lcfthaunted

[lcfthaunted]

Reunion after (physical) trauma prompts

tws apply: grief/fear for someone’s life, mention of injuries, unconsciousness, hospitals, comas, mention of involuntary drugging. that’s the general vibe.

WORDS

“Theeeere you are. Hi. Welcome back.”

“Breathe. Hi, we found you, just breathe for me, okay?”

“This is going to hurt, but it will help you.”

“You’re safe. [Name], can you hear me? They’re here to help you, you need to let them help you.”

“I found them, they’re over here!”

“Does anyone have medical training?”

“N.. no, no, no, no, hey. [Name]? Hi, I’ve got you.”

“You can sleep, [name]. It’s over.”

“I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“You were in an induced coma. Your body went through a lot.”

“I wasn’t –… Your doctors weren’t sure you’d wake up.”

“[Name]? Was that - did you squeeze my hand?”

“It’s okay. It’s meant to be there, it’s helping you breathe.”

“Can you hear me?”

“You.. you were so close to dying. I was scared.”

ACTIONS

[ GATHER ] for sender to gather receiver’s (unconscious) body into their arms, in the style of no no no not them.

[ STARING ] for sender to find receiver sitting alone staring at a wall, covered in blood, and to touch their arm.

[ WAITING ] for sender to be waiting at receiver’s hospital bedside when receiver finally comes out of a coma, or wakes from surgery.

[ STEADY ] for sender to catch or steady receiver when receiver tries to stand up too early or to push their body past what it’s ready for

[ TEARS ]  for receiver to find tears on sender’s face, when they’re finally reunited (either immediately after the trauma, or waking up in a hospital), because sender thought receiver was dead or dying

[ GRIEF ]  for receiver to wake up just as sender is saying goodbye, because the doctors told them to. feel free to specify what they might be saying. do not judge me, this is going in the meme

[ LETTER ] for sender to find a last letter, video, text, etc that receiver made for them, thinking they wouldn’t make it out of the situation alive. Obviously receiver does make it out alive, but the letter/video still exists (and receiver will detail what’s in it).

[ FIGHT ] for receiving muse to not recognize sender or medical staff trying to help them, due to being drugged or otherwise disoriented – so they fight.

[lcfthaunted]

and if i said this is exactly how mazie feels in center city. stripped down, dazzled up, on display. dance, pretty birdy. pose, perfect doll. diamonds and feathers and maybe, if you're lucky, a scrap of silk. the marionette of it all.

eta THE CUFFS

[lcfthaunted]

“That’d do it,” she agrees, and tries not to think too hard about the makeup artists who used to praise her for the same. A perfect little doll. She’d hated it then, too, but wouldn’t dare show it. Now, anyone calling her ‘doll’ had a nonzero chance of getting stabbed. She’s sure that’ll only get worse once she gets her hands on her own gun. That is the best and worst part of being in the Zones; she is encouraged to be as violent as she desires, and she has quite a bit of violence stored up.

She takes a sip of her drink, returns to the conversation at hand. “Also ‘cause y’let her. She begs me ‘bout every time I come by, but I can’t go home with that. Give the littles any ideas? Uh-uh. I’d never be free of it.” She’s almost afraid of what would happen if Dawn realized she could bat her big brown eyes at Mazie and get anything she wanted.

She stretches out a hand. “Maze. I’m Rocket’s little sister.” Not to be confused with his baby sister, but that’s not really a concern until Mallaidh hits the sand. “Haven’t seen you ‘round b’fore. I only come by every few months, though. Ya musta done somethin’ mad t’get the Shop girls t’like ya so much.”

Life was intended to be linear; a simple cycle of birth, experience, and the unavoidable end (that often came too early). But when was anything ever straightforward in their life? Being a Killjoy automatically complicates things. However, also being the City's Number 1 Public Enemy AND the Desert King, adds more several elaborate layers.

In hindsight, Party is supposed to be dead. Ghosted, dusted, gone from this plane of existence. But they aren't. Instead, they're slipping out from the Tavern's back door and turning heads. God, they almost long for the days in which their name held no weight to it. The Rat King maneuvers through the space with ease, well-aware of the countless eyes staring at them. Their demeanor is still , the usual swagger in their hips adding attitude to their strides.

Party had just situated themself in a seat when a voice reaches them. Their lips turn upwards in a broad cheshire smile. "Yea," their shoulders shrug nonchalantly. "She said that I'm her favorite 'joy in the whole world to doll up." The scar beneath their chin is effectively hidden with the perfect amount of product. A gradient of turquoise and orange decorate their eyelids. A dusting of pink glitter clings to their cheeks. "I think it's 'coz I don't flinch when stuff gets too close to my eyes, y'know?"

