You weren’t even caught. There was no proof you did anything wrong. But all the same this massive lion cop has you cornered in the alley, blocked in between wall and heaps of trash, making you feel small. Nobody likes this guy. You remember Shandy, handsome older Shandy with his bright grin and wild hair, coming home one day after a run in with this guy with his face swollen and hand broken and tail tucked. He had stayed in his home for days afterwards until the swelling went down. Some people said this cop had magic that made you weak and unable to fight back or run away.
This is the kind of guy who is a cop because he likes hurting people. You can tell from the smug expression, the glint in his eye, even his scent carries how pleased he is to batter a twelve year old.
You weren’t even caught. The thought sticks in your mind as a punch connects, snaps your head to the side, vision white for a moment as pain shoots through you. Then a hand is tight around your throat, squeezing. You can hear your own raspy gasp, loud as fireworks somehow, drowning in the sound like you’re drowning without water. And that expression on the lion widens into a toothy grin.
As your vision starts wavering you act. You open up your hands, shift to your left as hard as you can. And in unison the lion finds his hands opening, releasing you from his grasp. Sidestepping to the right as you move left.
The way is clear and you drop the spell and you’re off like a shot. You’ve never ran faster, you’re sure of it. It’s hard to breathe still but that doesn’t matter. Distance means safety. It was worth the use of magic, it was worth the blot. You’d swallow down blot in order to keep swallowing down air any day. Better the thing that kills you slowly than the death that comes now.
The cop doesn’t follow and you find yourself in familiar territory. An older girl of sixteen—tall and built with long hair and a fluffy tail and a sharp face—catches you in her arms. Sees your swollen face, hears your gasping—why can’t you BREATHE—and holds you close. Pets your hair.
Slowly you relax into the hold and your lungs are full. Runt that you are its easy for Mae to sweep you up into her strong arms to carry home where you can find words again.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Laugh With Me
This is the kind of guy who is a cop because he likes hurting people. You can tell from the smug expression, the glint in his eye, even his scent carries how pleased he is to batter a twelve year old.
You weren’t even caught. The thought sticks in your mind as a punch connects, snaps your head to the side, vision white for a moment as pain shoots through you. Then a hand is tight around your throat, squeezing. You can hear your own raspy gasp, loud as fireworks somehow, drowning in the sound like you’re drowning without water. And that expression on the lion widens into a toothy grin.
As your vision starts wavering you act. You open up your hands, shift to your left as hard as you can. And in unison the lion finds his hands opening, releasing you from his grasp. Sidestepping to the right as you move left.
The way is clear and you drop the spell and you’re off like a shot. You’ve never ran faster, you’re sure of it. It’s hard to breathe still but that doesn’t matter. Distance means safety. It was worth the use of magic, it was worth the blot. You’d swallow down blot in order to keep swallowing down air any day. Better the thing that kills you slowly than the death that comes now.
The cop doesn’t follow and you find yourself in familiar territory. An older girl of sixteen—tall and built with long hair and a fluffy tail and a sharp face—catches you in her arms. Sees your swollen face, hears your gasping—why can’t you BREATHE—and holds you close. Pets your hair.
Slowly you relax into the hold and your lungs are full. Runt that you are its easy for Mae to sweep you up into her strong arms to carry home where you can find words again.