#It prevents wounds from closing and scars horrifically. It is and always will be a tool for cruelty. But is the metal evil? The hilt? No.

[phoenixcatch7]

The concept of good and evil as a cosmic balance of the universe as a world building thing has always wigged me out since before I could even put my finger on what.

So much of it, when improperly done (ie, good vastly outweighing the bad, evil must be eradicated entirely) is just... The thinnest veneer of a plot device that makes it so hard to develop any good sense of nuance or even real understanding. It reeks of propaganda, and self righteous at that, even when in universe it's a hard proven fact. And it's always the bad/evil being unnatural, inherently wrong, the mere existence irredeemable.

Even when there's a bit more thought put into it, something like 'there is evil in every heart, but we must learn to understand it, and accept it, so we are not overcome' still has, like, that black and white binary to it, like sure there's shades of grey, but it's still... Based around the morals of the creator? It's an entirely objective concept, this good and evil.

Even today, cultures and religions around the world can have wildly varying ideas on what are virtues and what are cardinal sins that'll get you punished forever (even the words there are from one religion that famously cannot agree within itself). In the past global values were even more extreme as people learned more about the world over thousands of years (ye olde sexism is a big example).

Yes, it might not be true of reality, but even in fiction I still find works that explore the concept of a world order that incorporates good and evil physically or spiritually just... Off. Like that one terry pratchet quite from death I am going to quote very loosely - 'grind this universe down to its very building blocks, and show me one speck of justice. One atom of mercy'. The response is 'but people - we have to believe in these things! We need to believe in something!'.

Of course people need to believe in it. We do. We need justice and mercy and love and kindness. But to make those human concepts integral to the universe itself - magic forces of good and light and purity, and evil and darkness and corruption... It always sort of falls through.

But I'd also love to play with that. I'd love to explore other ways a fantasy world could work that could be misinterpreted by its denizens and good and evil. Something that has atoms or motes or fairy dust to make up its being. Decay and repair, perhaps. Warmth and cold. Light and dark as more than the presence or absence of radiation. The dark as a radiation of its own.

To say something is evil for its mere physical existence, I find that very hard to believe.

[dzthenerd490]

File: OC 17

SCP#: ADW

Code Name: Dusty the Healing Cat

Object Class: Thaumiel

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-ADW has been assigned to Mobile Task Force Demeter-4 "Animal Control". When she is on a mission, she is kept at the established recon tent to assist the medical team, this mainly applies for major missions.

When not assigned to a mission SCP-ADW is "contained" as Site-AM. SCP-ADW is allowed to wander the halls, cafeteria, the lobbies and other areas accessible to Level 1 Clearance staff and lower. SCP-ADW has been given a collar to keep her out of restricted and dangerous areas. Each area has been given transmitters that activate when her collar is close enough. It will release a frequency tricking her brain into thinking there is a barrier in front of her preventing her from going beyond the restricted area. It should be noted that this is the same method used to keep other anomalous animals in Foundation custody safe.

Foundation staff are to either treat SCP-ADW kindly by giving her pets and allowing her to eat the crumbs of their food. However, if a Foundation staff member sits down and find SCP-ADW walking up to them and sleeping on their shoulder or lap they are to remain sitting until SCP-ADW gets off of her own volition. Foundation staff that don't like cats are advised to follow the containment procedures or at the very least just avoid SCP-ADW. Any Foundation staff that show hostility or even harm SCP-ADW are to be demoted by a single level and provide SCP-ADW a meal as an apology, there are no exceptions.

Picture of SCP-ADW while curled up on Agent Zato's lap and utilizing its anomalous effects on her.

Description: SCP-ADW is an adult house cat with grey fur and yellow eyes, DNA testing shows she just a normal member of Felis Catus species. SCP-ADW has the anomalous ability to heal anyone she sleeps on with 100% accuracy. Furthermore, when SCP-ADW rests on someone's lap or shoulder, they feel a sense of easy and reduction of anxiety as a whole. Mental conditions such as ADHD and Aspergers have been known to fade after repeated exposure with SCP-ADW and even lead to the brain expanding in memory, learning speed, and reduce chances of developing Alzheimer's disease.

SCP-ADW is very moody, and hates being picked up so to activate her anomalous abilities its always best to let her come to you instead.  SCP-ADW has an anomalous sense to be able to see the true nature of people and often hisses at those that have or are destined to committee horrific atrocities. Given the questionable actions of most Foundation staff ethics wise, it's surprising that SCP-ADW even tolerates the staff at all. Though thankfully this anomalous ability of SCP-ADW has allowed Foundation staff to detect spies that somehow manage to get into Site-AM. It's because of SCP-ADW's sense and her ability to heal those she sleeps on is why she is labeled as Object Class Thaumiel.

SCP-ADW was discovered in 2022 by a Foundation agent named Zato. Agent Zato was off work and driving home when she stumbled across a dirty kitten on the road. She picked it up, took it home, cleaned the kitten, and named it Dusty. She was still suffering from pain from a bullet wound she got a week prior from a mission. SCP-ADW walked up to her and slept on her lap. After SCP-ADW left Agent Zato noticed she was feeling better, and the scars form her past wounds were gone. Agent Zato reported this to the higher ups immediately and brought SCP-ADW to the nearest Foundation Area base where her anomalous abilities were tested and revealed.

At the same time, it was revealed that one of the researchers there was a member of the Serpents Hand. He was trying to get promoted through the Foundation ranks to get his hands on more anomalous items and steal them all in one go. This was discovered when SCP-ADW kept hissing at him, and Agent Zato requested there be a more in-depth background check on him. After extensive research his origin was discovered, and he was apprehended by Foundation security. Because of this SCP-ADW is now considered a highly valuable asset to the Foundation and was sent to Site-AM. Agent Zato was given a position as security of Site-AM so that she could avoid further harsh missions and continue to be with SCP-ADW as the primary caretaker.

.

SCP: Horror Movie Files Hub

[notafraidofredyellowandblue]

I don't know why everyone's pretending and saying Till's scars are because of stage props. Some may be, especially back in the day, but definitely not now. We all know from what those scars are. And lately, for clearly obvious reasons, they've gotten much worse. It's truly horrible to look at and not be cause it's grotesque, but just how low was he feeling to have done that.

And tonight, with his arm profusely bleeding because one of the wounds opened...horrific!

It's really painful to see a man his age still going through it. In various ways, you can tame whatever is going on in ones head, but unfortunately, Till's never been successful.

(warning: skip this post and definitely the links if you are triggered by self harm)

It *is* horrific 🥺 very troubling to watch 🥺

Unfortunately Till gets hurt and hurts himself a lot, has for years and it is still the case. And equally unfortunate is that it's not just simply for one reason either, because if that were the case i would hope that someone would step in and just remedy that one cause.

We know that he did occassionally get hurt by problems with equipment, the Engel wings are said to have left their scars, and he has mentioned in interviews getting burned by pyro. If that were the *only* reason for his injuries, then Rammstein crew or management really would need to step up their game, and try to prevent that from happening.

We also know that some of the stage antics have left Till getting hurt as well, most noticeably Flake breaking a tl lamp on his back in their early shows as a regular act, they talked about it in Rammstein in Amerika (how US lamps are much tougher to break). We know Till in earlier shows made a habit of hitting his head against a microphone or a metal stand (vividly remember Schneider wincing at that) and laughing maniacly after it. This is imo part of the way Till likes Rammstein stage antics to be. Same with the videos, the band is always applauded for their integrity of doing everything 'real', but that also means selfflagellation in the Rosenrot video is part of it. This is Rammstein, they like to do things like this, even if it makes some fans cringe.

Then we have the offstage stories of Till doing a drunk bar game with Peter Tagtgren of who could hold their hand over a flame longer (no points in guessing who won, and as i remember it, had to have a skingraft afterwards). Or cutting himself to bleed over his poetry pages to make it less boring and his entourage helping to swap the pages (there's another video of this where we see the entourage actually laughing and enjoying themselves while doing so, but i can't find it right now, and to be honest...i didn't really look that hard...when i say i don't really like Till's entourage, this is one of the things i mean)

And then we also know Till has difficult times in his life of depression and extreme lows. These fuel his poetry in parts, he writes about his darkness, and imo that is a great outlet. But I could very well imagine that he hurts himself at those times as well, seeing how easily he hurts himself in other times. He has said before that he isn't one for therapy (i think said that he doesn't know anyone who got therapy and improved from it) but i really hope at some point he would find some way of dealing with what happens in healthier ways, without the need for self-harm. When a fan said something similar on one of Zoran Bihac's ig posts, Zoran replied something like "it's handled" with a picture of pills, which i understood in a 'Zoran and Till' kind of way (they both like to hurt Till in Lindemann videos imo) but it still made me feel uncomfortable..

The bleeding on stage in Paris was imo likely a combination of a recent arm wound (we saw it when he was photographed 'out and about') that had closed up, but that got torn open again when changing clothes or equipment, which i can imagine happens easily when your skin is damaged anyway.

And although i don't like to pull the 'age card', aging also has a detrimental effect on the skin, even a small bump can cause bleeding, let alone everything that Till subjects his body to..

Whatever the cause, the tour will be over soon, and he can be out of the limelight, doing stuff he likes. I hope if depression and dark times are the cause, that he is open to talking to friends or family about it Let's just hope that with age he will grow kinder with himself as well

Maybe he just needs to hear that he doesn't need to hurt himself for people to love him 🌺

[heyitssmiller]

Clandestine: Chapter Ten

This, uh... this gets dark, y’all. You’ve been warned.

@lumosinlove I’m so sorry

@donttouchmycarrots is the best proofreader ever. That is all, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

CW: gun violence, gunshot wound, blood, trauma, hospitals, vague reference to needles (not anything besides a quick mention, but I just want to be safe)

Clandestine Masterlist

The sound of a gunshot and the resulting scream that tore through Logan’s earpiece would plague his days and haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. Even scarier than that, though, was the deafening, all-encompassing silence that followed.

He sucked in a harsh breath as his grip on Finn’s arm tightened and his heart lurched. This couldn’t be happening. No. He’d thought of everything. He’d planned for everything –

And yet here he was, again, too far away and too late to do anything to prevent what was happening. He was left scrambling to react, just like with the honeypot. The helplessness made him freeze in place, paralyzed with fear.

Finn tried to pull his arm from Logan’s death grip, laughing confusedly. “Ow, Logan. Why are you-” He took one look at Logan’s face and his smile dropped. “What’s wrong?” There was a rustling sound over the coms and Logan held his next breath, listening intently for something, anything.

“Leo?” He dared to ask, desperate for an answer.

A muffled, pained gasp. Then a cold, impassive voice, “You should’ve known better than to try something this stupid.”

A thud.

More agonizing silence.

“Logan, you’re scaring me.” Finn said, voice pitched low as he finally pried his arm from Logan’s grip. Logan didn’t waste another second. He threw the door open and sent Regulus a frantic look.

“Riddle’s office. Where is it?”

At first Regulus didn’t seem to understand what was going on. Then his eyes widened. “Oh, shit. Follow me.”

Finn grabbed his arm as they followed Regulus at a run, limping heavily. “Logan. What happened?”

Logan didn’t know what to say. There was no way he could think of to soften the blow. Half his attention was on Finn, and half was on his earpiece, desperate to hear anything else. There was a shaky inhale, then what Logan could only describe as a whine. He bit down on the inside of his cheek. “I heard a gunshot.” He finally told his partner. He didn’t mention the scream.

Finn didn’t say another word, just ran faster.

It seemed to take years to reach Riddle’s office. When they got there the door was still wide open. The first thing Logan saw were long legs and a pair of shoes, the laces coming untied on one of them.

The next thing he saw was red.

“Baby,” Finn breathed, pushing past Logan and rushing to Leo’s side. Wide, scared blue eyes stared up at them, shiny with tears. That finally spurred Logan into motion again – the need to help, to stop the pain, to fix this. And he couldn’t do that in his current, panicked state.

He took a deep breath, forced his feelings back, and entered the room. Finn’s hands were hovering over Leo, unsure of what to do as he said something quietly, urgently, too softly for anyone else to hear. Logan crouched down next to them, gritting his teeth and examining the wound. He’d been shot in the chest before – he had the scar to prove it – so he knew for a fact that they weren’t supposed to bleed this much. Something was wrong.

He needed to get them out of here. And quick.

“Finn,” he said firmly, getting both of their attention. “I need you to find directions to the closest hospital.”

Finn’s gaze snapped to him, his eyes broadcasting his thoughts clearly. They weren’t supposed to go to hospitals, especially not with gunshot wounds. Medical staff were required to report gunshot wounds to the authorities, and as spies that was never a good idea. Definitely not here. The first place the Snakes would look for them would be hospitals. But Logan also knew that Leo didn’t stand a chance without one. This was beyond his own rudimentary medical expertise. They didn’t really have a choice.