[lcfthaunted]

THE SOUNDS OF NIGHTMARES SENTENCE STARTERS .

a collection of roleplay / writing prompts , lifting quotes from " the sounds of nightmares " podcast based in the little nightmares universe .

" the look on your face says there's more on your mind . "

" would you like to talk about it ? "

" how are you feeling today ? "

" do you remember your nightmares ? "

" i remember ... everything . "

" i'm not sure that's true . "

" i woke up somewhere i didn't belong . "

" i don't quite follow . "

" can you try to explain ? "

" you can't understand . not unless you were there . "

" hey ! where are we ?! "

" they aren't children . not at all . "

" my mind was divided , and that's not fair to you . "

" everything is going to get worse from here . "

" help me ! please help me ! "

" who brought me here ? "

" i'll do everything i can to help you . "

" there's nothing bad inside you . nothing . "

" we're in this together . "

" take your pick . "

" sweets for my sweet . "

" do you know a way out of here ? "

" what are you working on ? "

" we're friends . friends tell each other things . "

" i'll play with you . "

" don't overdo it . "

" you were right there ! don't tell me you did nothing ! "

" you're upset with me , aren't you ? "

" are you going to leave ? like all the others ? "

" whatever you desire , it's yours . "

" everyone needs someone . "

" don't leave me alone ! "

" are you still angry with me ? "

" i'll protect you . "

" i hate being alone . "

" i understand more than you think . "

" you mean to escape , don't you ? "

" you're being unfair . "

" i can't help you if you hide things from me . "

" why did you bring me here ? "

" what do you want ? "

" why didn't you tell me ? "

" you promised me . "

" i don't feel like talking . "

" you never listen . "

" we can face these monsters together . "

" i need you . "

" i have nothing more to give . "

" take my hand again . "

" you abandoned me . "

" the more time you spend with someone , the harder it becomes to hide who you really are . "

[lcfthaunted]

She is quiet and distant for many long moments. It’s horrendous, what she’s learned, of course, but she can’t deny the relief of the quiet it brings. It’s not a nice and neat, all questions answered finish, but enough holes are filled that she can tuck this information away and not constantly catch on what she doesn’t know, on what she’s missing. Other things fall into place as she does, conversations she’d misinterpreted at the time, errant comments becoming clear. Twice. Twice the Company had Tech in their grip; twice she managed to wriggle free. Little luck, indeed.

She turns over Jack’s part in it, considering if she could be so patient with Mallaidh on the line, and quickly decides yes, if it meant keeping Mallaidh alive. Without hesitation, she could con and manipulate and kill her way to the top in order to save her sister, and sleep just fine at night afterwards. She figures she won’t get direct answers from him, but it doesn’t stop the questions piling up. How far did he go? How much did he plan? Does he sleep fine after it?

As she’s surfacing again, a memory strikes like an icepick through her temple, sharp enough to make her gasp. She digs the heel of her hand into her eye socket, pressing back against the sudden headache threatening to drop her to her knees. Her memories from that period of her life are blurred, distorted from the pain of withdrawal and the sudden return to constant noise in her head. It had made the people around her careless with their conversations; spacey Chevalier, regularly zoning out, pretty but brainless.

The headache fades as quickly as it came, memory settling into a few more empty spaces. She tries very hard not to look directly at some of the information it had scared up. She blinks a few times as she returns to herself, before turning her gaze back on him, the look in her eyes a little too reminiscent of when she learned what he’d done to Myth. “They couldn’t find security for me,” she says, and then, break over, turns to return down the stairs and to her work.

  They've forgotten. All, collectively, fallen out of practice with what it means to have a new addition to their number. Forgotten how much they'd learned each other. That's the only explanation for the bloom of horrified understanding growing over Mazie's face. This would not have been the moment, the way he chose to reveal that part of Tech's past, even if it was his to reveal.

  And it most certainly is not.

  She's going to kill him. But then that's always been true.

  Jack leans back, grip still tight on the banister, and lets his weight pull. Stretching his arms, his back, and that spot between his shoulder blades that plagues him. It would have come out eventually. Honestly the fact that Dawn or K had yet to give it away before now has to be some kind of miracle. Or a bet they're both in on. Or maybe Tech went after their little DJ with her knife again. At least there's no threat of that where he's concerned.

  He sighs lightly, settling into the Haven's hush contentedly. As an afterthought, he scans the far distant wall for new or expanded work. They're always up there painting and repainting whatever they can reach. He likes to make a game with himself trying to guess whose work is whose.

