#001: THREADS

[pcnnyworth]

incoming message from @batisms — ❛ do you think i’m a good person? ❜

The spirits of Waynes past, present, and (at this fleeting conception Alfred digs his fingernails into his palm, mentally genuflecting at the doorstep of every deity to have ever graced a theologian’s texts) future cluck at the butler’s foolishness, looking over the spotless shoulder of his waistcoat with a ghostly glare that burns holes into the rosewood spine of the armchair he does not deserve to sit in. Point and laugh, dear and deceased wards. Send him on paid leave to a tropical island off the coast of utopia if you must. And they must, in the butler's most humble opinion.

Alfred has been testing the temper of the autumn tempest venting out Gotham City, has been executing the role of airheaded temptress with every salad fork placed at a non-perpendicular angle. The storm has come for their section of society at last, laying waste to a syllabus of social events and other opportunities for his ward to flex his brattish billionaire muscles. Currently the pair of them sit at one of many colonial tables near one of many luxurious sofa sets playing one of many chess matches. They have yet to reach the endgame, but the seeping drafts are sliced through with the cunning blade of an imminent Zugzwang on Alfred’s part. His friends were too smart for their own good. What were they thinking, though, making an alloy of that intellect? Did they think he wouldn’t soon dominate the world of the manor with his me-ness? Did they think he wouldn’t stink up each and every floor with his inherited scruples, leaving behind a trail that blazes through allies and enemies alike?

It is Alfred’s turn in both conversation and in the game, but Master Bruce has a question. One that’s bloody difficult to answer, as usual. Good to know the weather hasn’t taken much of a toll on his ability to stick a proverbial pole up his guardian’s arse.

‘ I am pleased by the objective wording of your question, Master Bruce. ‘ And there should be some sort of conjunction to that statement. Instead there is silence, a theatric flexing of fingers to pretend that his thoughts on the rectitude of his dearest associate are difficult to gather, not at the forefront of his cerebral cortex twenty-five hours a day. ‘ I suppose you are not expecting an objective answer, however. ‘

‘ I think that you’re exhausting, for one thing, ‘ he relents. I, I, I. How many stars have annihilated themselves since the day he traded personal pronouns for buying pizza as a bully-beating prize dinner? There is no regret shuffling along the train of thought. No remorse. Only awkwardness. Advice is easy to dispense, he knows. It is the personal touch that blocks the airways, ceases the exchange of gases. ‘ Ensuring I’ll get to use my critical illness insurance, for another. ‘ Brilliant move from the manservant, exclaims the terrible commentator called self-esteem. More contractions than advisable for a healthy woman’s labour have maneuvered into his speech. There is nothing more than he can use to maneuver out of the question’s crosshairs, the commentator adds on. 

A sigh. ‘ You are a good person. What other Sharpie epithets may be slapped onto the nametag of someone with such stubborn integrity? ‘ A sip of his tea. ‘ Why do you ask? Moreover, why do you ask me? ‘

[starsvein]

"Excuse me, where are the 'fruits?' ...Over here? Thank you."

Having gotten directions from the brown-haired civilian also browsing the shop, Veoc walked confidently to a display of colorful produce and picked up a bright yellow lemon from the pile. It was light—surprisingly so, and he wondered how the humans here ever imbibed enough food to keep themselves alive. But in the absence of infusions or nutrient solution, his best bet was to adapt.

He chooses a couple and goes to "check-out," coincidentally running into the same man at the registers. Nodding at him, Veoc finishes paying, takes out the lemon from his bag, and takes an experimental bite.

Crunch.

Bits of styrofoam cling to his chin, but the major general seems unbothered. If anything, he only looks a little disappointed at the lack of flavor as he heads for the exit while still chewing thoughtfully.

Nobody told him that this was an art supplies store, not a grocery...

@kleinstar

[pcnnyworth]

Never in Alfred’s most ferocious nightmares had he found a foster child to be in the publicity circuit’s crosshairs. Then again, neither had the horoscopes of national tabloids anticipated their little family dinner going so wrong so expeditiously. ‘Twas the season for uncompensated damage control.