“That bad, huh?” Leo quipped, trying to keep his voice light even though it was thick with tears. Trying to be tough, to put on a brave face.

It made Logan want to cry.

“Nah,” Finn said back quickly, a shaky hand toying with the gray tuft of hair at Leo’s temple. “you’re going to be fine. We’re going to get you out of here and fix you up good as new, ok?”

Without giving Leo any warning, Logan slapped a hand over his mouth and pressed the other one down against the wound, hard. His shout was muffled by Logan’s hand, but it still echoed in his earpiece and ripped at Logan’s heart. A blood-stained hand flew up to try and push Logan’s hand back as Leo tried to squirm away from him ineffectively, eyes huge.

Logan’s heart sped up rapidly, hating more than anything that he was hurting the blond – something he’d been trying so hard not to do. “Shh, shh, I know. I’m sorry. But I need you to stay quiet, ok? Finn, keep pressure on that.” He reached over to grab Finn’s hand and replaced his own with it firmly. “Don’t let up. Reg, I need you to help him up and get him to the car.”

Logan grabbed his gun and flicked the safety off as he rose to his feet. Regulus took his place quickly, and he and Finn hauled Leo to his feet as Logan looked into the hallway.

This didn’t make sense. Gunshots weren’t quiet. And Riddle knew they were here, he’d known Leo had partners from the way he talked directly into his mic.

So why were the hallways empty? Shouldn’t they be trying to catch them?

Logan didn’t have time to question it, not yet. His first priority was getting the hell out of there.

Finn moved to stand beside Leo, slinging his long arm over his shoulders. “I’m too short for this.” He joked, forcing his voice to not shake. He didn’t know how to deal with this. He’d never seen so much blood in his entire life. And that fact that it was Leo’s…

He didn’t get a response, which made him frantically shift his gaze over and up at his partner. Glazed-over eyes, shallow and uneven breathing, a slight sway as they got moving. He’d never felt so useless in his entire life, or so panicked. Finn didn’t know how to help, and that fact hurt. He always knew how to help.

The four of them snuck out a side door without being caught or chased, which Finn found odd. He wasn’t complaining, but it was weird, like something else was at play. It was too easy.

The sun was rising as they escaped, painting the sky in aggressive colors, angry and red. Too much red. All Finn could see was red.

Logan led the way down the street, breath clouding in front of him. Leo shivered from beside Finn, causing him to move in closer as they finally reached an all-too-familiar gray car parked on the side of the road. Regulus let go of Leo to open the back door, causing Leo to further slump against Finn. He shouldered the weight grimly, but didn’t buckle. Logan slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine as they loaded Leo into the car, Finn sliding in beside him and Reg taking the passenger’s seat. Finn heard the navigation app calmly and too-slowly start giving directions and then they were off.

Finn was practically in Leo’s lap, putting pressure on his chest with one hand and removing Leo’s earpiece and mic with the other. He threw them onto the seat next to them before moving back to cradle the back of Leo’s head, desperate to provide any support he could. He was cold and clammy now, and pale – so pale. Finn’s heart wrenched, watching glassy eyes try to stay focused on him.

“Got something for you,” Leo mumbled, and a closed fist brushed against his arm. Finn looked down as Leo opened his hand and sucked in a breath. Two blue flash drives, tarnished with crimson. He reached for them, stunned.

“How did you-”

“Snagged the one in the safe. Then Riddle got too close. Took advantage.”

“Nutty,” Finn breathed, taking the drives with a trembling hand and pocketing them both. He got a small, tired smile in response.

“Job’s done.”

He was right. Those two drives, plus the one Regulus had apparently snagged earlier, meant that they had all seven now. Finn thought he’d be happy when they finally finished the job. He wasn’t happy, though.

It sure as hell wasn’t worth this.

Leo’s head started to droop, eyelids fluttering. Finn, panicked and with nothing else to do, started talking a mile a minute. Anything to keep him awake. “You know what that means, baby?”

“Like it when you call me baby.” He interjected, voice soft and barely audible as he began to shake. His lips were blue. Whether it was from the cold or from the blood loss, Finn wasn’t sure. He hated it either way.

The car hit a pothole and Leo winced, going tense and screwing his eyes shut. There were, Finn realized with an ache underneath his ribs, a lot of things movies got wrong when they had scenes like this. They always painted it in one of two ways: stoic and heroic – where the injured person put on a brave façade and muscled through the pain or seemed unable to feel it – or stereotypical war movies with the blood and the guts and the blood-curdling screams. Real life wasn’t like either of those. This was a shocking, overwhelming sort of pain; there was no screaming or thrashing or anything like that, but it seemed to have stunned Leo into immobility and stolen all the breath from his lungs. It wasn’t pretty or romanticized – it was horrific and gruesome and raw and Finn was terrified.

He moved in closer and hurried to keep talking.

“I can definitely keep calling you that, if you want.” When all he got was an exhausted look in response, Finn pressed on unsteadily, fighting back tears. “But it means we can go on vacation, after you’re feeling better. Any ideas on where to go?”

“Somewhere warm.”

Finn breathed out a laugh at the slurred words, combing tenderly through blond curls dark with sweat. “I think we can manage that.”

“’M so cold.” He whispered, voice pitching up at the end, and Finn was painfully reminded of just how young the blond was. Too young to be bleeding out in the backseat of a car, that was for sure. Finn bit down on his lip, hard, and felt it start to bleed again. He didn’t care.

“I know.” He couldn’t hold back the tears anymore as wide, terrified eyes stared back at him, no longer focused. “We’ll get you warm, I promise.”

“I’m not ready to die.”

The small, broken voice was the final straw on the camel’s back. Finn let out a sob, squeezing his eyes shut as he pressed a kiss to a cold temple and lingered there. “You’re breaking my heart here, baby. Just hang on, ok?”

No response.

Finn sniffled and pulled back. “Nutty?”

His blue eyes were closed. His head was lolled back against the headrest. But he was breathing, and a weak, thready pulse beat faintly against Finn’s fingertips. The redhead snapped his head around to look at Logan in the driver’s seat, knuckles white against the steering wheel.

“Logan.”

“Almost there,” came the curt, tense reply as green eyes flashed at him from the rearview mirror. Finn didn’t understand how he could be so calm. Sure, Finn had been in stressful, dangerous situations before but this – this was hell.

They pulled around to the ER entrance and Logan barely remembered to put the car in park before he was out and pulling the thick glass door of the lobby open and begging for help. After a drive that had felt like hours, what happened next seemed to go too fast. Logan could barely keep up. Nurses following him back to the car with a gurney. Opening the door to a motionless Leo and Finn cradling him too close, tear tracks visible on his face as he craned his neck to look at them over his shoulder. Logan had to pry him away in order for the nurses to load Leo onto the gurney. And then, in a flurry of motion and fast talking and medical terminology, he was gone.

Finn turned into Logan’s chest and sagged against him, blood-stained hands gripping tightly to his shirt as he sucked in a trembling breath. Logan just stared at the hospital doors, lost as the early-morning sun shone down on them. It didn’t feel real. This was just some horrible nightmare; he’d be waking up any minute now.

They had both forgotten that Regulus was there until he quietly spoke up. “I’m going to ditch the car, get rid of the evidence. I’ll call Sirius, too, make sure they all know. You two get inside.”

Logan was pretty sure he muttered his thanks, but he honestly couldn’t remember. He just untangled himself from Finn, grabbed his hand, and led him inside to the waiting area.

One of the nurses working the front desk took one look at the two of them, spaced-out and covered in blood that wasn’t their own, and murmured something to her coworker before coming out from behind the desk. “You’re here with the GSW patient, right?” she asked as soon as she was within hearing distance.

GSW.

Gunshot wound.

It didn’t feel real.

When neither of them answered, she sighed sympathetically. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“He needs to be checked out, too.” Logan blurted, motioning to Finn, who looked over at him quickly.

“No, I’m fine-”

“His face is all busted up and he’s limping pretty heavily.”

“Logan-”

“Please,” he said quietly, squeezing the hand in his but refusing to look at him. He stared down at the speckled linoleum flooring, too shiny and reflective. He hoped his silence spoke for him.

I need to know at least one of you is going to be ok.

Finn huffed, but nodded reluctantly. The nurse gave him instructions that Logan didn’t really hear and then he was gone, too, leaving just Logan and the nurse.

The nurse put a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.” Logan said, numb. It wasn’t right. The voice was all wrong. That nickname belonged to a soft southern accent, chased by a dimpled smile. Not to this stranger.

“Ok,” she soothed, removing her hand. “Ok. I’m going to grab you some clothes to change into. There’s a bathroom right over there if you want to start cleaning yourself up.” She gave him a kind smile, which went unnoticed. “I’ll be right back.”

Logan meant to start moving towards the bathroom, he really did. But his feet were glued to the spot, eyes still trained on the floor, trying to gather the will to move, take a step, look up, anything. The next thing he knew the nurse was back and holding out a stack of clothes. He tore his gaze from the floor finally to look at a truly hideous black and yellow shirt.

“Here’s some clothes from the lost and found, dear. Come with me now.” She said gently, grabbing his arm and forcing him to move. They crossed the room to stop in front of a bathroom door.

“I’ll let you get changed and cleaned up, but then there’s some questions I need to ask you after that, ok?”

Logan just nodded absently and closed the bathroom door. He then stumbled to the sink, turned the water on, and began scrubbing at his hands. And scrubbing and scrubbing, because no matter what he did, there was still too much red.

Bang. Scream.

He kept scrubbing, watching the water turn a translucent pink under his hands.

Bang. Scream.

The blood under his fingernails wasn’t washing off. He grabbed more soap.

“I’ll be careful - I’ll be so careful, Tremz. You gotta trust me.”

His hands shook so badly that he couldn’t accurately scrub anymore. He gave up and reached for the paper towels, vision blurring with tears. His movements were losing their coordination, fear and frustration rising as the adrenaline from earlier dropped. His shirt came off next and was thrown into the trash can. He stared down at the shirt the nurse had handed him, some brand he didn’t recognize emblazoned on the front in electric yellow.

“Sometimes it’s ok to not be ok.”

“Fuck,” Logan hissed, giving up on the shirt and sitting down on the cool floor, his back to the wall. His head came to rest in his hands as he broke down.

It didn’t feel real.

But it was.

And Logan had no idea what to do.

“You promised,” he intoned vacantly, to no one but himself and gray-toned walls. “You promised me you’d be careful.”

***

Finn, fitted with a knee brace and ice pack in hand, found him folded in on himself in a waiting room chair. He looked just as miserable as Finn felt. He limped over to the brunet and sat down beside him slowly, looking over at a carefully blank profile. He’d been crying, Finn could tell from the redness of his eyes and the occasional sniffle. But he seemed to have completely shut down after the fact.

“Logan-”

He didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

What a lie. “You don’t look fine.” Finn stated plainly, wanting to skip the false assurances already and be able to help. He needed Finn, and Finn needed Logan. He didn’t think he could handle this on his own.

That earned him a dark, lifeless laugh. “Then stop looking.”

“Stop,” Finn said tiredly, all the fight leaving him at that moment. “You don’t have to pretend, not around me.”

Silence stretched around them for a long time, all-encompassing and suffocating.

“It was his idea,” Logan said, voice a low murmur and yet deafening in the quiet around them. Finn held his breath. “Splitting up. He was… so confident, so sure that he could do it. And I guess he was right. He got the drive, after all. Two of them, actually.” The redness in his eyes contrasted starkly with vibrant green. It felt like someone had taken Finn’s broken heart and stepped on it mercilessly. “I had a bad feeling about it, though. Just like I did with the honeypot. Should’ve put my foot down and forced him to stay with me-”

“No, Lo.”

“But-”

“No. You weren’t the one behind the trigger.”

“I let him go.”

“He went on his own, you didn’t let him do anything.” Finn reached over and grabbed Logan’s hand, holding on tight. “If it wasn’t you in this situation, what would you think? If our roles were reversed, would you blame me?”

Logan’s face screwed up. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is shouldering all that guilt.” The redhead sighed and leaned back a little, letting his back hit the chair. “This isn’t your fault.”

Logan didn’t exactly look convinced, but then again, Finn hadn’t seen many emotions from him ever since… well. Ever since. Everything was blank, numb, exhausted. They were both so tired, and yet neither of them could rest. Not yet.

Finn was dazedly staring at the landscape painting on the wall when Logan reached over to twist their fingers together. That one small initiation of contact was so telling - it was needy, almost, and desperate for comfort, for reassurance. Finn needed that just as much as Logan did. He brushed his thumb against Logan’s in a slow, soothing rhythm.

Back and forth, back and forth.

“Life has a fucking brutal one-two punch, huh?” Logan said simply, no humor to his voice at all. Finn winced, but kept his voice soft.