[lcfthaunted]

Mazie wasn’t going to pass up any excuse to touch him. The thrill in her chest hums louder at the brief but necessarily solid contact as she climbs into the cab. She settles in as she makes sure the experience is fully committed to memory. Silence with him is comfortable, and she’s perfectly content to watch the scenery fly by, and occasionally sneak glances toward him out of the corner of her eye.

She doesn’t even notice she’d gone distant, puzzling, until he speaks. Her gaze snaps to him, eyes wide. “I—” She turns her face away again, though it’s a bit too late to hide how startled the observation made her. The horror of being seen after so long hiding; she’s still unused to it, fights against the urge to hide behind her old familiar mask. She bites the inside of her lip, holding back the hedging and dodging that bubbles up.

“I don’t think my questions have answers,” she offers, apologetic. At least, not among the living. Too many of her questions are about Dusty, and too many of those are ones she’s sure Jack would also like an answer to. She does have an answer to his question, though. There’s a few more beats of silence before she answers, “Myth. He had to have let her go at first, right? How else would Dusty have been able to– have Colt?” She hopes he doesn’t notice how her voice catches—or at least, is kind enough not to comment.

Though, now that she’s started, the rest comes tumbling out. “I mean, she couldn’t have run away from him, else she was—” oh, that was nearly an unforgivable fumble. “…careless with her trust. I have a hard time believing someone like him would let theirs wander free so long, so did he wait until she’d given birth? Maybe hoped—” stumble, redirect, “she’d come back on her own, and when she didn’t… But children change things, for most people, at least. Either he failed to calculate for that, or he didn’t care. Foolish, either way. And he had to have known it was a suicide run, unless he didn’t know who he was tangling with? That seems unlikely. Was he planning on killing her, then, was that always the aim if she didn’t agree to go back with him?” Half a beat, and then, “Would knowing that have changed her mind? Did he get his way anyway? What—” was she like? What did you see in her? How well did she understand you?

Mazie grimaces and shakes her head, suddenly aware of how much she’s said. “Um. Sorry. That was, uh, a lot more than you asked for.” Embarrassment heats her cheeks. “And like I said, I don’t… really think there are answers to be had.” Her arms wrap around her torso, a protective barrier as she braces for the impending rejection. She should have given in to that initial instinct to dodge.

  He checks with a look – does it sound fun? It didn’t sound sarcastic, but he’s still unsure if she’s being honest or just eager to impress. She didn’t immediately balk, though, so he’ll take it. He nods. They’ll go for ledges if the pass doesn’t work out.

  The passenger door opens with a ca-CHUNK, smooth swinging despite the age and weight. “Not this time.” Jack stands by to offer aid with the sizeable step-up into the cabin, also silently pointing out the handle inside the door if she prefers that as an anchor to his hand or shoulder. Then another chunk closed, he scans the sky again as he circles around, and he swings, practiced and comfortable, into the driver's well. The trucks roars to life and they set out.

  Down the road, windows down, the wind pulls through to whip hair and the loose ends of sleeves. The truck is high enough —rolling over the earth with little regard for the state of the crumbling road that loops them back toward the rest of the zones— that there's no risk of the grit the tires kick up coming through. For now, the only concern is keeping to the old path, keeping an eye out for anyone else, and knowing when to break away. Until then, the rumble of the engine and rush of the wind melt the travel time into a mush.

  At some point, the amicable quiet creeps toward... something else. Jack glances Mazie's way now and then, trying to feel it out. She doesn't give a great deal away. But it's not the same mask as he first saw. His eyes are pointed west, the truck diverging from the road onto a rougher stretch, when he says “Alright. Shoot.” He adjusts his grip on the wheel. They bounce their way through a shallow ditch. “You've thought of a hundred questions at least since we left. What's eating you?”

[lcfthaunted]

“That’s a yes,” she grumbles, drawing her knees up as she turns her face away again. This one was—what, a sophomore when she died? The memory pops up unbidden, and Mazie winces as the information cascades through her head, pressing the heel of her hand against her temple. It’s deeply unfair that she still gets these headaches after dying.

Madelyn Magson, class of oh-seven. Madelyn, Maddy, Mad mad Mads, sophomore suicide, 2005. Moved here after— well, that explains the suicide, doesn’t it? Should’ve done that at home, Kid, or in the forest out back. Outside the fences. Anywhere but here. Not that that’s helpful commentary—too late now. Stuck, stuck, stuck, just like her, just like the rest of them, no way out, no one to trust, nothing to do—

“Will you shut up,” she hisses to herself, digging her knuckles into her temple. She rubs her free hand hard across her forehead, the splitting pounding throbbing angry loud loud loud draining her energy. Her mind eventually blurs white, finally quieting to the usual constant murmur, giving her the space to shove the memory back in its place, try to lock everything away again. Two years before— She digs her knuckles into both temples, and she doesn’t let up until she’s sure her head’s gone quiet again.