‘ Mistress Emma, if I may… ’ A fair amount of dithering subdued the dulcet tones of his public whispering voice further, smothering his message. His knees bent ever so slightly to reach the young lady’s ear level without shoving her dignity in the restaurant tap-water adaptation of Davy Jones’s locker, his brow knit together with concern and his tie constricting strangely around his throat. He had thought bidding Bruce’s adolescence goodbye meant a permanent stop to dealing with stroppy teens, but if Wayne Enterprises had other plans, who was he to interfere? ‘ Mister Wayne’s obligations to the office are inescapable. The stars themselves decree that he wouldn’t have deserted such wonderful drinks and such a wonderful daughter if the sun itself weren’t at stake. ’

Stanislavski’s system had yet to fail him, and so he strived to turn the child’s frown at an angle adjacent to three hundred sixty degrees. To a more pleasant side of her face, at least, for he was certain Gotham Orphanage had been equipped with better mental health facilities in recent years. If certainty could come with a hundred per cent margin of error. 

Focus, Alfred. What did he have? A child, a drink tab as large as the tail of his tie, a ravenous gaggle of reporters desperate to make the front page. A napkin. Yes. In lieu of assisting Master Bruce in whatever perilous acts had demanded his attention for the night, he would make a butterfly out of the untouched serviette and hope that the girl would not request another one to dry her tears with. One fold after the other, Alfred–

‘ I’m acquainted with some of this establishment’s security, ’ he whispered at last, placing the revitalised napkin near her plate. ‘ Should you so desire, I’m sure we could find an alternate exit route to avoid the press. Or an early dessert. You know, to make up for Mister Wayne’s earlier deserting. ’

The flagrant sort of humour he supposed youth were accustomed to made Alfred cringe in his suit, recoil from his own body, reject his own tongue. Which was why it was vital that he learn more about this youth, he reminded himself. They were transactional associates when utilising conservative terms, complete strangers when operating with the truth and nothing but the truth. She was not Bruce, and it did not appear as though Bruce intended fashioning her into anything else, so Alfred would not treat her like Bruce. That is, he would not demand that she hurry up with the hors d'oeuvres so as to prevent the media from declaring the Waynes stuffy elitists unable to be satisfied with free microwaved garlic bread devoid of garlic like the rest of civilisation. He would establish boundaries. Boundaries that were inevitably going to be slammed in a certain foppish flying-mammal-themed idiot’s face.

closed thread w/@pcnnyworth

Emma had looked forward to tonight, it seemed like time with Bruce seemed to be scarce. While between the times of 9-5, it made sense, it was the absences during the evening that did not add up. She's barely had any sort of meals with him, and while not a lot of other families have in the past, she thought this was different. He wanted her, didn't he? Tonight meant a lot to her because it was not going to be like those other nights. They were actually going to be able to sit down and talk--and eat! Like any family should, right? For a moment it was amazing. She felt like she was in a family, and then within the blink of an eye, the moment ended. Bruce suddenly excused himself before the waiter had even returned with their drinks. No explanation, just that something 'urgent' had come up. Was it as urgent as the other urgent things that happened just about every night? Now here was Emma, alone. Sitting at a table in a restaurant where half the things on the menu seemed to be in an entirely different language. Was she supposed to leave? She knew when arriving here with Alfred that the entrance and exit of the restaurant had all sorts of reporters and paparazzi. What was Bruce going to tell them? That he leaves his daughter to eat alone on the daily? Maybe if she said that to a reporter and it made headlines, he would refrain from doing it so much. The teen stayed put, trying to mentally prepare herself to leave the place and be confronted by a dozen nosey people who pretended to care about her personal life. Her eyes stayed focused on the menu before her, trying to read all the words and not think about how much Bruce probably hated her.

[patroclusblossom]

where: outside, wherever when: day after the storm open starter

Lucas walks down the street, taking note of all the damage from the storm. So much to fix. It's starting to feel like it would be better just to rebuild the whole town from scratch.