“Lo, baby…”

Logan turned to look at him, eyes vulnerable and hurting, but with an underlying hint of hopefulness that he was desperately trying to hide. “You called him that, too.”

People always said that the eyes were the windows to the soul. Finn had never really understood the phrase, not until that exact second. That, along with their current situation, finally got Finn ready to talk. What was the point of waiting for the opportune moment if the future was so uncertain? Nothing in their lives was really set in stone, especially with their jobs. Wouldn’t it be better to have some time with them than none at all?

He was tired of always feeling like he was missing chances.

It was time to finally do something about it.

Logan’s grip suddenly tightened, stopping him short. “Finn.”

“What?” Finn asked, following his gaze to a nurse looking between them as he made his way towards their chairs. He swallowed thickly, dread settling in his stomach.

Please let it be good news. I don’t know what we’ll do if…

He couldn’t tell anything from the nurse’s face; it was just as impassive as Logan’s. Finn’s heart hammered away anxiously as they waited for him to update them. Logan seemed to be holding his breath.

“Hey, guys. You’re probably ready for an update, huh?”

That was so much of an understatement that Finn almost laughed in his face. Logan sent such an impressive glare to the nurse that he visibly paled, then rushed to start talking.

“Um, it was a pretty nasty shot. How much detail do you want me to go into? I just know some people get squeamish or don’t want to hear about all of it, and I don’t know what you guys want and that one-” he motioned to Logan, who was still staring the poor guy down, eyes hard and unforgiving. “Is frankly scary as fuck, so I just… don’t want to screw this up.”

“Give us the abridged version.” Finn said decisively for both of them. He didn’t want the details – he’d witnessed them firsthand. That was enough for an entire lifetime, and then some.

“Ok. Ok, I can do that.” The nurse took a deep breath before continuing. “So the bullet nicked the subclavian artery, shattered the collarbone, and caused a lot of muscle damage. We removed the bullet, patched the bone together as best we could, and repaired the muscle damage. He’s being transferred to a room now, so we’ll come get you as soon as you can come see him.”

They both stared at him for a few seconds, processing. And then they were hit by a tsunami of emotions: relief, exhaustion, elation, so many others Finn couldn’t even place in his overwhelmed state of mind.

“He’s… he’s ok?” Logan asked faintly, disbelievingly.

“Well, he’s got a long way to go. Lots of PT, potentially additional surgeries… but we like his chances. We’ll all feel better once he wakes up, though.” The poor kid looked terrified, so Finn knew he had more to say. “I do have some questions for you, though. Legally, we’re required to report all gunshot wounds to the authorities-”

“You can’t tell them,” Logan blurted before he even knew what he was saying, the words almost ripping themselves from his throat. “The people – person who did this is still out there, and he’s looking for us. If you report this, he won’t hesitate to hunt us down.”

“I can’t just lie-”

“Please.” Logan said. It wasn’t a request. He didn’t think he could handle his partners in that much danger right now. They were still at risk, of course, but they couldn’t have that potential of being tracked down on top of everything else. “At least stall the report for as long as you can.”

“If they come for us, the entire hospital will be at risk.” Finn added, looking apologetic about it. “We’d hate for that to happen, wouldn’t you?”

How manipulative. Under any other circumstances, he knew Finn would feel guilty about it. But desperate times called for desperate measures. And this was Leo. Logan knew that both of them would watch the world burn if it meant keeping him safe.

The nurse looked uncomfortable and reluctant, but he slowly nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Could… could you make sure he has some extra blankets?” Finn asked out of the blue, eyes soft, if not a little lost. “He’s always cold.” Logan squeezed his hand again, warm and bigger than his. It was strange, how such a small thing could mean so much. The simple act of holding Finn’s hand grounded him, it assured him that he wasn’t alone in this.

The nurse smiled – a gentle, understanding thing. It almost made up for the train-wreck that was the entire previous conversation. “That I can do.”

***

Gryffindor Intelligence Agency was too quiet for the number of people who were crowded into the bullpen. Winter and Darcy and the elder O’Hara and Walker and all three Potters, Dorcas, Nadeau, Kuznetsov… Most of them didn’t even know Leo that well. It was very telling that they were all here anyway, a testament to how much they all embraced the team aspect of an organization like this. They were all sitting in silence, only a mere handful of expressions on their faces: shock, worry, and anger.

They were ready to take the Snakes down, and they weren’t about to hold back any punches. Not anymore.

They all looked up when Remus and Sirius entered, sitting up straighter and waiting for news. Remus was holding Sirius’ hand, seeming to not care about who saw. The notion sent butterflies through Sirius’ stomach. He’d have to bring it back up later, at a better time.

“Still no news,” Remus murmured, and everyone seemed to slump a little again.

“I left his mom a message,” Kasey said dully and Natalie squeezed his hand, leaning against his shoulder comfortingly. “Told her to stay put until we can guarantee that they’re safe.”

Lily winced at the mention of Leo’s mom and hugged Harry a little tighter. “I can’t even imagine…” she trailed off sadly, eyes brimming with tears.

“Fuck Riddle.” Talker said darkly. Everyone hummed in agreement.

“Regulus said that they didn’t come across a single agent when they were leaving,” Sirius said quietly, getting everyone’s attention quickly. “That was intentional. The question is why.”

Remus took control of the conversation then, eerily calm and calculated. It was terrifying. “We’re not holding back anymore. We’ve got all the evidence we need now, so we’ve only got two things left to do: get the Cubs out of there, and take the Snakes down.” He looked around at the team surrounding him, all serious and ready for business. “Who’s got ideas?”

They put their heads together and started to plan.

***

Finn turned the dial of Leo’s old lock as they waited by a bedside, taking comfort in the sound of the quiet clicks and the worn-down metal beneath his fingers. He had no clue where Regulus went. He’d returned from ditching the car three hours and forty-nine minutes ago – and yes, Finn was keeping track of the time – and checked in on all of them before disappearing again, looking a little spooked about being in a hospital. Finn didn’t want to ask; he didn’t want to know.

The redhead had been sitting in the same spot, with Logan by his side. Waiting, wanting nothing more than to hold Leo’s hand, but one arm was in a sling to keep his collarbone immobile and the other had an IV line sticking out of it and clear medical tape covering it. The nurse had told them that it was fine, that the tape would prevent the IV from slipping out, but it was one of those things Finn felt like he couldn’t risk. Everything in that moment felt so tenuous and fragile, like one small, insignificant thing could tip the scales until they were no longer somewhat in their favor. So he looked back down at the lock instead as he felt another sticking point, then wrote down the number on a small, square napkin.

How on earth did Leo do this in his head?

He continued rotating the dial, sneaking a glance over at Logan. He sat in the exact same position as the last time Finn had checked in on him; a silent sentinel, constantly keeping watch. His eyes flitted from the door to the monitor Leo was hooked up to, then to Leo’s face – which was where it lingered the longest – then Finn. After that he started over, a seemingly never-ending loop: door, monitor, Leo, Finn.

It was heartwarming in its protectiveness, and heartbreaking in its anxiousness.

All of a sudden, the readings on the monitor changed slightly – heartrate sped up, breathing slowed. Finn and Logan sat up straighter and held their breath, ready to bolt out the door to get help.

Long, nimble fingers twitched after too long of being abnormally still.

And then cornflower blue eyes opened, just a sliver at first, then wider after a few seconds.

Finn was so tired of crying, but there was no holding it back. It was a nice change, though – to be crying tears of relief instead of sadness. Logan gripped his hand again, shakily this time.

“Hey, Leo.” He said gently, voice wavering just as much as his hand in Finn’s.

A sleepy, drugged, dimpled smile.

And almost everything was right in their world again.

[imagines-ouran]

in the midnight hour

Kaoru x angst // ft. Hikaru

He had come to realize that death was not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.

11:50pm

It was the inevitable, the inevitable that dared to stare straight through his hazel orbs, hopelessness consuming his entire being as he hesitantly peered straight back at the clock from across the room. Across the bare, empty hospital room, pale vacant walls seeming to lack any warmth at all. Swiftly positioning his chair closer to his twin, an uncomfortable one to say the least, a longing gaze of anguish clouded his thoughts as he gaped at the ever so still body laying in front of him. In a bed that was certainly too small for the both of them, one without warmth, one placed to simply fill an eerie void that crept throughout that hollow space.

His world had slowly stopped turning a year ago, yet for some reason, the universe had shown no mercy. It kept on turning, against his will, the clock refusing to stop the relentless countdown he had dreaded witnessing come full term. His entire essence was drowning in a pit of sorrow and despair, gasping for just a single breath of air that had yet to surface. That very well may never surface again.

I’m drowning.

Eyes fixated on the clock, he steadily shifted his attention towards the frighteningly stiff body beside him, the support of a pretentious machine having been the only thing keeping this beautiful soul from joining the divine stars above. The stars that illuminated the night sky, even on the darkest of nights.

Yes, I’m certain. This is what it feels like, to be pulled under by waves, waves that disguise themselves as water.

He hazily watched as his brothers chest slowly rose, the ventilator having been the only reason for such an occurrence, hot briny tears blurring his vision. Tears that demanded to cascade down his face, but he wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, not yet. It wasn’t the time, there were still 10 minutes. 10 unbearable, horrific, scrutinizingly painful minutes to come.

And just as slowly as his chest rose, it sank. Sank back down into the lifeless position it was in. Oh what a repetitively numbing process it was. Watching his other half lay there, his chest continuing on with such an agonizing process right before his eyes, subconsciously pleading to be saved.

This sea that I’m drowning in is not made of water. No, it’s made of something much worse.

But there was nothing he could do. A gut wrenching statement that sent shivers down his spine every time he had been forced to come to terms with it. He was his brothers rock, his safe space, his protector. He was supposed to be able to save him from situations like this, to hold him and tell him that it would be alright, to comfort him with a reassuring smile that would prove he’d surely be able to fix everything. To wrap him in his all-accepting arms, hold him close to his chest, silently lacing his fingers through his brothers ash brown hair as he welcomed the tears that would soon stain his pale skin. To soothe him with a tiny hum, one barely audible, although having a tendency to bring solace to his brothers aching heart. But this was different. All he could do now was wait for the inevitable.

It’s a sea of darkness— crashing waves of hopelessness and despair. And no matter how fast I swim, the dark flood that never hesitates to suffocate me always manages to pull me back in.

He carefully raised his hand to caress their cheek, softly running his fingertips across his bare skin, delicately grazing it as if it were porcelain. A sigh escaped his lips, lovingly admiring the face that had brought so much pleasure to his lonely world. So much comfort to his worries, something that had a tendency to consume him, so much liveliness to such a dull place. A person who had shown him that this life could hold so much more meaning to it if they had walked through it together, hand in hand, as the independent beings that they were. Someone who had finally made him realize that they would never truly find themselves all alone in this world; they would always have each other.

11:55pm

That had all changed one fateful night a year ago, exactly one year ago, this horrid day marking the anniversary of his brothers accident. Memories of an interrupted classroom came flooding back, the sudden chiming of his phone, having almost ignored the call due to the annoyance that had consumed him after disrupting the others around him. He could remember the pure terror that had managed to take over his body as the news was relayed, how his body trembled beneath him, how his breathing seemed to hitch. How insane he must have looked as he stormed out of that room, leaving all of his belongings behind.

Although the most vivid memory having been witnessing his brothers bruised and broken body lay directly in front of him, stretched out along a gurney. He had never seen such a large amount of blood before, at least not in person. The scars that had tainted his body, the wounds that would stop his heart. Not once had he ever pondered the thought of Hikaru’s absence in his life, not once did he believe a car accident would be the cause of such a tragedy.

But just like that, as quick as the snap of ones fingers, all of their plans had completely shattered. Their future together now ceased to exist. It’s almost as if the world were taunting him, attempting to see just how far it were able to push him until his breaking point had been reached. The world had a funny little way of testing people like that, and he detested it.

Hikaru, can you hear me?

A dreadful expression illuminated his face as a voice echoed behind him, the sound of a nurse anxiously reminding him that it was almost midnight. He snapped his head in their direction, eyes widening in such a way that pleaded for just a little more time. He was already well aware that once 12am hit, he’d have to give them permission to pull the plug. To stop the titillating machine that effortlessly gave life to his brothers body, to watch the dearest person to his heart fade away before his very eyes. He knew that, as he had already agreed to such a request a year ago.

And yet a single tear had still managed to escape his glistening eyes, not bearing the strength to hold in such threatening emotions any longer, fists clenching as the realization finally began to sink in. The agony, the relentless pain that demanded to be felt, was too excruciating to withstand. His hand reached out to interlock with his twins still hand, the other gliding over the front pieces of their silky hair, pushing the ends back ever so gently to plant a small kiss on his temple.

Hikaru, please don’t be scared.