She half-turns back to Maddy, a decade more exhausted than she had been before the interruption. “Never managed to sleep there myself. Everyone knows of it, too much traffic. Theater department usually has some prop or another that works. ’Course, anyone who’s anyone’d tell you to stay away from the auditorium after-hours, because Mina gets stuck and I get mean.” She shrugs one shoulder, the corner of her lips lifting in a wry smile. It’s how she likes it, how she prefers it—left alone. “It passes the time.” And her head can’t be loud if she’s—whatever passes for unconscious in the dead. Mazie tips her head, realizing. You’re slowing down— “Been dead almost twenty years, you’ve never tried it?”

  Drifts in like a slow breeze. Following... something. It slips out of her reach as she as she comes to the thought of it. Skipping her eyes in a circle doesn't reveal it to her again. Whatever drew her here, she can't find or remember. The question focuses her in a little clearer— her brows draw downward.

  “We're dead,” she intones, confused, “we don't sleep.” ...Right? ...She's never actually tried. Never tired, exactly. Not in the same way as when she was alive. Nothing had ever really compelled her to curl up and close her eyes, here. No sleepy yawns or.. or. “...Where would you even- ?”

  Her arms... they're crossed, loosely, over her ribs, and she pulls them a little tighter. Squeezing. Solid, sort of. As solid as things got. She makes a face. “Tell me you haven't been putting your face on that couch in the lounge?! That thing's been here forever.” God knows how many sweaty teacher butts have touched it.

[lcfthaunted]

@desertpoison

She’s nestled in a bar stool against the wall, nursing her one drink of the night, speaker over her head keeping anyone from trying to talk to her—for the most part. She knows Zach doesn’t exactly work ‘hours’; she could be waiting for a while before her brother’s free again, but she doesn’t mind a bit. It’s fun, sitting here and people watching, piecing people together from what she can see. Even when dracs or crows show up out of uniform—something she’s almost certain they’re not supposed to be doing—they’re easy to pick out of the crowd. The ’joys hanging around see it, too; she watches them react almost subconsciously to the BLI security. It’s fascinating.

She also notices when the ’joys react to something else. The redhead comes through the back door—odd. Rickie hadn’t mentioned anything about a new staff member, since they usually crash in the bed she’s currently using, but only staff and very select few others are allowed in the back. She’s only among that number because she’s Zach’s (Rocket’s) sister and visiting him. She doesn’t think she’d be allowed in the back if she was just passing through with her crew, so this stranger-to-her having access certainly sparks her interest—and a ripple goes through the crowd. A ripple she knows, a ripple she recognizes; she’d triggered similar reactions, back when. Well, that narrows the possibilities of this ’joy’s identity considerably.

She doesn’t watch, but keeps an awareness of where the famous face is. It’s interesting, the way the rest of the room reacts, familiarity leaving a sour taste in her mouth. She sips her drink. The staff, especially the Shop girls, seem perfectly at ease with them, though. She waits until they’ve drawn near enough to hear her before leaning across the hightop mounted to the wall. “Cos get ahold’a ya?” she asks with a grin, nodding to their makeup. Cosmic Violence is one of the younger Shop girls, young enough that Mazie’s not sure how she feels about Cos working here. Although, she decides, better here where she can be protected than out on her own.

[lcfthaunted]

Toy Soldiers

tw : gun violence, restraints, suicidal ideation, death

“Oh, babe, I am wiped,” Mazileah begs. “I just wanna take off these heels and crash. Look, we’ll start early tomorrow, yeah? If I haven’t gotten back to you by, like, what, three? Then send for security,” she jokes.

Baileigh sighs, but smiles. “Fine. Three sharp, though, yeah?”

“Three sharp,” she agrees, kissing her friend’s cheek. She waits until Baileigh reaches the elevator before unlocking her front door. Mazileah closes the door behind her and sags against it, sighing in relief. It has been a long night of smiling and simpering and selling; people forget that this is her job. She massages her temples with one hand as the other blindly unbuckles her ankle straps, letting the heels thump to the floor. She leaves them in front of the door as she finally enters her apartment proper, taking off her jewelry as it goes. She dumps it on her entryway table—a problem for future her—and reaches to unclasp her necklace.

“Hello, Mazileah.”

Ice slides down her spine. No one should be in here. The voice is unfamiliar, masculine, and far too comfortable. Her skin is already crawling when she turns toward its source, pearl smile plastered in place. “Uh. Hi?” She tips her head in confusion. “Are you my new security guard?”

“Something like that.”