He turns a corner and has to put his list away.

"Hey!" he calls out to the person. "You need help over there?"

[littlfrcak]

☠︎︎ starter with @kretina

¸ arena + flashback

⭑🕯️ʿ a semana antes dos jogos era uma das piores para se viver ali dentro; com os dias se aproximando , o tempo começava a deixar sasha irritado. apesar de não ter se interessado em entrar em alguma equipe, o semideus participava de alguns esportes e competia por eles. as olimpíadas mexiam com todo mundo do acampamento, não havia como ficar de fora de tudo. para tentar distrair a mente, não havia nada melhor que mergulhar de cabeça nos treinos de suas aulas já que, com também a chegada dos jogos, os campistas começavam finalmente a querer entender melhor seu conteúdo, prestavam mais atenção em suas lições. todo treinamento era válido para agregar conhecimento antes de irem de fato para o bosque. fazia alguns minutos que já treinava ali sozinho, o amuleto grudava no peito já que o calor do ambiente tinha feito com que se desfizesse da regata. a sorte de ter os momentos livres para treinar antes das aulas era justamente poder desligar a mente e se concentrar apenas em cumprir o percurso do treino digitado no computador da arena. com um último golpe em um monstro que tentava se camuflar para se esconder de novo, sasha finalizou a lição. a respiração ofegante era o resultado de uma boa luta. as luzes piscaram em verde para sinalizar seu sucesso e a simulação sumia, transformando de novo a arena naquele espaço branco; e só assim para perceber que não estava sozinho ali como tinha achado. “ ━━━ se quiser assistir a próxima aula, só começamos às 15h." ergueu as sobrancelhas na direção de katrina, ainda teria o local para si por pelo menos uma hora, ao que conseguia lembrar.

[clementinebriar]

[ IT'S A MATCH! 🔥 YOU AND PHOEBE HAVE LIKED EACH OTHER ]

CLEM: 👀 CLEM: stepping out on your man, princess?? CLEM: didn't think you had it in you @thephoebeyates

[walkingdeadshep]

ᵀᴴᴱ ᴱᴺᴰ ᴬᴺᴰ ᵀᴴᴱ ᴮᴱᴳᴵᴺᴺᴵᴺᴳ

Life had never been easy for Shepley Jameson O'Connell. From an early age, one could have argued that he was bound for great failures. His mother had done her best with what little she had, but truth be told, the misfortunes of his upbringing had prepared him for a cold and empty world — a world where order failed to exist and wrongdoings weren't in short supply. His criminal history, forged by the hand of another or not didn't matter. Truth was, nothing mattered outside of the two people he'd searched for as if his life depended upon it... upon them. Most days, it did. For years, he'd replayed the final moments over and over in an attempt at finding out where he'd gone wrong. If he'd made a different choice, if he had listened to Liv — if if if. Against every suggestion made by others, Shepley had held on tightly to the idea of finding them. It was the only thing anchoring him to the broken world, the only true reason he hadn't given up. It was an unexpected group that had swiftly taken him in, their compound safe from the outside world. Dangers lurked within, but after weeks of settling in and being promised aid in search efforts, he'd made his spot permanent. Everything that followed was a means to a particular end — find Liv, find Anya. It was impossible to harbor any guilt with such blindness, despite the stomach turning tasks bestowed upon him at times. News of another settlement had spread like wildfire through the compound, some curious, some furious, and some uncaring. Negan, the self-proclaimed leader that instilled fear in those who questioned him, was among the curious. If the other settlement, Alexandria as it were named, was a threat, he needed to know for the safety of his people. It was the very reason that Shepley found himself face to face with the barbed wire bat carrying leader who wore a smirk as often as his leather jacket. The plan was simple, as was the story. Shepley would stumble within range of the settlement, obtain an invite within, learn from the settlement, and report back. If he failed, the implication was just as simple — failure meant becoming walker bait and becoming walker bait meant losing every chance to find them. ( CURRENT TIME ) "Your kindness is appreciated. Not many people offer that much anymore." For two days, he'd sat in a dimly lit cell. He'd been questioned gently by members of the settlement, each as worried as the one before them. A part of him wanted to spew the truth, but doing so was a far bigger risk than he cared to take. He'd barely gotten off the string of gratitude when the un-oiled hinges of a door sang with the arrival of someone else. The man slowly turned, a smile on his mouth as a sign of good faith, but said smile faded as everything grew quiet around him. Before him stood the very woman he'd been searching for. His heart dared to beat out of his chest, his gaze unwavering. It was the gentle tug at his flannel that anchored him to the moment. According to the woman, Liv would be the one to show him to his sleeping quarters. After all, she was responsible for recruiting and hunting, the latter being why she hadn't been the one to bring him in. "Thank you," he muttered, his dark hues only moving towards the door as it offered the same unpleasant noise upon the other stepping out. "Is she..." he breathed, unable to ask the full question as his gaze glossed over. If Liv was there, Anya was too. Unless... no.