Clacking footsteps along the icy tile floor came flooding in, drowning out the soft breaths of his adoring twin beside him. Breaths he had been attentively concentrating on until now, almost as if to ensure they were still there. His grip on Hikaru’s hand tightened, squeezing it to subconsciously assure his brother he wouldn’t dare leave his side during a moment like this. That he would wait until the very last breath left his body.

Everything will be alright. Soon enough, I promise, your suffering will come to an end.

A hand rested on his shoulders, stiff to the touch, but he couldn’t turn to meet their gaze. He couldn’t bare to tear his eyes away from his brothers small frame for even a second, his last moments of life ticking like a time bomb. But this wasn’t life, this wasn’t living. Remaining on life support for this amount of time was long enough; maybe it was a bit selfish, but he had wanted just a little more time with his other half. He hadn’t wanted to let go, not yet, as he had hoped for a miracle that insisted on never showing. Body trembling, he gently slid the hand not occupied by Hikaru’s across his chest, placing it directly above his brothers heart. His face scrunched, lips quivering, every bone in his body aching to the touch. Restraining the tears that were bound to descend at any moment, he shifted his attention from his brother only for a moment, begrudgingly giving a slight nod to the nurse beside him.

12am

Their dainty fingertips glided across the machine, pity devouring their sorrowful eyes as they met his, reluctantly shutting off the monitor that had kept Hikaru in arms reach for so long. And he froze, a wide-eyed gape transcending across his face, hairs rising along every inch of his body. A pit of utter denial forming in his gut, heart pounding at an exponential rate. As of right now, his brother was dying. There was nothing left preventing him from the inevitable, as this was it.

Repetitive beeping echoed throughout the now vacant room, both twins now having been the only ones left. The ringing of the monitor kept an undeviating pace, although steadily slowing down every so often. His head rested above Hikaru’s, temple to temple, hand in hand.

Do you remember that poem I had once read to you?

He breathily inhaled, keeping his hand firmly placed over Hikaru’s heart, listening as the monitor slowed after each passing minute. And as if following suit, so did his heart. Eyes firmly closed to listen to his slowing heartbeat, head still rested against Hikaru’s, he exhaled once more. Such a simple process, one that he had taken for granted until now. A process his brother no longer had the pleasure of taking part in.

This feeling, he couldn’t fully grasp it— why he couldn’t save him. The answer to that question eluded him, the world around him too surreal to fully comprehend at a time like this.

That poem, Hikaru, it reminded me of you.

And then, there was silence. Nothing capable of describing the absence of emotions he felt in that very moment, a lifetime of words waiting to be said had disappeared. For a split second, the world stood still. And with the bulge in his throat growing, two souls that had been intertwined since birth had finally begun to part, almost as if he could subconsciously sense his brothers hand pulling away from his as he sauntered towards the light.

He smiled into his brothers face as the monitor flatlined, hand clenching his twins gown as he felt his heart beat its last pulse, the tears he had held back for so long finally tumbling down his flushed cheeks directly onto his brothers. Lifting his head from his ashy haired twin, he gently repositioned it to rest against the crook of his neck, gently wrapping his quivering arms around him. A silent surge of uneven sobs had begun to escape his lips, unable to deter these overflowing feelings of despair any longer. Uncontrollable, unwavering sobs, almost as if he were a child once more.

He clung to his brothers lifeless frame, not a word capable of escaping his lips, his sorrowful weeps drowning out any efforts. Uncontrollably shaking, not a single breath able to be caught, eyes swelling up with each passing second. This time, there would be no efforts to resuscitate him. This was it, the inevitable.

When he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun

[crimsonthehobo]

Battle Scars - (1/?)

[A/N:] Haven’t been on this account in months, am quite sleep-deprived and I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. Well, lunch now apparently. So before I lose the minimal courage I got, I’ll just drop this off here and hope it works! Don’t know when I might write the next part, might even not. Who knows. Mind’s wonky. This has been in my files for a long while, wrote it back when Guy Sebastian’s song Battle Scars got stuck in my head. Figured I might as well let it stop collecting dust. Also, considering I’ve never done this before, I don’t know how to properly tag. 

If there’s tags I should put, ESPECIALLY if they’re tw tags, please do tell me. [Summary:] The child of a general, the only survivor of a (frankly) unethical experiment, and the old college roommate of one Alexandra Danvers. Somehow all three of those things correlate with one another, not that you can remember at this point. You just want to live in the forest, forgetting the reasons for the scars that litter your body. [Warning(s):] Reader’s thoughts get... dark. Somewhat. More depressing, I think. Some people horrifically mutate too, so there’s that. Again, if there should be warnings in the tags or here that I should put but didn’t, do tell me. What else... uh, this is approximately 11k words long? Maybe that deserves a warning all to itself. Is there a tag that explains “possibly turns you into a modern-day cave person living in forests to steal from humans and wrestle bears”? Possibly a spoiler, but hey, at least it means you read warnings, so congrats!

The first time you felt like you’d failed, was when you had to leave the first love of your life. It was the only scar that had no physical counterpart, but you’d felt the mind-numbing pain, nonetheless.

“You watch yourself, alright? I won’t be around to keep your head screwed on for you!”

“Yeah, yeah…”

You rolled your eyes, pointedly keeping your focus on shoving the remaining belongings you had into your duffle. You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. You knew if you did, you’d break.

Silence fell over the room at your half-hearted response, the lack of noise almost making you regret not saying anything more in reply. And then…

“Do… Do you really have to go?”

‘Damn it.’

Alex’s words were shaky, barely louder than a whisper. The strained tinge in her voice urged you to look up from zipping up your bag, glancing over at the source.

Seated on your bed with her legs over the side, she sat hunched over as one of her legs anxiously shook up and down against the edge. Her hands were curled into fists between her knees, knuckles white as her forearms tensed from their placement on her thighs.

She looked so… small. Nervous. It wasn’t like her.

She was supposed to be Alex Danvers. A stubborn redhead that was tough-as-nails and was always up for drinking you under the table any day!

But you couldn’t blame her for not being herself. She was heartbroken, and so were you.

Though, it made you feel guilty that it was because of you that she looked so weak.

No, “weak” wasn’t the word.

Vulnerable…

Vulnerable seemed more fitting.

“I’m sorry.”

You looked away, but it didn’t last for long. You felt her tap your jaw; once, twice, then a third time. For you two, it was a universal sign that you needed to listen. That what would be said was important.

It was an action that would only take effect if done by the other, and no one else.

It could calm either of you from rage, or even help you fight the haze of drunkenness to be in some semblance of sober.

It was special. Meaningful.

Hence why your automatic reaction was to turn, to obey the silent request to face her.

“You’ll stay in touch, yeah?”

“…Yeah.”

Now you? You were weak. While the owner of your heart was devastated right in front of you, all you could offer for comfort was an unconvincing smile and a useless apology.

Her throat bobbed as she attempted to swallow back a sob, but the teary shine in her eyes gave her away.

Another surge of guilt struck your heart and made you avert your eyes elsewhere, anywhere, as long as they were not on her.

‘Look at what you’ve done.’

It was your fault. She didn’t even know why you were leaving so suddenly.

Your father had found out of your attraction to her, and needless to say, he didn’t take it lightly. A few strings pulled later, and you were being sent away to be “straightened out.” The thought almost made scoff during that particular conversation in his study, but you accepted the consequences anyway.

You should’ve been better.

You should’ve done better.

You didn’t protect her well enough.