Her eyes light on the gun in his hands, and her gut twists, cold spreading through her chest. She can already tell at a glance he’s not S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W—posture’s wrong, shoes are wrong, the way he holds the gun is wrong—and knows nothing good comes from armed civilians. “Alright,” she says, as if nothing’s amiss. “How ‘bout we go get to know each other, then? Since you’ll be around. Drink?” She turns to the wet bar she keeps stocked for parties, and the SOS button hidden there.

She freezes mid-step at the telltale whine of a gun being charged. “We can stay over here, Mazileah.”

Back to him, she closes her eyes and swears silently before turning the smile back on. “Sure thing.” She crosses to the kitchen instead, away from security, and pulls out a bar stool to sit. “Though, if we’re gonna be up for a while, I’m gonna need some caffeine.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, turning to her coffee machine. She pulls a face as his back’s turned; she doesn’t like coffee. “We’ll stop these late nights. It might take a little for your sleep cycle to recover, but it’ll be better for you in the long run.”

“Stop?” she asks with an incredulous laugh. “Baby, I’m not stopping anything.”

He turns back to her, severe. “These parties are no good for you,” he scolds.

She goes cold; enough sweet plastic pearl. “These parties are my job,” she shoots back. “This is what I’m paid to do. Are you going to stand up against Better Living? Are you a killjoy?” Her tone is viciously accusatory, as if being a killjoy is the worst thing she could think of.

“No,” he stresses defensively. “No, of course not. But…” This news has obviously unsettled his plans. The machine behind him starts spitting out coffee, and he turns back to it.

Her eyes fall to the gun again, and she wonders if she can disarm him. It’s hard to judge his physical strength, and she hasn’t exactly been building muscle herself; her exercise is all focused on building her stamina. She’s never been shot before, but she can’t imagine it’s pleasant, even with the gun at its lowest setting. She doesn’t like having unmeasurable variables, and the gun sets all her calculations askew.

He sets the coffee in front of her, and she doesn’t reach for it. In a hand-to-hand, she thinks she could manage herself well enough to at least alert security. Without the gun, she would have pressed him until he snapped, and used his distracted state to arm herself and knock him out. With the gun, she’s too afraid of aggravating him, unsure if snapping whatever narrative he’s spun for himself would end with her dead. Leaning on BLI’s authority seems to be a safe bet for now, but she’s not sure how long that would hold. He may not know—or believe—the extent of their control over her. Of course, feeding the narrative could protect her, and might even buy her enough freedom to alert security, but might put her in more danger in the long run. She’d have to bet on getting an SOS out before he started pushing for more, and it wasn’t exactly a safe bet. Still, it’s her only choice.

She reaches for the coffee.

It’s a long handful of hours, trying to get him to trust her enough to let her leave the kitchen. Note to self, she thinks at one point, panic button under the sink. She has another cup of coffee, and then makes tea herself, even though the proximity makes her skin crawl. When he accepts her offer to fix them something to eat, an idea occurs. He doesn’t let her use the stove—smart, she thinks sourly—or get too close to the knife block. It’s a bit of a struggle to put something together with those limitations, but she manages. She attempts to move them to a table, but the gun nixes that, again.

And then, miracle of miracles, he sets the gun down to eat.

She bides her time; it wouldn’t do to grab for it too quickly. He needs to lower his guard a little more, be a little slower on the uptake, to give her the chance to actually get her hands on it. So she plies more food on him, keeping up the chatter and keeping her eyes off the gun to keep him from noticing. When he seems his most distracted, she lunges for the gun.

Too slow; he catches her wrist and throws her away. She stumbles and doesn’t see the slap coming, sending her sprawling on the tile floor with a cry. She looks up at him, expecting to see the gun pointed at her again, and sees something much worse in his hands; a roll of duct tape. He overpowers her easily, and she can barely think through her panic as he wraps the tape around her wrists first, then ankles. She only barely hears him scolding her for misbehaving, as though she’s a pet in need of training. Oh, god. He might actually see her that way, and her profiling hadn’t made space for that interpretation. No wonder her read on him was so off.

No one is going to even think of checking on her until early evening, and now she’s not sure she’ll survive that long. Judging by the light outside, she assumes it’s roughly mid-morning by now. She’ll be lucky if she makes it to the time she’d given Baileigh, and she doubts her friend would think much of her tardiness. She’s been reckless and stupid, and now she has no way to even try sending for help. Fear and frustration build, tears burning her eyes in response.

He crouches next to her, strokes her hair comfortingly. She wants to bite him. “It’s okay,” he assures her. “I know this will take some getting used to for you. But I promise, this is in your best interest.”