[reggiellewellyn]

reggie 📱 peter.

Reggie: You know, you could make a real killing if you were spinning those decks in Ibiza Reggie: Have you ever considered 👀 @peterbasara

[rorysanderson]

x. status -> closed for @jacklynchh x. location -> forest lake

Annie’s been near enough to Rory where he can still keep an eye on her, but far enough where he can’t really tell what she and Jack have been prattling about since he’d started working on the side table some bloke from Chicago had wanted especially made for his wife. Or — well, he supposes Annie’s the one that’s been doing most of the prattling, knowing her. He’s almost surprised Jack’s lasted this long with her; most people would have sent her back already with an excuse. Most people, Rory’s learned, don’t spend much time around six-year-olds if they don’t have to.

He grabs the rag he’s hung over his work bench and attempts to wipe most of the sweat off his face and arms. He’s still doing this as he makes his way over to where Jack and Annie sit together, and it’s only when he’s close enough to make out their faces perfectly that he realizes Jack is whittling, and Annie is watching him, enthralled.

His lips twitch into a crooked smile. “Oy,” he calls to Annie. His little girl turns up to look at him, blue eyes wide. “Time to wash up for dinner, go on.”

“Just five more minutes,” Annie pleads. “Mr. Jack’s almost finished.” Her voice is high and so American nowadays; he supposes that’s one more thing he’d risked her losing, moving them here. “Please, dad?”

“Say thank you to Jack and get on your way,” he tells her. “If you stay five more minutes, you’ll have no time left for dessert.”

Annie looks genuinely distressed by the choice — still, Rory knows her like the back of his hand, and when she stands from where she’s sitting, he knows the prospect of chocolate pudding’s gotten a hold of her. She turns to Jack and gives him a quick hug, as if she knows if he sees it coming or if she lingers for too long she’ll scare him off. “Thanks, Mr. Jack, see you tomorrow!”

She scurries back toward their house, leaving Rory and Jack alone in the blink of an eye.

Right. He thought she’d give him some leeway, maybe wait for him before she ran off, but that’s far too much to hope from a six-year-old, he supposes. He clears his throat, awkwardly wiping his hands over and over with the rag he brought along with him. “Uh, thanks for putting up with her,” he tells him, offering him a tight smile. “I know she’s a handful sometimes, but she — she really likes you. And your—” Rory gestures to Jack’s latest project. “Your whittling.”

[pcnnyworth]

incoming message from @thedickgraysonrp — ❛ how did you get that scar? ❜

The electronic chime of the convenience store doors is almost loud enough to mask the young man’s question, to allow Alfred the privilege of unintentional ignorance. Almost was the operative word. Curse his militant use of ear plugs and proper air combat procedures. His latest adventure with the acrobat had required the application of both, albeit in manners Alfred hadn’t fully anticipated, but he couldn’t have kept the protection in for just a moment longer. Such was life, such was love.