The fault was none but yours… and the knife you felt in your heart would remind you for a long while to come.

~~~

 The second time you felt like you’d failed, happened two years after that moment in your college dorm room.

It took months for that scar to start to heal, but you knew it would take years before it would even begin to fade.

You’d tried to keep in contact, but you had your life to live and so did she. Not to mention the day your father heard of the two of you still communicating, he pulled more strings to cut you off. It was too late, anyway. You’d already stopped talking by then.

But whether the silence was for the better or worse was up for debate.

Just the thought of her made your heart lurch, and actually interacting with her never failed to re-open that scar anew. The space, however agonizing, let the wound heal.

Yet that very same space was what let you drown yourself into your current occupation. In order to compensate for the agony, you let yourself fall deeper and deeper into your work. Though at this point, you were questioning if you should even call it that.

Unknown to her, a month into your time in the military, a general offered you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

You found it hard to believe. You weren’t stupid, you could read between the lines. You knew “opportunity” also meant “ulterior motive.”

He didn’t prove you wrong.

When you walked into the conference room you’d been instructed to enter, your eyes immediately fell to the only individual inside.

General Lane.

You knew three things about him. One, he had been your father’s best friend. Two, he had a palpable dislike for any and all alien life. Specifically, Superman. Three, whenever he began to rant, just smile, and nod.

It was only the two of you there, yet you couldn’t seem to find it in you to focus. Not after he uttered the words “military program.”

You already knew this wouldn’t end well.

Though you remained silent, your eyes having glazed over as the static in your ears prevented his words from reaching your brain, he continued to speak. You only managed to catch bits and pieces, but you got the gist.

They wanted to conduct an experiment and were looking for lab rats. They wanted you to be one.

You weren’t surprised they asked. To everyone else’s knowledge, you had no one left in your life but you. Your father made sure any links between you and Alex were cleanly severed, meaning any history between you two had been cleared. You had no family other than your parents, your mother having passed while you were still in your single digits, while your father had done the same just a week before this very meeting.

‘Tch… no love lost there.’

But, considering he was a respected figure and a close friend of the very same general right in front of you, you had to at least act as if his death affected you. Your father had always been one for appearances, so no one outside of the two of you (and Alex) knew just how estranged you’d been from the other. Because of this, luckily (or unluckily, depending on what way you view it), people took your indifferent poker face to be one of grief.

General Lane wanted to capitalize on that. On you.

You had military blood in you (because apparently that meant you were exactly like your father), you had a “reason” to go missing (grief, hah), and—as far as he was concerned—you had no close relations that would worry should you ever disappear (you… couldn’t really think of a quip to internalize there). You seemed like the perfect guinea pig.

“…We need heroes around here. Human heroes. Not those monsters who could fall to their instincts at the drop of a hat, or at the touch of some space rock—”

Again, it came with no surprise to you that extra-terrestrials were the main focus of said experiment.

You wanted to say no. Fuck, did you want to say no. You wanted no part in this blind hatred. But then…

“—They’re never here when we actually need them. A group of freaks like him are planning to go after National City to lure him out, and where is Superman? Frolicking off in space! The President had an entire clandestine organization made exactly for roach-connected situations like this, yet they don’t even know—”

Your blood ran cold, your hearing suddenly becoming clear as your eyes bore into his.

National City.

Of all the places, they had to go there. You didn’t give it a second thought. You didn’t have to.

“I’ll do it.”

.

.

.

You had no idea what CADMUS was, just that they were collaborating with the U.S. Military to make you and forty-nine others into the ones that would “exterminate the roaches infesting the planet.”

Sounded more like “short-sighted discrimination with an unhealthy dash of xenophobia” than “rational thought for the human race” to you; but as long as you could protect Alex, you didn’t care how much of the mindless drivel you had to sit through.

You didn’t count how many times you found yourself strapped to a metal bed, or how many times you found a needle being stuck into you. Rather, you couldn’t. More than half the time, whatever they put into your bloodstream always made you feel woozy. Enough to make you practically perpetually confused.

Any recollection of your experiences during the experimentation were impossible to stir, and after seeing that one woman’s all-too-amused smirk a few too many times, you were convinced that it had been on purpose.

Before you knew it, another month had passed. Not that you would’ve realized it yourself. Your best guess would’ve been a week, if it weren’t for the woman General Lane had assigned to you telling you otherwise.

She was about your age, maybe a month or so younger. Lucia was her name if you remembered correctly. She’d been left by him to keep an eye on you, or to “keep you sane” as she worded so eloquently.

She was the first person you saw the moment you could properly think again. Her calming presence was a breath of fresh air, and for a moment, everything felt… nice.

Until a soldier barged through the door of your allocated resting area, screaming about an attack.

Time seemed to blur once again, and the next thing you knew, you were in the middle of a war zone. A mile or two from some desert base in the middle of nowhere.

Only you and the rest of the fifty who had been volunteered for the Eradication Program had been deployed. You wished you hadn’t been. The others were bloodthirsty, tearing through the opposition the moment they were ordered to. You, however, chose to take a step back and analyse the enemy.

Most of the “opposing force” looked to be human, not alien. None of them seemed hostile, either. Well… until they were provoked, that is. The human-like members of their group—who you’re sure actually were human—were being protected by their definitely-alien comrades, clearly not trained for combat or any attack whatsoever. In fact, if their attire was anything to go by, they all worked in what could be considered “support” occupations. Engineers, researchers, varying members of medical staff… not one of them appeared to be soldiers.

What was General Lane not telling you?

Were you really protecting National City?

…Were you even in National City?

You felt your comms crackle in your ears, said general’s voice screeching, “What the HELL are you doing?! Move your ass, Six!”

Right. Soldier Six, your call sign. Simply because you were the sixth one to wake up.

How original.

You huffed, and in retaliation to the general’s orders, you tore the device out of your ear and threw it as far as you could over your shoulder.

Because frankly, you didn’t want to. Not when you’d been pit against wrongly identified “hostiles.”

Despite your stubbornness to keep your feet rooted to your spot, soon enough, you didn’t have the privilege of choosing to abstain.

The other “volunteers”—all forty-nine of them—began to stop and convulse. Their flesh rippled beneath their skin, muscles expanding and contracting in an obscene manner.

Something had gone wrong. Horribly wrong.          

Each and every one of them mutated appallingly right before your very eyes, all of them attaining a different level of horrendous to another. Some grew limbs, some lost them. Others had extra eyes while a handful had one left or none at all. A few had their nails elongate into claws, others had a tailbone that whipped its way through the air. More than half had lost the colours of their irises—no, not just the colour. The pupils and irises themselves disappeared completely. It was a horrific spectacle to behold.

To call these things a shell of their former selves, would be insulting to the humans they used to be.

Was this going to happen to you?

You didn’t have much time for your thoughts. The one thing that didn’t change was the sheer amount of bloodthirst coursing through their veins. With the supposedly villainous aliens already exhausted, they wouldn’t last a second round against the other volunteer—

‘…No,’ You shook your head, fists clenched tight, ‘Those aren’t the volunteers anymore.’

From what you could see, those men and women died the moment the experiments started. All you could do for them, was help them rest in peace.

And you doubt they’d be getting any rest with their bodies wreaking havoc as these beasts.

Using the enhanced abilities you shared with the monstrosities, you slowly but surely took them out one by one.

They fought like animals.

Yet no matter how many times they slashed at your body, no matter how many times they lunged for your head, nor how many times they made you bleed, you continued to end every single one of them. You didn’t want any of them to suffer longer than they already have.

As with most things nowadays, in your eyes, the details were nothing but a blur. Everything felt… vague. Flashes of claws, bones, and agonizing pain run through your mind, yet no instance remained distinct for more than a second.

…Was this a symptom? Of the experiment, or the transformation?

Fear of the truth made you falter, and a skeletal tail surging straight through your right thigh forced your focus to return. But then so too would the questions, along with the subsequent terror, until another wound started the cycle another time. Again and again, until after what felt like an eternity, the last of them finally fell with an inhuman screech. It was done. But at what cost?

You surveyed your battleground, heart heavy and clenched in an icy grip. You couldn’t protect them, save them. Any of them.

A mighty hack then reverberated through the painfully silent air and caused you to flinch. Your head snapped up to turn to its direction, your feet already making their way over. You’d thoughtlessly skidded onto your knees, the coin-flip reaction bringing you to the survivor’s side. It was an alien.

Your eyes were wide in alarm, hands flittering around as your mind buzzed at what to do. There were so many injuries. Far too many for him to survive, alien or no. Your eyes met his, and your breath hitched in surprise. His irises didn’t scream anger or disgust like you expected. Instead, they were shining in wonder so innocent, it was almost childlike.

“You… Your body… did not… revolt?” the dying male grinned, placing a hand in yours to grip it in glee, “M-Miracle! It… I-It is m-miracle!”

For a moment, you were confused. Until you followed his gaze and watched as your body slowly stitched itself back together. One shallow cut in particular caught your attention, the damage slowly disappearing before your very eyes, leaving not a single blemish on your skin. You’d been so focused on fighting, that you didn’t even stop and wonder how you were still alive. After this day, there may not even be a single scar found.

At another bloody cough, newfound healing abilities were far from the forefront of your mind. Your vision blurred with tears, a sob escaping without your control. It was your fault. It was all your fault.

“Sorry…” You hadn’t spoken in so long, your voice harsh and throat sore, “I- I’m so sorry.”

He weakly shook his head, “B-Blame… not… on y-you. Deceived. We… We all… were…”

“W-What?”

With a wince, he forced his other arm to point to one of his fallen allies, a human researcher about a meter or so north of you.

“Necklace… take…” the light in his eyes was beginning to die, you could see it and he could feel it. Forcing a shaky smile, he murmured in his broken English, “Promise… y-you… not feel… guilty?”

“I…”

You knew you’d feel guilty.

You should, shouldn’t you? This was all your fault! You were careless and made a mistake once again. You didn’t see through the veil, you weren’t smart enough. You couldn’t stop the others, you weren’t quick enough.

You weren’t enough.

And just like before, people suffered because of it.

But… although he was on his last seconds of life, he looked at you so brightly. He was still so hopeful. How could you break such a wonderous being in his last moments?

You shook your head ‘no,’ lying, knowing this would be a wound that would last a long time to come. From the huff he gave, you felt like he knew that too.

Nonetheless, he coughed out, “P-Promise?”

You swallowed, feeling a fresh wave of hot tears cascading down your cheeks. With another lurch from your heavy heart, you gave him a nod and a shaky smile of your own, “I promise.”

His smile grew a fraction wider, “P… Pro… mise…”

His last breath left him, leaving the hand still in yours to fall, limp.

You were wrong earlier, there was a scar left behind.

The laceration you’d received from foolishly grabbing onto a tail, the one injury that had been obscured from your sight by his hold, had left a mark. You knew what it would be. A memento, of another time you’d failed. Of the first time your naivety took the life of another. You let a sob escape your control.

And another…

And another…

For hours you stayed on the blood-soaked sand, the coarse particles dyed red with the proof of the violent loss of life. By the time you heard a chopper land meters away to analyse the aftermath, your tears had long since dried and the last remnants of your rampant emotions were now trapped deep within, leaving only your now-signature emotionless mask. Thankfully, they understood enough that your mind was stuck elsewhere and didn’t bother to get a mission report out of you.

They did, however, cheer at the averted “crisis.”

All except Lucia. It was a small comfort, but a comfort, nonetheless. Rather than cheering, she sat next to you, a consoling hand on your shoulder as she murmured apologies for wrongs not her own.

For a brief moment, you wondered why she was here. What her role was in all of this mess, how she got caught up in it…

But when the others’ voices drowned out Lucia’s and all you could hear was their excitement and joy, your thoughts were immediately overrun by pure rage. Your stare morphed into a glare as your eyes kept themselves glued to the carnage below, hand clutching the unseen necklace concealed by your dog tags.

You were the only one who survived.

You were the only success.

You were now a monster.

 ~~~

 It was two years later after that, that the third occurrence happened.

Although you held a great amount of distrust for the U.S. Military, you never left their command. Foolishly, you stayed and did whatever they said. You went to where they told you you’d been needed. You fought who they told you to fight. You killed who they told you to kill.

All because of your own fear.

What if you were already transforming? What if your body was just one second away from fighting whatever gave you your powers? What if, the moment you left… you went berserk?

One “what if” after another festered in your mind, leading to you to forcibly suppress your own self and play their perfect little soldier, if only to keep your own body at bay should it ever run amok.

After all, they created you. The only ones who would know how to stop you would be them, right?

Besides, what would you even do once you left? They’d written the end of your life for you the moment you agreed to be a lab experiment.

Who would you have turned to?

Alex?

You scoffed at the thought. You said “yes” to help protect her, not drag her into the damn problem.

For a year and a half, you’d justified your stay with those thoughts, and for more than half of that time you let yourself be used as a mere weapon. It took you a year until you accepted the truth of your situation, and it wasn’t until roughly three months prior to your third failure that you finally let yourself see reason.

 .

.

.

 You sat up on your bunk, eyes on your hands, staring at blood that none but you could see. Sweat dripped from your brow, faint screams echoing in your eardrums, audible just beneath the vigorous beating of your heart.

‘I can’t keep this up…’ You released a shuddering breath, ‘How long will I have to keep this up?!’

Ever since that day in the desert, your nights were never peaceful, your sleep never serene. You’d long since gotten used to the endless screams of terror, the unending stream of unfamiliar faces contorting in woe. But what you hadn’t prepared for—what you never thought you’d ever need to prepare for—was for those faces to suddenly become familiar.

Alex had been petrified, the alien terrified, and Lucia… Lucia lay on the bloodied, black dirt, prone. Her face perpetually mortified. Even after you lurched forward in your bed and had left the realm of dreams, their suffering still danced in the shadows of your surroundings, the remnants of their frightened faces flashing in your eyes like some ghastly slideshow.

Their misery was because of you. You’d stumbled too deep into the haze, and by the time you came out, you had become what you feared the most. The cause of their torment.

‘What am I doing with my life?’

It was on that night that you truly accepted the reality of your situation. You had let your mind wander and, without realizing, let yourself function on autopilot for too long. It wasn’t until now, on this night—when you were terrorized by their screams—that you accepted that fact. But you felt it was already too late.

By mindlessly putting your life on the line, you had saved hundreds of lives—or so you were told. Yet for every life you saved, you knew there had been at least one you’d taken in return.

Your comrades rejoiced at your feats, and even a few of the higher-ups praised your work.

And yet…

Why did you feel nothing? Why did you feel out of place?

Why did you feel like you were doing something you weren’t meant to?

You’d been confused, very much so. For over a year, in fact. Your body felt ironically alien. Different. As if you’d been sleepwalking the past two years. Your memories, too, felt foreign. They were more like dreams than anything else.

No… “dream” was far too nice of a word.

Nightmare—like vulnerable—seemed more fitting.

Your recollection of the past two years was a mess. There were only a handful of distinct memories you could recall, and all were of them. Alex… the alien… and Lucia. The rest were all a hazy blur, a fever dream that kept you jumping from one horrific scene to another.

You didn’t even know who you’d been fighting the entire time. No one ever gave you a clear picture, only stating where you were needed and what had to be done. You vaguely remember a mix of terrified faces, both alien and human. What did they even do wrong?

Did they even do wrong?

It was then that reality truly sunk in. You already knew that you were a weapon, one for them to use however and whenever they saw fit. What was hardest to swallow was the fact that the blood you’d let yourself spill—blood you could’ve chosen not to spill—could very well have been those of innocents.

You buried your face into your knees, fingers threading through your hair and gripping your pounding skull. You felt your nails dig into your scalp.

Luckily for your tattered mental state, Lucia had been there to help anchor you back to reality.

She murmured lowly as she gently pried your fingers from your head, and though her words went through one ear and out the other, her voice alone soothed you. You found that she knew exactly what to do, and even let you bury your face into her shoulder as she cooed at you softly, her hands tenderly drawing calming patterns on your back.

You’d been so happy that she was there. It wasn’t until hours later, after both of you had passed out in emotional exhaustion, that you woke up and realized that she had always been there. You’d just been too stuck in your own mind to see her.

When she woke up, her eyes meeting yours, neither of you spoke a word. Yet you both knew your dynamic had shifted, the air between you different. It simply went unsaid.

It didn’t go unseen, however. Everyone knew how dangerous you were, and after a rookie’s idiotic mistake, knew how equally dangerous it was to make Lucia unhappy in any way.

(His shoulder wouldn’t shove into others the same way again, nor would his ego inflate with the chasm you’d left.)

Stupidly, despite the revelations of that night—perhaps even because of said revelations—you continued living under the government’s employ.

In your mind, it was no longer just for your fear, it was also for her sake. If you left, you knew she would do whatever it took to stay by your side, regardless of the danger. Even if you were to be hunted, experimented, or executed, she would stay. And none of those fates were any you would allow to befall her.

No matter the gruesome sights that looped in your mind like a film at some grisly theatre, you jumped into the fray again, and again, and again. Still as reckless. Still as unrelenting. Still as guilty.

Not a single complaint ever left your lips. You felt you deserved it. But more importantly, you felt you were protecting her.

She didn’t agree.

The topic had been the spark of many arguments between the two of you, one such case being…

“You can’t keep doing this—you can’t keep living like this!”

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

You stayed silent, sat on your bed in your designated quarters. Your eyes were trained on her pacing form as you fiddled with the fresh bandages on your arms, replies only said in mind.

At this point, this scene was common. You’d gotten injured, she’d gotten frustrated, and you had the decency to listen. You knew Lucia wasn’t mad at you. Annoyed? Maybe. But not mad. Her anger was always directed at the same people, and never to you. She just hated to see you hurt.

‘Unfortunately, it’s an occupational haza—'

“—And don’t you say it’s an occupational hazard!”

Or… not?

Lucia stopped in her tracks, eyes boring into your own, “There are always ways to complete your missions without you ending up a bloody mess, but they don’t care about that, do they? As long as the mission is completed as soon as possible, they don’t give a damn. What if you never healed? What if you actually found something that would actually get you killed?” 

You had no response for that.