She doesn’t respond, unsure she can keep her head if she tries to say anything just now. She wishes, not for the first time, that the persona she’d built was a little more of a bitch. She can’t bite back the way she’d like to without raising suspicion, and she can’t afford to let him think she’s anything other than what he expects from her if she wants to see the end of this.

And then, a voice whispers in the back of her mind, would that be so bad? She wasn’t supposed to live this long anyway. She’d be free of the nonsense Better Living wants from her, free of the mind-numbing boredom, free of the empty nightmares that haunt her. Her eyes fix on him again, scanning him over and picking him apart as best she can. She’s a little rusty—the Center celebrities she rubs elbows with aren’t the most layered of people—but she warms quickly. She could do this when she was as high as she could possibly get, back in Neon; it had to be easier now that she’s sober.

She lets the tears stay in her eyes, keeps her mouth shut, and lets him talk. She’s exhausted, is approaching too-many-hours awake, and her hands are slowly going numb. The anger that she’d almost forgotten simmering under her skin rises to a boil.

It’s sometime after noon that she interrupts his plans for their future. “You’re delusional if you think you’re going anywhere with me. Better Living isn’t letting their meal ticket go; I make them far too much money. And whatever you think I am? Is the role that they have cast me in. None of it’s real. I am a salesperson. I’m here to represent what Better Living is selling. No more, no less. Hell, the story they have about my past isn’t even true. I was born in Center City, and they scooped me out of Neon before dragging me here, dusting me off, and propping me up.”

He’s speechless. None of this was in his plans. She’s no longer what he thought, and it unravels around him.

She tips her head at him, ice eyes burning cold. “You have built up this whole future that hinges on a nicely-packaged lie. Mazileah isn’t real. She’s a persona I built to keep the Company off my back. You know nothing about me. You don’t even know I have siblings.” Well. A sibling, and three people she once thought of as brothers. She’s not sure if they think of her the same.

She watches his anger spike; she knew he wouldn’t take the destruction of his fantasy well, but she’s grown tired of the charade. She’s grown tired of all of it. She keeps pushing, needling and needling and needling, pulling out observations and inductions and triggering the paranoia of the panopticon they live in. She only gets about an hour out of this, before he finally snaps.

“Be quiet!” His hand wraps around her throat, presses hard behind her jaw.

She simply glares at him, silenced but not stopped, and spits in his face.

He bounces her head off the cabinet behind her, swearing. It’s not enough to knock her out, but it does leave her dazed. She’d been angling for him to shoot her, but he simply reaches for the duct tape again.

She doesn’t make it easy, struggling and biting and throwing elbows best she can. She manages to draw blood, but it gives him the leverage he needs to finally get the tape down over her mouth.

“I need to think,” he spits once the tape is secure, glaring at her. He stands and starts to pace, and she watches him with hateful eyes. When she bores of that, she starts struggling against the tape binding her wrists. Her hands are half numb, and she can’t quite get through the layers because of it.

“Stop,” he hisses, finally pointing the gun at her. She does, but her glare is challenging. Do it. There’s no other option.

Still, he hesitates. Killing her is a last option; he wants her for himself, whether as a partner or a trophy. She’s no use to him dead.

She watches him struggle, waffling back and forth. He’s at least dialed the gun up from the stun setting he’d had it at—one good shot, and she’s gone. She just has to push. It’s harder to do with tape over her mouth, but it’s not impossible. She waits for a moment he has his back turned, then carefully shifts to push up onto her knees. It hurts on the tile, her skirt too short to provide any padding.

He turns at the sound, glares at her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She doesn’t think she can stand with her ankles and wrists still taped together, but she can certainly threaten it. Eyes still cold and challenging, she shifts again, as if to get her feet under her.

She flinches as he shoots the cabinet behind her. She doesn’t turn to look, but she can smell the wood smoldering. “Sit,” he snarls, “back down.”

She doesn’t.

She watches the realization cascade behind his eyes. She will never obey him, even if he managed to keep her. She’d never truly be his, no mater how he played it. “Fine. If I can’t have you, no one can.” He levels his gun at her.

She exhales, chin up defiantly. Do it.

And then her front doors explode.

She shrieks, throwing her hands up to cover her face. Her scream jumps in volume when he pulls the trigger in surprise and a bolt burns through her left arm, shooting out an agonizing pain.

She hears several guns go off at once, then a very heavy thud. Her left arm goes numb, spreading down to her fingers and up to her shoulder. She can’t breathe from the initial pain, from the tape over her mouth, trying not to hyperventilate. Her arms drop; it should hurt. It probably hurts? She tries not to look at her arm, at the body just in front of her.

“Miss Chevalier?”

A security officer steps between her and the body. Very carefully, he removes the tape over her mouth.