‘ Don’t concern yourself with such trivial matters, Master Dick, ‘ he replied after a moment of consideration. ‘ I believe I should be asking you a similar question, alongside whether or not you would like me to purchase a few vitamin gummies. I’m quite partial to the grape ones myself.  ‘

A click of the tongue against teeth. Disapproving? Provoking? Enjoy the guessing game, dear ward. ‘ But assuming it is curiosity rather than malice that has gifted you with such gumption… ‘ he trailed off, grabbing a pack of radioactive orange crisps off the medicine aisle. It was a good thing for whatever their cover stories would be that the store was next to abandoned, considering the cry of the crinkling could very well have set off some supervillain's echolocation-exploiting invention. ‘ I was undercover in Paris and bore witness to a boulangerie brawl. Of course, I had the luck to be branded with a steaming baguette whilst attempting to break them up. I’m sure you have more interesting stories from your time in Blüdhaven share. ‘

And Alfred was interested, truly. There were only so many papers that could be delivered to Wayne Manor before guilt began to seep in about the carbon footprint of a butler’s archaic burdens.

[dailydanielchoi]

closed starter for @jiakim who: daniel choi and jia kim where: jia's house, deer park.

One of Daniel’s favorite things about moving to Blue Harbor and living in Deer Park was that he was always just the shortest walk away from his sister. Growing up, he’d experience a lot of instability, but since he met Jia she had become the singular constant. The time that they had spent apart both when separated by the Chicago foster care system, and when he had decided to pursue his law degree in New York had been terribly difficult. It was one of the reasons he had left the hustle, bustle and opportunity of New York. Daniel knew his family – his sister was more important than any opportunities he might have passed up. So, he currently found himself leaning back against the plush cushions of Jia’s couch, almost feeling more at home here than in his own house. “I appreciate you inviting me over, Jee,” Daniel said. “But are you going to feed me?” he asked with an exaggerated pout on his lips.

[starsvein]

A soft thud hit his cap before a small object bounced off it. Out of instinct, Veoc caught the item before it hit the ground and saw, to his surprise, that it was a tiny sculpture of a humanoid female with wings.

It was also cold to the touch, like ice—but showed no signs of melting in his palm.

He looked up again, seeing only a canopy of trees. Where had this thing come from?

The next second, a large shadow obscured his vision as a winged figure flew by overhead.

@anghexescu

[ryanlockheart]

sigma chi was renowned for their parties; everyone on campus knew that... but their halloweekend parties were top notch. it was their biggest one yet, and sydney was determined to have the time of his life. his lime green tanktop clung tight to his skin, and somehow, he'd worked up the nerve to wear a skirt. of course, the icing on top was the fake blood on his hands and neck. all he needed to complete his look was a ghostface — and there had been one following him around all night. he would've been creeped out if he hadn't have been able to spot that well-defined torso anywhere. maddox was easily the hottest thing that had ever sauntered into those frathouse doors. sydney wouldn't admit it — at least not sober — but he wanted maddox bad. his nonchalant attitude and his complete apathy towards being in sigma chi, something about it really got him worked up. he finally had managed to get maddox off to a corner by himself, and he was going in for the kill. "so, mr. ghostface..." his voice trailed off, his fingers creeping up the boy's exposed shoulders. "are you gonna keep followin' me around all night, or is there a dark room you want to take me off to? i'll be your next victim," sydney said playfully, a smirk on his lips. "promise i'll make it worth your while."

[patroclusblossom]

where: Chop Shop Mechanics when: the days after the storm open starter

Adrien opens the garage door for Chop Shop Mechanics. It's technically his first day, but he figured it's better to take some initiative. Especially after the storm.

He jumps when he sees someone standing on the other side of the now open garage door.

"Shit! Sorry. Wasn't expecting someone there."

He wipes his hands on his jeans, putting on a smile.

"Hi, I'm Adrien. New in town."

[littlfrcak]

𝕴 𝖈𝖆𝖓'𝖙 𝖋𝖆𝖈𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖘𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖔𝖔 𝖒𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖊.