“They don’t even know of the full extent of your powers—none of us do! They started sending you out the day after that desert! Yet here we are again… I don’t understand why we don’t just leave.”

You opened your mouth to speak for the first time, to remind her of the dangers of such a plan just as you always had in the past, when you felt your hairs stand on end. Someone was eavesdropping. Your glare flashed to the door, spotting an eye widen at your stare before rushing off. You’d rush after them, but you knew nothing could be done without arousing suspicion. This base was full soldiers, and thus witnesses. Unfortunately, it was also full of snitches.

You stood abruptly, causing Lucia to jerk in surprise. Her brow furrowed when she spotted the grim frown you now wore.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

She could only blink in shock, “Now?”

“Now.”

The conversation would’ve been seen as treason. Or, at best, the start of it. You needed to run.

She followed your unwavering stare to the door, the sight of its slight opening making the cogs in her mind connect the dots. Someone had heard, and were no doubt reporting you. Her shock melted into determination, “I’ve already got a bag of necessities packed in case of an emergency escape. Let’s go.”

Next thing you knew, you were both dashing through corridors, unfamiliar alarms blaring the moment you had retrieved her bag. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who had prepared for this eventuality.

Squad after squad were sent after you both, all made up of people you’d seen as comrades and allies not even an hour before. Any fondness you held for each of them, however, immediately dissipated the moment they aimed a gun even a meter in Lucia’s direction. With a growl, you tore through every single one of them, unabashed by their betrayed yells so long as her safety was assured.

But you’d made a mistake. You were focused too much on those aiming for her, that you forgot there were others targeting yourself. Lucia didn’t. Which is why she spotted the soldier pulling out a weapon from a case before you did.

It looked like a gun, but she knew it was different. She could feel that it was. When they overlooked her completely and aimed for you, she knew she was right. Without a second thought, she shoved you out of the way, just as the soldier pulled the trigger.

A bang echoed in your ears, then a pained scream and a thud.

Your heart dropped. She’d pushed you away. Because of her, the bullet only grazed your torso… before tearing straight through her own.

You fell to your knees, not sparing a glance away from Lucia even as you put a bullet straight through the head of the soldier responsible.

“You IDIOT! Why would you do that?! You know I would’ve survived it!”

Your eyes were panicked, breathing growing more erratic by the second as you attempted to staunch the blood flowing from her wound. There was so much blood… why was there so much blood?!

“No…” she shook her head, “You… You wouldn’t’ve. N-Not… Not this one.”

You could hear footsteps and voices growing closer. You ignored them.

“I always survive, it’s my THING!” You gritted your teeth, ignoring the tears leaving tracks down your cheeks, “Stop talking, would you?! You need all your damn energy!”

Lucia simply smiled, even as more of the coppery liquid slid down the side of her mouth, “Promise me… promise me you w-won’t blame yourself f-for this?”

Déjà vu. Taunting, agonizing, déjà vu.

“I… I…” more tears, and a sob. What ever happened to control? “…I can’t.”

Her smile didn’t waver, as if she expected your response. Instead, she lifted a hand to your cheek, thumb gently wiping a tear away, “I know what you’re thinking, and I know it’s hard f-for you t-to think otherwise, love… but this isn’t your fault. I chose to do this. Y-You couldn’t’ve done anything to stop me.”

“…” You shook your head in disbelief, feeling more blood seep through your fingers.

Why wouldn’t the bleeding stop?!

“C’mon, love. P-Please, look at me?”

“…”

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to see her so accepting of her fate.

Yet you couldn’t help the confused furrow of your brows at her tapping your jaw, your focus immediately swivelling to her. Not on instinct, but in question, confusion, and slight betrayal. You’d never regretted telling her of your first love, of admitting that there were some things you could never forget. Until now.

“Th-There you are. I know it hurts, but you have t-to p-promise me, then you need to leave me.”

The familiar action had increased your pain tenfold, but her words had the panic in your eyes grow more intense, blood freezing in your veins.

‘No. NO. NononoNO—’ You looked away as you felt your body quake, the chill caused by her words making your limbs feel like lead, ‘Not you… anybody but you!’

You felt her tap your jaw again, but you didn’t look to her, preferring to stubbornly keep your eyes on your hands. You wouldn’t- You couldn’t.

“Please…” Lucia’s voice sounded so small, distant. Just like with the alien, you knew she was on her last breaths, and so did she, “L-Listen to me… they… now want you… gone. I-I know… it’s a lot to ask, but you have to leave me. Please. T-That bullet was meant f-for you—”

You couldn’t help but snap, “What bullet isn’t when I’m out on the field?!”

“N-No, love. T-They made it for you. T-To kill you…” she weakly shook her head, “I… I… s-saw it… wasn’t… normal.”

“Shit—SHIT! Why can’t I stop the god damn bleeding?!”

You hated that there were so many things that you couldn’t do. Why can’t you just do something—anything—right for once?!

As always, she knew where your mind was headed, “N-No matter… how little… y-you… think of yourself… I know y-you were meant… to be amazing. F-From the moment I… I saw you… I knew you’d be… a… a-a hero.”

“What kind of fucking hero can’t even save the person she loves?!” head hung low, you pulled your hands away from her wound, reluctantly accepting that it was futile, “What kind of useless hero am I?”

You wrapped an arm around her shoulders, the other draping itself across her stomach. You shifted yourself closer, cautiously embracing the dying woman. Apology after apology left your mouth, your tears dripped down from your cheeks only to mix with her own.

“It’s not… your… fau…” her hand, now much weaker than it had been earlier, fell limply onto the arm you’d placed on her stomach. When her fingers lightly squeezed your forearm, you knew what she expected. You released your grip on her hip, linking your hand with hers, making her chuckle faintly, “I-It… theirs… y-y’hear me? N-Never fo… forget… ‘s wasn’t… fault…”

“I… I won’t…”

You knew you’d never forget this day… just as how you’d never forget where the fault would forever lay in your mind.

“L… Love you…” her eyes were fluttering shut, and at the tug of her hand, you knew what she wanted.

You leaned closer, your lips pressing on hers for the final time. Only a second later did her last breath leave her lungs, and with it, one more piece of your fragile heart.

You could only stare, hoping that she would open her eyes and fill the deafening silence. But she didn’t, and you had to accept that she never would. When your mind finally opened itself to the rest of the world, you could hear the soldiers. Their orders for you to back down… or, more specifically, his.

General Lane.

When you saw a glimpse of his face, everything turned red and screams replaced the buzzing in your ears. You could never remember much past their anguish.