She grimaces at the pain, then carefully offers her wrists up. He produces a knife from his belt, cuts through the tape holding her wrists together. She sits back, careful, and offers her ankles. The officer cuts through the tape there, too. She reaches her uninjured hand out; the officer helps her to her feet.

She finally speaks. “My hands are numb, and I don’t know if I can walk. And my left arm hurts.” Her voice cracks, and she makes no effort to hold back her tears.

The officer calls for a med unit, then helps her walk out of the kitchen for the first time since she entered it, ten hours previously. She doesn’t make it far, and another officer pulls a bar stool to her before she could collapse. She’s shaken, and the officer who’d freed her stays by her to make sure she doesn’t topple off the stool.

“I never managed to message security,” she croaks out. “How did you know to come for me?”

“Your friend, Miss Atkinson. She said you told her to call us.”

She laughs, then quickly dissolves into sobs. She doesn’t know if she’s relieved or disappointed.

[lcfthaunted]

@ru5t • five times hurt:( five times the sender hurt the receiver or made them feel hurt. )

Even with the sounds of the Haven around them, the sudden silence of her knitting needles echoes.

“You,” she snarls, the low warning of a rattler’s tail, “don’t know anything about me. Oh, I’m sure those clever eyes of yours have seen some things, and your conclusions may even be mostly right. But you don’t have a single soul available to confirm or correct. I love Di, don’t get me wrong,” she pats the project in her lap, “but she doesn’t know me. The person she learned about was a character, an act.” And then the problem of her brothers. “With Ranger, you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance that whatever he tells you is absolute bullshit, and he’s good at making up very believable bullshit. Rocket might tell you some, if you can get through a conversation without ticking him off. And quite frankly, I don’t think that’s in your wheelhouse.”

The cant of her lips is harsh, mean. “On the other hand, I spend my time surrounded by people who are used to everyone knowing and so don’t always remember what they’re supposed to keep quiet about when you’re not around to remind them to shut up.” And you are so regularly ‘not around,’ she doesn’t need to say. You don’t know anything about me, but I do know about you. She lets the thought sit for a heartbeat, two, then resumes knitting.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” howled, hurting. She hurls a rock at the wall, hard enough to break it, hard enough to leave a mark. Mazie faces Tech finally, and it’s obvious her tears have been going far longer than Tech’s presence. “You’ve done enough.” She flees—shoulder check unintentional, but unapologetic. Now that she’s been forced from the overlook, she doesn’t know where she’ll hide for the rest of the day, but she needs to be free of Tech right now.

She jerks back hard enough that she stumbles a couple steps, crumpling onto the edge of her couch. Her hands fly up, open, defensive, to ward off any further attack. “Don’t—” she starts desperately, then gets stuck, repeating the word several times before managing, “—touch me.” She’s starting to hyperventilate, eyes wide and filled with a very genuine terror. It’s not Tech she’s seeing anymore, not exactly; she still has enough presence of mind to recognize it’s Tech and not her demons in front of her, but that presence is rapidly slipping. She cringes back—whether at an actual movement by Tech or an imagined approach is unclear. “Just— just— just go- go away.” Tears fill her eyes, slip down her face; she’s heartbeats away from the broken, desperate begging of someone hurt too many times, of someone anticipating being ignored.

“You so frequently remind me of her.” Condemnation drips from her words. “And then, just as frequently, you remind me you’re nothing like her.” She finishes off the repair a little more forcefully than necessary, and tools are set down with sharp snaps. “You may share a level of intellect, and a penchant for trouble,” she says as she unfolds from her seat, “but you lack her heart. Sometimes, I can even believe you don’t have one at all.” Mazie throws the garment to the ground before Tech’s feet, then steps around her—wide berth, not even the risk of a chance of touching. Perhaps some physical exertion in the garden will keep her from pulling Tech apart, instead.

“What do you want to hear, Tech?” She demands, whirling. Her expression is haunted, wounded, proof the needling had found its mark. Look closely—the blood pouring from her heart where Tech rent it open might be visible. “Do you want me to say that I love him? Sure, yes, fine! I’m in love with him! So much it scares me. So much it hurts me, a constant, constant ache.” She taps at her chest, at her throat, pointing out the pain. “Do you want me to say that I would kill for him, that I would die for him? Or, far more terrifyingly, for the first time in my life, he’s given me something I actually want to live for?”

She swallows past the now ever-present lump in her throat, ignores the tears burning in her eyes. Quieted by shame, she continues, “Or do you want to hear that I am well damn aware he deserves far, far better than I could ever be? So I will take what I am given and be grateful for it, because I know I don’t deserve any it. And I will hope—” her voice cracks; she powers through, “that he finds someone deserving of him, and I will keep my mouth shut about how much I wish that could have been me. Is that what you want to hear?”