— task #03

— tw: menção: morte, fogo, agressão (leve) contra criança.

ʿ a tranquilidade no acampamento deveria ter sido sinal o suficiente de que as coisas iriam dar errado em breve. mas a falsa segurança lhe iludiu, se deixou ser envolto no silêncio da madrugada e relaxar, dormir. o sono já o tinha arrebatado profundamente quando, de repente, a paz foi interrompida por gritos estridentes que ecoaram pelo acampamento. em instantes, o alarme soou, um som agudo que anunciava a presença de um monstro. os gritos se transformaram em rugidos horríveis, cortando a noite, misturando-se com a voz de quíron e os sons dos semideuses se preparando para a batalha. sasha despertou, seu coração acelerado, a adrenalina correndo em suas veias. de novo não. sem fogo, sem água, por favor, rogou internamente para qualquer divindade que pudesse estar olhando por eles naquele momento. trêmulo e sem ter a certeza se deveria lutar contra o que estava sendo anunciado pelo alarme ou apenas se esconder nas sombras até aquele pesadelo passar, o semideus pegou rapidamente suas armas – a espada em uma mão e a kusarigama na outra – e saiu correndo do chalé. o caos se instalou tão rapidamente quanto era possível ali, com semideuses correndo em todas as direções, tentando se armar e se preparar para o ataque inevitável.

assim que sasha saiu, foi atingido por uma magia poderosa que o derrubou no chão. tentou resistir mas seu corpo foi forçado a ficar de joelhos. para qualquer espectador, seus olhos ficaram brancos, veias vermelhas apareceram em sua face enquanto o feitiço o dominava. sentiu-se sendo arrastado para um abismo escuro, onde o passado se mesclava com o presente de maneira terrível.

quando a visão se estabilizou, percebeu que estava no chão de uma floresta, o cheiro de fumaça impregnando o ar. seus ouvidos zumbiam e ele sentia dores por todo o corpo. à sua frente, uma cabana em chamas. sua antiga casa. o fogo ainda ardia, embora estivesse diminuindo aos poucos. estava de volta ao momento que perdeu a mãe? seu corpo tenso parecia pesado, menor. uma olhada para as mãos e podia ver que eram mãos infantis, era uma criança de novo. recebia uma segunda chance ou estava sendo torturado com a lembrança? não dava para ter certeza mas não havia realidade paralela em que ao ver a cabana em chamas, o pequeno sasha não entrasse para tentar salvar sua mãe.

a visão dentro da cabana era um pesadelo. a primeira coisa que viu foi sua mãe, caída no chão, imóvel. ao contrário do que realmente aconteceu, a mulher não agonizava presa embaixo de uma viga, ela já estava morta, mal dava para reconhecê-la; apenas parte do rosto era reconhecível e estava marcado em suas memórias como um carimbo. o coração de sasha apertou, mas o horror estava apenas começando. dessa vez nada explodiu, nada o expeliu para fora para acabar com seus tímpanos; mas o que acontecia era muito pior. bastou olhar ao redor para ver que havia mais corpos no chão. “não, isso não está certo! isso não aconteceu!” gritou alto, a voz soando crua com dor e desespero. as perninhas eram curtas, magricelas, sasha tinha que encolher suas asas mas estava com as costas tão doloridas que não dava para guardar, apenas as encolhia com sacrifício enquanto avançava pelo fogo. o primeiro que avistou foi nico, seu irmão; o corpo inerte e tão queimado como o da sua mãe lhe deixou tenso. nico não existia naquele passado, não deveria estar ali. junto a ele estavam kitty e sefa, suas irmãs; os três semideuses estavam caídos encolhidos contra a parede, presos por uma madeira que ainda se encontrava em chamas. o desespero crescia em seu peito, cada passo um tormento. os soluços da criança eram altos, navegava pelo fogo sem parecer ser queimado, embora a quentura sem dúvida fosse sentida.

