitting hairs about it they kneel next to Woods, grab another threadbare rag out of the bucket of soapy water, and get to scrubbing. Theyâre more used to cleaning up bloodstains than they would like.
While theyâre scrubbing at a spot thatâs dried down especially stubbornly, Hound accidentally dips the sleeve of their ragged flannel in the film of water and soap now covering the floor. With a mildly frustrated huff they roll their sleeves up, mindlessly scratching at the ever-itchy track marks peppering the inside of their arm. The thought casually crosses their mind that they could use another hit sometime soon after the fiasco that ended the Easter get-together.
Oh, shit. It only takes Hound a few seconds to realize that Woods probably doesnât know what they and Bell have been getting up to since Hound moved in with Bell, and it would probably be better if he never found out. Theyâre 99% sure they rolled their sleeves back down far too late to keep it a secret from him much longer.