She is too close to shattering. “I am aware I am an unlovable creature, Tech,” she says, voice somehow still steady despite how pained her expression is. “You don’t need to remind me.” She turns away again and gestures Tech off. Please, for the love of God, don’t follow.

[lcfthaunted]

do you know how hard it is to do Nothing With Your Hands? you end up doing Nothing, Period, and my brain straight up will Not allow that without self-destructing. unfortunately, with this recent wrist flare up, i need to cut Way Back on the things i do. i know this summer has just been like one hiatus after the other, but. i'm afraid i need another, and i can't say for certain when i'll be able to come back proper. i'll still be around, but very slow to respond, and threads probably aren't gonna get touched for. a While.

[lcfthaunted]

Thinking about baby mazie and doing everything she could to earn her mother's affection and approval and the lessons that taught her.

[lcfthaunted]

@cragsnow sent : ⛓️ • Sender grazes their mouth along receiver’s jaw before kissing them, slow and drawn out, wanting to savor it all.

She is in desperate need of a son.

Mazie received word of her grandfather’s illness, and wasted precious months trying to figure out how to have an heir without involving her husband. She’s afraid of stepping on the memory of his late wife, afraid of asking too much and being rebuked—or worse, dismissed. She doubts he would; he doesn’t seem the type, at least, but the threat hangs over her regardless. With the marriage unconsummated, there is little recourse for her if he decides to toss her aside.

Well, it doesn’t seem like that will be a concern much longer.

His hands are gentle and proper at her waist; his lips along her jaw are very much not. She clings to his lapels, breath hitching and uneven. It’s already overwhelming, being this close to him, having his mouth on her skin. And then he finds a spot, entirely on accident, just below the corner of her jaw. Her knees buckle, breath escaping her in a soft, “Oh.” It’s the first hint at what intimacy can do to her; the constant churning of her head stutters for a moment, derailed by the sensation. Oh, do that again, she begs silently.

He does one better, capturing her lips in a kiss. Her mind hiccups again, granting her a whole heartbeat and a half of silence. Mazie presses closer, chasing the silence again. She’s uncertain, inexperienced, but a swift learner. She relaxes slowly into the kiss, following his lead, though her hands remain tentative between them. The sensation overwhelms her until finally, blissfully, her mind goes properly quiet.

[lcfthaunted]

rattles mazie. what do you mean you have more new information for me. i hate you.

[lcfthaunted]

ways to ask about it.

"You don't talk about it."

"Will you tell me?"

"Some people never want to share. That could just be what it's like for you."

"It's not, like, toxic sludge. It's not 'share what happened or die'. But it might help."

"There's something you're carrying, and I think it hurts you."

"I'd believe you, you know. If you told me."

"When you are ready to tell me, I will be ready to listen."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Was it bad?"

"What's rattling around up there?"

"You obviously don't trust me enough."

"You want me to ask? Fine. What happened to you? What made you walk away back there? What did you never bother to tell me?"

"What did they/he/she do to you?"

"What did they take?"

"You know I'm on your side."

"Did he/she/they hurt you?"

"Did he/she/they attack you?"

"Do you feel safe when they're here?"

"You look uncomfortable."

"Tell me."

"I care."

[lcfthaunted]

@criticalfai1ure • doc : they kiss after an argument, mouths crashing together as if the words didn't matter, only this connection did.

“—Then fight for me!” She yells over him.

The silence echoes. Mazie's expression twists, frustration and over a century of pain writ across her face. “Our entire marriage,” she says, voice low, “I have had to fight for you. I had to fight against Wyatt, I had to fight against the Cowboys, I have had to fight… everyone, John Henry, I have never been your first thought. Even now, I have to fight against Wynonna and- and Xavier and people you already killed before.” She wipes at her tears. “Once, just once, I want you to fight for me.”

She can see she’s hurt him, and her victory is hollow. She shakes her head, turning away. She’s tired of fighting him.

He says her name, grabs her hand before she can leave. She turns to face him again—and his mouth crashes against hers. She clutches at him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, the other sinking into his hair. He holds her just as tight, pulled flush against his chest.

She hates how much she still loves him. “I can’t keep doing this, John,” she begs. “Either give me all of you, or let me go.” She pushes free of his embrace and leaves.

[lcfthaunted]

ohhhh. aiden and mallaidh don't know who anna's crew were, but zach does. the reason they're gone is because they were helping him on anna's request. the reason julieta's not dead too is because she was getting him back to the tavern. he thinks she's dead too, though, hasn't heard even a whisper about her since. (of course not; she changed her name.)