All you knew was the gash on your torso healed, but the mark never faded.

~~~

 Six months passed, and sleep was still a stranger. So were your mind and memories, but what else was new?

You had no idea where you were, you never did more than half the time. More often than not, you’d find yourself lost in thought, staring off at nothing as your finger lightly traced the scar hidden beneath your shirt. Sometimes you’d snap out of it, standing in the middle of an unfamiliar area. Occasionally, you’d stop yourself mid-step as you were walking or crossing the street.

Either way, people would be staring at you like you were insane. You couldn’t blame them, you felt like you were. That was fine, you never stayed in one area for long anyway.

For the past couple of months you’d been hopping from place to place, lingering only for three days at most. You didn’t have to do much to conceal your identity, considering the government already got rid of it for you. You did get yourself a new name, though.

Corazon.

Wasn’t exactly subtle to you, but it was better than Soldier Six and at least you could remember it.

How could you not, when your mistakes were always made by your soft heart?

You only wished that you had the ability to rid yourself of your emotions, then at least living would be somewhat bearable. You hated that even the smallest things could trigger your beating heart. It could’ve been a hair colour, a laugh, or just an oblivious pair holding hands, your heart wouldn’t fail to work with your fractured memories and remind you of what you’d lost.

You wished you could split the two, or at least rid yourself of one… maybe even both. You couldn’t think without feeling, nor feel without thinking. If you had no way to feel, no way to have a conscious thought, or both, then living a seemingly deathless life would be bearable. Sure, that sort of life isn’t one others would say is worth living, but neither is the one you are now.

The only thing keeping you away from finding a way to have that ‘plan’ to come into fruition, was the fact that—as far as you know—only the government could ‘help.’

You never wanted to make contact with those bastards again.

“Wha- HEY!”

At the indignant yell, you blinked yourself out of your stupor. Confused, you looked around.

You’d wandered into an alley. Huh.

Hearing a groan, you glanced down, spotting a boy who couldn’t’ve been any older than mid-teens. He was sat on the concrete, rubbing his forehead, having presumably fallen after colliding with you.

Then, you heard yelling.

You looked up and saw a group of men pointing and yelling unintelligibly at the boy at your feet. He sprang up and made a move to exit, only for your hand on his shoulder to stop him in his tracks. You felt his eyes on you, but yours never left the group stomping closer as they brandished their makeshift weapons in a supposedly threatening manner.

Hammers, nails in bats, metal pipes… generic, stereotypical, bad guy weapons. You saw a gun or two poking out from the waistbands of their pants, yet you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

When they stopped in front of you, they even puffed out their chests to make themselves look bigger. One of them stepped forward and grumbled with a voice made forcibly gruff, “You with this brat?”

“Pff,” You only shook your head in mirth. You’d heard of people like this in movies, but you never knew they actually existed.

His lips curled up into a snarl, “What’s so funny.”

“…” You smiled, tilted your head in faux innocence, and admitted clearly, “You.”

Predictably, your response infuriated him, and he launched himself towards you to attack.

Within a minute, him and his group were all unconscious, weapons—including their guns—left splintered and bent on the damp ground.

You grumbled, “Idiots.”

With another roll of your eyes, you spun on your heels and moved to leave the scene… only to face an overexcited fourteen-year-old.

“That was AWESOME!”

“!”

You blinked. You’d forgotten he was there. You watched, an eyebrow raised as he asked question after question, each going through one ear and out the other. Your mind didn’t register a single one, but from the rapid rate the words seemed to leave his lips, the number seemed endless.

Didn’t he need to breathe?

It was here that the boy lurched to a stop, his lungs lacking the air required to allow speech. You only blinked when he took in just a little too much oxygen. His overdramatic wheezing caused you to smirk and huff in mild amusement. His eyes darted to you at the noise, focusing on your mirth as he smacked a fist against his chest in an effort to abate his hacking.

“You…” he coughed again, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

You only offered a shrug in response. Considering past experience, human interaction wasn’t something you necessarily searched for. Generally, they all ended up morphing into some form of confrontation for you—or loss, but that was a thought hurriedly buried in the deepest recesses of your mind.

The boy wasn’t deterred by your silence. Instead, he seemed even more determined to fill the space with his own words. Again, most of them generally went through one ear and out the other.

“—I’m Lucas!”

Wait. Why was the kid telling you their name?

You still didn’t reply, but ‘Lucas’ didn’t seem fazed and continued, saying, “My friends call me Luke, though!”

He then scratched his head sheepishly, “Well… they would, if I had any.”

Head tilted in a questioning manner, your brow furrowed at his admission, movements that he managed to notice.

“Ah… well, nobody ever wants to be friends with the weird kid.”

You raised your eyebrow, and he pointed to the unconscious group at your feet as an explanation.

“Wouldn’t be the first time these guys went after me, and they don’t care whether I’m at school or not,” Lucas kicked away a stray can, giving the men an annoyed sneer, “Just that Dad ‘pays them back’ or something, I dunno. No one really wants to be caught up in a mess like this.”

You’d followed his gaze, staring at the people sprawled out on the dirty floor.

What were these guys, self-proclaimed tax collectors? Loan sharks? Wannabe gang members?

That last one seems to fit them to a T.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the loud growling of a stomach. And it wasn’t yours.

Shaking your head, you glanced back at Lucas, his face red in embarrassment. Without hesitation, you rooted through the pockets of a few of the men, forgoing their cards and instead pulled out handfuls of cash from their wallets.

You may already be considered a criminal by the U.S. Army, but you didn’t want more on your record than you already had. And you had standards.

You’d rather have “assault” and “pickpocketing” on that record over “not paying for fast food” any day. That last one just seems like a real shitty thing to be arrested over. Besides, you’d never steal from ordinary civilians… but you’d make exceptions for assholes.

You moved to leave the alley again, tousling Lucas’ hair as you went past. When you didn’t hear his footsteps following, you stopped at the entrance, sending another glance back towards his way you huffed at his stupefied expression before jerking your head in a gesture to follow. You couldn’t help but smile at his joyful expression, biting back a chuckle at his excited hopping at your side.

“Nice to meet you, Luke.”

.

.

.

Six more months passed, and after meeting Lucas, you haven’t left the town. You’d found out that he’d essentially raised himself. The kid’s mother was gone, and he didn’t know why. You met his father, and after that one meeting you knew he was useless. His debts weren’t even for necessities, just for his alcohol and gambling. Guy didn’t even seem to care that his son was the one suffering most from the consequences of his actions.

You were annoyed, but after witnessing him passed out in a bathtub, reaching over the edge to clutch at a toilet while a bottle of whiskey hung from his fingers, you knew he was a lost cause. Lucas knew it, too. Admitted that he’d known so for years.

You felt bad for the kid and did what you could to help. You kept those lackeys off his back. Got him clothes, food, school supplies if he needed them. You didn’t tell him where you got the money and he never asked, but considering how you’d initially met you assume he had a slight idea. You still didn’t talk much, and your attention span failed you at times, but he understood. He knew that you were at least trying.

At times he’d ask you for help with his homework, and you were convinced it caused you just as much grief as it did him. You could barely remember what happened months or a year before, let alone what you’d learnt over a decade ago.

You were a weapon, not a teacher. You could teach him how to kick ass with the best of them, but you didn’t know shit about literature or geography. Or whatever it was high schoolers learnt these days.

Even when you were working with the government, you didn’t have to know how to get around yourself. They just shipped you to the mission location and back, and that was that. You didn’t even know you got around now, considering how most of your time on the road was spent in your head.

You swear he only asked you to laugh at you. You’d try to intimidate him with a deadpan stare, but that only made the cheeky brat laugh louder. Your exasperation would fizzle out soon enough, his joy infectious. You found yourself feeling… happy. Normal. Like an average human. Something you never thought would be a near-unreachable standard.

But of course, as always, happiness in your life never lasted long.

You’d stopped moving. You stayed in one place for too long.

You’d focused too much on the present, that you forgot about the past you’d been running to escape. And so, it caught up.

You were running again. They were at your heels, this time. And you couldn’t just beat them into the ground.

Their weapons looked different. Their bullets hurt.

You didn’t want to believe that this was happening. Just this morning you’d been laughing with Lucas, pancake batter and syrup drizzled over your heads.

Now all you could hear were shouts and gunfire, blood dripping down a healing cut at your temple.

You wanted them to lose your tracks, but you knew how they worked. If you disappeared completely, they’d have to look for clues. Which would lead them to Lucas. Which was why you were leading them, herding them away like sheep to be as far away from the kid as possible. But it was not meant to be.

“Sis!”

The voice made electricity shoot up your spine, catching more than just your attention. You noticed a few soldiers turn to look his way as he ran towards you, even as you shook your head and urged him to turn back. He wouldn’t. You were family, how could he leave you behind?

“LUKE, RUN!”

…Was that your voice? Sometimes you’d forget what your voice sounded like, and not using it for weeks at a time definitely didn’t help your case.

He skidded meters away, eyeing the soldiers, his face conflicted, “But—”

You heard the crackling of their comms and spotted a few guns being pointed his way, one of them even pulled out a pin.

What the fuck was General Lane thinking?!

The kid was a civilian, not a criminal!

You sprinted over to Lucas, body shielding his within a second. You felt bullets pierce your back, easily tearing through the fabric of your clothing. You heard Lucas yelling for them to stop, but you knew they wouldn’t listen. You heard the tell-tale clinking of a grenade rolling on the concrete and you tightened your grip around him, eyes screwed shut. You heard the bellowed orders “TAKE COVER” and then…

Pain.

Searing, white-hot, pain was spreading on your back. You felt shrapnel enter your torso, the heat eating away at your skin. You forced yourself to endure the agony.

You were protecting him.

You repeated those four words in your mind like a mantra, mind clinging to them for a way to ground itself.

When you felt the dust settling, the ringing in your ears calming, you dared to open your eyes. And you wish you didn’t.

Despite your best efforts, Lucas had been hit. Twice. The projectiles had presumably ricocheted. Whether it was shrapnel or bullets, you didn’t know. All you knew was that he was wounded, and that you’ve failed once again.

“No…” You rasped out, tears obscuring your vision. Your throat hurt from disuse, but you continued to force the words out, “No… kid, not you too!”

“Hah,” Lucas laughed, not noticing the blood that came with the motion, “I’m… I… I didn’t e-expect to go like this. P-Pretty badass, huh?”

His eyes were beginning to flutter closed, the light in his eyes quickly dulling. Your breath hitched in your throat, and gritting your teeth, you muttered, “No, no… c’mon, eyes on me bud. Eyes on me!”

His head weakly flopped to the side as he grinned, teeth stained with blood, “S’okay… was meant t-to be gone in… in… that alley. Y’saved me… y’let me be happy… thank you.”

Lucas went limp. Just like that, he was gone. And so were you.

You didn’t flinch when the wounds on your back slowly stitched themselves back together, no doubt leaving a mark as every failure always did.

You didn’t resist when they forcefully yanked you away, uncaring that they had just taken the life of an innocent. The life of a child.

You felt someone forcefully lift your head, to which you muttered, “Kill me. Please.”

You didn’t speak any more after that, no matter how much they tried to get a reaction.

No… you wouldn’t do anything until you were either dead, or put face-to-face with the bastard you knew gave the order.

And as expected, they put him right where you wanted him.

You were back at the base, arid desert and all.

They’d seated you in a metal chair, one bolted down to the thick concrete beneath your feet. Your arms were forced to lie flush against its armrests, wrists cuffed into place.

You were in one of the interrogation rooms, metal walls to the front, back and the left. You weren’t fooled. You knew the wall to the right was a one-sided window. To know that there were people just watching you…

You felt like an animal.

It was only after General Lane stood across from you, after the only door leading in and out of the room clicked shut, that you even twitched. Your attention finally drifted up from the flimsy metal cuffs that they’d clamped around your wrists—not that they knew your strength had grown—and to the poor excuse of a man attempting to stand tall.

You glared at him, unabashedly showing the hatred burning within you. It made him swallow, despite the poker face he attempted to keep up. Your silent staring contest stretched on and on, his mouth repeatedly opening and closing in indecision. He wanted to speak, but had no idea what to say.

The people behind the window had plenty of words, though. You couldn’t catch all of them, but you managed to decipher a muffled few.

“Dad” was one. Which meant one of the people might’ve been his kid. Wouldn’t be implausible. Last time you paid attention to him, he had two. Girls, if your memory actually served you correct. And two of the voices you could hear were distinctly feminine.

“Our” was another, spoken with a lilt for emphasis before “Dad”, which meant both of his kids were there. If your first assumption was correct.

“Superman” was the last one you heard. It was the word that caused you the most grief. Why mention the “Man of Steel”? You remembered hearing someone rant about the Kryptonian, mentioning a possible relation between the hero and a journalist. One of General Lane’s kids was a journalist. That could pose a problem. If his kids really were on the other side of the glass, and Lucas’ info—

‘Luke.’

Any hesitation you had dissipated instantly. No matter what would become of you, you’d make this bastard pay. It was the least you could do.

Breaking away from the General’s stare, your eyes flashed to the window, cogs turning in your mind. Perhaps you could do worse than cause simple, physical, pain. You could expose him, have his children lose their faith in him. Even if they weren’t his children, they would be his soldiers. It could lead to questioning of his authority.

It was worth a shot. Besides, what did you have to lose?

“You killed him,” you snarled, “He was just a boy, but you killed him.”

You shot up from your seat. Rather, you shot up with your seat. The cuffs were still in place, but the bolts that held the seat down had lost their hold with a resounding crack.

General Lane jumped back in shock, the doorknob now jiggling as his soldiers desperately tried to come to his aid.

Without missing a beat, you tore your hands out of their restraints and pulled the long metal table that separated you two upwards, shoving it legs-first into where the door would be. The legs went right through the wall, the body of the table now blocking the entrance as well as the door itself.

‘That’s the front wall and entrance covered…’

With an audible growl, you turned back to the general, the man now scrambling back to push himself flat against a wall in fear. He was pointing a pistol at you, but you were undeterred.

You took a step, and he took a shot.

You took another, and he did the same.

You took a third, and the man emptied his gun into your torso.

You weren’t fazed, your fury burning too great for you to feel anything other than rage.

He looked like he was about to reply to your yell, but you cut him off before he could, snapping, “Your problem was with me. It always has been. There was no need for you to involve a civilian, let alone ordering your men to open fire!”

“I… I—”

“I wanted to live, so you tried to have me die. When I do want to die, you keep me alive. How much more do I have to suffer for you to be satisfied?! How much longer do I have to exist, for my wants to actually matter?!”

As you stomped closer towards him, you gripped the chair that had been meant for him and threw it across the room. The object formed a deep dent upon impact and rendered the back wall weak.

Releasing another growl, you lifted him up by the collar of his uniform, “How much lower are you going to fall, after murdering that poor boy? Is there even a bar lower for you to reach?!”

The general continued to ignore the futility of repeatedly pulling the trigger of his empty pistol, desperate for a way out. But without a miracle, he would never be able to escape.

Unfortunately, he got one. It came in the form of a Kryptonian, at that.

Superman broke through the dented wall, quick in separating you from the general. You felt your back smack against the one-sided window, the cool glass cracking beneath your flesh.

Oh, right. You hadn’t had the chance to change. Your shirt was still burnt at the back, the rest of your clothing tattered at the edges and your feet shoeless. Your state of dress seemed to come as a surprise to Superman, too. If the brief moment he took to observe his ‘opponent’ was any indication.

You glanced at the wall he’d used as an entrance. It wasn’t that much of a fall. It wouldn’t take much to heal if you got hurt. Ten seconds, at most.

Within a breath, you fearlessly leaped through the broken wall. You heard a choke of astonishment behind you as you did, but as much as you wanted to be amused by the alien, you recognized the threat he was to your freedom.

He was a goody-two-shoes. If he caught you, you’d just be locked up. And you’d be used as a lab rat or a weapon all over again. Never able to die.

You couldn’t let that happen.

You’d landed with a wince and a roll, a sickening crack shooting shocks up your left arm. You’d shaken off the pain, sprinting towards where you knew the weapons vault was. The rushing of wind reached your ears, indicating that the alien wasn’t far behind. Spotting the vault entrance straight ahead, you trusted your instincts and slid across the tile floor as if you were running a base. It worked.

Superman flew straight past you, and not expecting you to have sensed him coming, was going too fast to stop himself from crashing into the vault. Your eyes widened at the sight. You hadn’t predicted it either.

Hurriedly pushing yourself up to your feet, you’d rushed into the vault, mind flashing through the arsenal they had you use throughout the years. You’d known what they had in there, and one of them was definitely not good for a Super.

When you stepped foot into the vault, you were proven right. Superman was struggling to stand, green creeping its way through his veins.

“Shit…” without hesitation, you pulled him up. You wrapped his arm around your neck and dragged him out, uncaring of the guns pointed at you. You felt his questioning stare, and grumbled, “What.”

“Why?”

Such a simple question, made of only one word… yet the true nature of its complexity was beyond you. You shook your head. Not the time.

“Never wanted to kill anyone. Never wanted anyone dead, either…” You sighed, voice barely louder than a whisper, “Just wanted to be happy.”

Once you determined that he was at a safe enough distance, you promptly let him flop into the ground. You huffed at his comical “oof” before revealing the smoke grenade you had swiped from the vault. You pulled its pin, and as everyone’s vision began to be obscured, you muttered words only Superman could hear.

“Please, just leave me alone…”

 ~~~

You didn’t know if it was because of Superman’s influence, but you were. Left alone, that is.  Then again, it might’ve been because you’d kept away from civilization as best as you could, staying in forests for as long as you were able.

For how long at this point? You weren’t sure. By the time you’d left him in the smoke, it had been five years since the dorm with Alex. Three since the experiment. One since Lucia. And... none since Luke. 

With a shake of your head, their blurred faces and vague memories faded in an instant, the frown at the resurfacing thoughts of them quickly replaced with an easy-going smile.

The woods weren’t too bad.

The animals were surprisingly amicable, and you found an unfamiliar joy in jumping into lakes and rivers without any remorse. If you needed anything that couldn’t be provided naturally, the camp sites you’d managed to memorize the locations of were useful in that regard. Clothes, food, money…

You didn’t realize exactly how easy it was to steal from civilians until you weren’t one yourself.

Still... it should be troubling that you didn’t know how long you’d been living in the forests. Every day blurs together. You didn’t even know what forest you were living in. Or if you’d lived in more than one. Your memories continued to fracture, and due to lack of practice, you could feel your ability to speak and understand wavering.

Your memories…

Very few of them remained intact. You had a feeling that you had a part to play in it, intentional or not, considering that the ones you could remember seemed happy, and anything otherwise—anything that caused pain… either you got rid of them the second they came, or it made you retreat into the deepest recesses of your mind, never knowing how long you’d been in there the moment you returned to reality.

Could’ve been a few seconds, minutes, maybe even hours. It was partially why you’d lost track of how long you’d been living among the trees.