no cômodo que parecia ser a cozinha. anastasia e bellami... cada uma delas caída em um canto. a criança não conseguia continuar, queria sair dali porque não havia nada o que pudesse fazer para salvá-los; mas como voltar se o caminho que percorreu tinha sido tomado já pelas chamas? havia uma janela mais a frente e era para lá que ia… até que tropeçasse em algo e caísse no chão com as mãos minúsculas em brasa quente. o grito de dor foi automático, ao tirar as mãos do chão sentiu o quão profunda era a queimadura. ao olhar para o lado confuso no que podia ter tropeçado… viu melis. os olhos abertos, as lágrimas caindo pela face machucada pelo fogo. “você está viva.” ele murmurou baixo, a voz infantil soando assustada e incrédula.

“por que você fez isso, sasha?” a garota perguntou… e então os soluços cessaram. ela estava morta também. o menino gritou, engatinhando até a semideusa ignorando as chamas, a brasa, as queimaduras que ganharia com aquilo. as mãos em carne viva foram colocadas na face alheia tentando fazê-la voltar a prestar atenção em si; aqueles olhos vazios, sem vida, não combinavam com a filha de hermes.

a dor e o desespero o sufocavam, não era apenas a fumaça e o fogo que o impediam de respirar. o som de seus próprios gritos era a ��nica coisa que soava ali dentro junto com o barulho de madeira se despedaçando. cada pessoa, cada detalhe daquela visão era uma faca cravada em seu coração. e no fundo de tudo isso, o sentimento esmagador de impotência, a percepção de que não podia fazer nada para mudar o que havia acontecido; que de alguma forma parecia ser sua culpa. ao invés do fogo lhe consumir junto com a casa e com todas as pessoas que amava, as chamas… pararam. suas asas se esticaram enquanto os soluços escapavam livremente. quando abria os olhos, não havia mais corpos ao seu redor, não havia mais a cabana em chamas. porém ainda continuava uma criança sozinha, com as mãos no chão de terra enquanto chorava. o toque em sua cabeça veio de repente, um puxão no cabelo loiro e curto. o grito que soltou foi de susto ao ser arrastado para cima, colocado de pé forçadamente. “eu disse para você guardar essas asas nojentas. isso é tudo sua culpa!” a voz da mãe era rígida, irritada. o garoto ofegou, os olhos azuis assustados, o choro continuava mas de maneira silenciosa, confusa. a aparência da mãe não estava certa, metade da face queimada e tão escura que parecia quase carbonizada, a outra suja de terra, com poucos sinais da violência do fogo. “eu disse para você não falar com aqueles espíritos, para parar de ser esquisito. e o que você fez? me matou. a culpa foi sua, sua pequena aberração!” a força que a mulher segurava seu cabelo era o suficiente para arrancar alguns fios, seu grito agora era alto de dor. “você nos matou. você nunca passará de uma criança assustada que nunca consegue fazer algo certo.” o jeito como a mulher lhe jogou no chão foi abrupto mas tão familiar. tudo naquela cena era familiar demais.

ao atingir o chão, porém, sasha olhou rapidamente para cima; sua mãe vinha em sua direção com a mão erguida pronta para lhe atingir, mas antes que ela fizesse isso, ele gritou. e seu grito foi real, mas tão real que o puxou para fora daquela visão.

caiu para frente pois estava ajoelhado ainda na frente do chalé de hades. seu corpo tremia e os ouvidos zumbiam. não tinha colocado seu aparelho auditivo então sentia apenas as vibrações ao redor. não conseguia ouvir os próprios soluços e nem em seguida os próprios passos voltando para dentro do chalé.

apesar de reconhecer que não tinha passado de uma visão, sua mãe tinha razão em algo: sempre seria uma criança assustada no fim de tudo.

citados: @sefaygun ; @kittybt ; @ncstya ; @thxbellamour ; @melisezgin.

para: @silencehq

[mackmontgomery]

mack 📲 astrid.

Mack: Hello gay person in my phone 😍 what if I told you there was another gay person in my phone that I think would be perfect for you 👀 @astridlius