mouth full of white lies
rating: +2+x

CW: Violence, implied suicidal tendencies, arson.

You flirt with danger like you flirt with any other girl or girl aligned enpal: recklessly and without hesitation.

Livin’ comes easy to you when you’ve got the thrill of the hunt in your blood or the taste of a lover on your lips. The need pounds in your head like a hangover, and when you bleed, you make whoever cut you hurt twice as much.

When you were weak, just a child and then just a teen, folks told you so many things, with condescension barely concealed behind pleases and questions. Violence was bad, didn’t you know? Didn’t you?

They said, “Anya, slow down.”

They said, “Anya, what do you think you’re doing?”

They said, “Anya, stop, you’re hurting him.”

But it’s not like they had two shits when he was hurtin' you, so why listen? Why listen to a bunch of meaningless nobodies when you got the beat of your own heart to march to? You hurt, and you hurt, till there was nobody left to hurt, not even yourself.

You went too far, crossing lines that you couldn’t even see, and you turned people against you with every too long glare or mistimed comment. Even Casey, the only one who you ever thought understood you, left, babbling some bullshit about an infinite Library and home.

You don’t need home. You need to run. If the Library they spoke of was real, you wanted to toss a match and light it aglow just to see how bright the fire would burn. You’d suck in the smoke, your lungs consumed, and maybe you’d finally feel like you’d caught what you’d been hunting for this whole time.

But when you looked and, by the god you hate, you looked, the Ways slammed shut. Even as Casey fell through them with ease, that same damn hand you used to hold made cold metal. You wanted to rip it out of their remaining skin, leaving them nothing but rusty gears and fucked up nerves, but they were gone already.

You wanted to kill them - slowly- for leaving.

You wanted to touch them, feel their hands on every part of you, their life so strong, and rest your head against their chest, softer than you’ve ever been.

You wanted to never think about them again.

If they were gonna play devil, you’d oblige. You'd be their tyrant god. You made them pay with their blood and bone, and all the while, you kept burning. Furious.

Your boss said, “Anya, you’re being reckless.”

Ain’t we called the Chaos Insurgency? We're not The Reasonable and Well Thought Out Decisions Rebellion. I don’t judge your pining over that O5, bitch.

Your squad mate said, “Anya, you have to let them go.”

Like you've done? Burying all your concerns six feet under?

Casey said, “Anya, I need you to-“ and they didn’t finish that sentence. Did you tear out their throat with your too-sharp teeth or shove them against the wall, tilting their head up just right for kissin'? You don’t know. Your memory’s fogged up.

One of these days, your squad-mates are gonna get the order to shoot you, to put you down cuz you’re a liability, too feral for even this Insurgency full of those deemed too unethical for what most folks saw as the worst of the worst. You think you’ll relish it.

You’ve got a death wish, sharp and clean, and you’ve got all the reckless bravado in the world pushing you onwards. Crude. Cruel. Mercy tastes like ash, brutality makes you live.

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