Every time you thought of your past, you were reminded of the burden that was carrying emotions. Of being human. It was roughly one month into living away from humans, that you accepted it was simpler to just ignore the fact that you had a life before this mess. That there had ever been happier times. If you couldn’t identify what was considered a ‘good’ memory, then you wouldn’t be sucked into the ‘bad’, right?

So you buried them. Even imagined little coffins for them and everything.

Part of you knows that it’s unhealthy. But that mindset is what led to those instances now being few and far in between—or, at least you hoped they were. Again, you didn’t really have a good sense of time.

But living was good. It was fun, not thinking of anything but what to do next. You could spend an entire day chasing after deer, or just climbing a tree. And do the same thing all over again tomorrow!

…It all sounds a bit boring now that you think about it. But oddly enough, the days were surprisingly fun. If you really wanted a thrill, all you had to do was start wrestling a bear! That was fun.  

You were actually rushing away from one right now, teasingly dangling yourself from one branch of a tree to another, when you heard a scream. A female scream, and then… a crash. While the noise terrified the bear, it only intrigued you, drawing you closer. Almost like a siren’s call.

You dropped down to the forest floor, tackling the bear in the process. After absentmindedly hauling it over your shoulder, you dashed through the treeline within seconds. Once out of the forest, you coughed as you blinked at the wreckage before you.

Two vehicles had collided roughly thirty meters away, the smoke billowing from the smouldering wreck making your lungs burn. What startled you more was the armed man holding a gun up to an injured, blonde woman twenty meters away from the crash.

You blinked at the man, who seemed to be talking the woman’s ears off. Rather, what was the word… monologuing? Yeah. Monologuing.

His cocky grin made you roll your eyes, the action leading to you noticing the bear’s presence on your shoulder. An idea struck. Your eyes narrowed at the man, before glancing over to the bear. The man. The bear. The man…

“BEAR!”

You gleefully yelled, startling them both. But what brought complete horror upon both humans, was the fact that there was now a bear hurtling towards them. Correction, towards the man.

He dropped like a rock, him and the bear both did. Whereas the poor, unharmed-yet-traumatised fuzzy animal quickly scrambled to its feet before sprinting back into the woods, the effectively disarmed male stayed flat on the concrete, out cold.

Tilting your head to the side, you walked up to the unconscious human, your brows furrowing as you wondered why he wasn’t moving.

You sniffed and rubbed at your itching nose, wincing at the horrible stench of roasting rubber. You couldn’t tell if the blood you smelt came from the wounds after the crash, or after the bear.

You gave him a light tap of a foot, checking if he’d wake up anytime soon. When the man didn’t budge, you shrugged and turned to go back to the forest, only to freeze when you were startled by the female he’d been threatening. You’d forgotten she was there, and the woman was far closer than you remembered her to be.

She looked stunned.

Her hands were hovering by her cheeks, palms over her mouth, tears brimming in her eyes as she muttered… a name? It sounded familiar. You didn’t know why. You tilted your head, confused.

“You…” she sobbed, tears now flowing freely. She stammered out, “You don’t remember, do you?”

Who was this woman?

Cautiously, you shook your head. Your was body tense, knees bent and ready to escape if you needed to.

“Nothing? It’s me, Eliza,” another shake of your head. She sniffled, “Eliza Danvers? One of my daughters brought you over for Thanksgiving a few times, you were like a part of our family, before… before… you disappeared.”

Danvers.

You didn’t hear anything past that, the word—name?—had a tremor course through your skull. That was… worrying? It should be worrying, right?

Your hands flashed to your aching temples, gritting your teeth, you croaked out, “D-Dan… Danvers?”

You hadn’t said anything in months. Your throat was probably as painful to use as your voice was to hear.

Eliza’s eyes shined brighter in realization. You were remembering.

“Yes, Danvers! Do you… Do you remember my daughter? She’d been your closest friend. Alex, Alexandra Danvers—”

Static was all you could hear. You dropped to your knees, the pain growing more unbearable the more she spoke. You barely felt the gravel of the road digging into your knees.

Alex?

Alex.

Who was—

“No… Don’t!”

That was… you? Why was this hurting so much? What was going on?

Why didn’t you want to remember?

You felt hands on your shoulders, desperately trying to… to what? Snap you out? Of what? Pain? You didn’t even know why it came up, let alone how to stop it!

Then… then a chill. One you haven’t felt since you encountered… someone. You couldn’t remember them, either.

All you could hear were your instincts.

Instincts…

Your instincts were screaming, frantic in wanting you to leave. To escape.

So you followed them.

Shrugging Eliza’s hands off of your shoulders, you jumped to your feet and swiftly fled into the woods, not turning back once. Not even when you heard her scream a name—yours?—and especially not when you heard the tell-tale swoosh of… a cape? You didn’t know.

Your thoughts made no sense right now. All you wanted was to go back and forget. To go back into the woods and be happy.

Just… be happy.

[hungover-and-broke-student]

esthetics for the entities, part i.   bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. rest of the fears here.  this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

i.  the buried.   weighed blankets.  drowning.  the comfort of a loved one’s weight.  soil and sand piling on top of you.  hugging so hard it hurts a little.  cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you.  not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little.  dragging the last second before you have to inhale.  lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth.  a layer of dirt on you.  looking for something below.  cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts.  hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface.  entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out.  dust and sand speaking to you.

ii.  the corruption.   insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life.  an illness in a community.  a rag that dirties more than it cleans.  an untreated wound.  containment.  breaching containment.  unbreathable air.  fungi.  one with that you love.  one with what loves you.  a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs.  honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person.  a curse passed on.  the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed.  blood on a handkerchief.  parasites.  something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever.  food that’s gone off.  pandora’s box.  death behind a glass.

iii.  the dark.   shadows.  lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night.  the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing.  touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes.  months without going outside during sunlight.  pouring dark.  unscrewing lightbulbs.  black matter.  light sensitivity.  a starless night.  time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable.  winter months in the north.  an empty church.

iv.  the desolation.   senseless pain.  warmth of faith.  wax where skin should be.  a blazing fire.  heat without a source.  the third or fourth tragedy in the family.  losing everything you’ve ever held dear.  so much to live for, gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline.  touch that scars.  coffee cup that never goes cold.  scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air.  a child born in fire.  death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods.  animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives.  burning hot metal.  sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one.  disfigurement.  a kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat.  a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair.  little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

v.  the flesh.   body horror.  factories.  a hunger for something more filling.  never quite happy with how you look.  the terror of an animal waiitng for slaughter.  a very good meal.  the liquid of a perfect steak.  fighting your worst survival instincts.  a twisted bone.  long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay.  a bag of bones.  bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.  the butcher’s shop.  plastic surgery.  something alien inside your body.  a hunger in the gaze laid upon you.  unwitting cannibalism.  forgetting what you used to look like.  being admired for your appearance and appearance only.  teeth marks on skin.  scars from wounds that should’ve killed you.  cooking in scarcity.  fenced in with one way to go.

vi.  the end.   the last page of a book.  nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.  existential pain.  ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambiling with death.  as old as the universe.  soul and spirit tied to an object.  a dream where you die.  closing your eyes for the last time.  the plead of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation.  someone’s life for yours.  an eternity spent alive.  the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial.  causing your own burial.  the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone.  meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii.  the eye.   googling something you shouldn’t have.  eureka moments.  the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colours.  feeling of being watched.  a death recorded in tape.  a tragedy you can’t watch away from.  endangering yourself for knowledge.  truth.  analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document.  turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person.  extracting information.  truth or dare, without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge.  books that speak to you.  coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyerism.  police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers.  books that read you back.

viii.  the hunt.   sharp canines.  sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters.  hide and seek.  running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you.  blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls.  focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstorous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark and running after it.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed.  completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.  depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there.  safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter.    a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby.  improvised weapons.  blinding rage.  intent to kill.  a horrific day in a quiet community.  a medal of bravery.  holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers.  a knifeblock on the counter.  a pool of blood.  shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward.  unimaginable pain.  not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster.  an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.  kill or be killed.  unedited wartime memoirs.  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral.   sleep deprivation.  corridors you can get lost in.  maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions.  losing people.  losing your sanity.  corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality.  walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallucinations.  wrong proportions.  a nameless thing.  a place that has never existed.  doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.  loss of time.  a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh.  jokes and tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  the stranger.   wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together.  the colours of a circus.  a puppet with no strings.  mannequins.  glitter and sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins.  a machine imitating humanity.  the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight.  uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices.  images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii.  the vast.   open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in an universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you.  staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control.  a fall that doesn’t end in death.  glass floor to the view below.  terminal velocity.  the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building.  falling into nothing.  feeling your feet let go of the ground.  a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

xiv.  the web.   undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed.  strings of fate.  manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap.  never voicing discomfort.  outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realising it.  red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unrealiability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny lengs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing.  suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

+  the extinction.   the end of an era.  apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism.  the last written history.  a changed world.  no survivours.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point.  overindulgence.

TAGGED BY:  @brokentoys

TAGGING: steal it! @monomaniiametus @tricksterreformed-a @acriminallawyer

[notstolen]

aesthetics for the entities. bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

i.  the buried.   weighed blankets.  drowning. the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil and sand piling on top of you.  hugging so hard it hurts a little.  cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you.  not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little. dragging the last second before you have to inhale.  lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you.  looking for something below.  cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts.  hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface.  entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out.  dust and sand speaking to you.

ii.  the corruption.  insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life.  an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans.  an untreated wound.  containment. breaching containment.  unbreathable air.  fungi.  one with that you love.  one with what loves you.  a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs.  honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person. a curse passed on. the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed.  blood on a handkerchief.  parasites. something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever.  food that’s gone off.  pandora’s box.  death behind a glass.

iii.  the dark. shadows.  lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing.  touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes.  months without going outside during sunlight.  pouring dark.  unscrewing lightbulbs.  black matter.  light sensitivity.  a starless night. time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable.  winter months in the north. an empty church.

v.  the flesh. body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling.  never quite happy with how you look.  the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter.  a very good meal.  the liquid of a perfect steak.  fighting your worst survival instincts.  a twisted bone. long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay.  a bag of bones.  bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.  the butcher’s shop.  plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you.  unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like.  being admired for your appearance and appearance only.  teeth marks on skin.  scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity.  fenced in with one way to go.

iv.  the desolation.  senseless pain.  warmth of faith.  wax where skin should be.  a blazing fire. heat without a source.  the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for, gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline. touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold.  scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air. a child born in fire. death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods. animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives.  burning hot metal. sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one. disfigurement.  a kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat.  a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair. little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

vi.  the end. the last page of a book. nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.  existential pain. ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambling with death. as old as the universe.  soul and spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die.  closing your eyes for the last time.  the plead of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation.  someone’s life for yours.  an eternity spent alive.  the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial. causing your own burial. the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone.  meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

viii.  the hunt.   sharp canines. sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters. hide and seek. running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you. blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls. focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstrous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark and running after it.

vii.  the eye. googling something you shouldn’t have.  eureka moments. the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colours.  feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape.  a tragedy you can’t look away from.  endangering yourself for knowledge. truth. analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document.  turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person.  extracting information.  truth or dare, without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge.  books that speak to you.  coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyerism. police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers. books that read you back.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed. completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone. fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd. a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows. isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea. depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you. talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter. a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby. improvised weapons.  blinding rage. intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community. a medal of bravery. holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers. a knifeblock on the counter. a pool of blood. shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward. unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths. kill or be killed. unedited wartime memoirs.  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral. sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions. losing people.  losing your sanity. corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality. walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallucinations.  wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time.  a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh.  jokes and tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  the stranger. wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together. the colours of a circus.  a puppet with no strings. mannequins.  glitter and sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity. the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight. uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices. images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiv.  the web.   undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed.  strings of fate. manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap. never voicing discomfort. outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realising it. red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unreliability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny legs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing. suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

xiii.  the vast. open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in a universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you. staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control. a fall that doesn’t end in death. glass floor to the view below. terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground. a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

+  the extinction. the end of an era. apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism. the last written history. a changed world.  no survivours.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point.  overindulgence.

tagged by: stole it from one of my other blogs

tagging: @xwhiterabbitx, @lonexwolfe, @desolationtrial ( for ari since i think you might’ve done this for norman already? )

[silentexplorer18]

Battle Scars: A Drarry Short

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Harry Potter

Warnings: Negative self image, regret, general post war PTSD

Read it here on AO3.

Masterlist

But imagine:

Draco - insecure about his body, about the scars both he and Potter placed on his skin, about the way he sees a reflection of Lucius in every mirror he gazes into, insecure of how it feels like his body is no longer his own, attempting to conquer that part of his mind - signing up to be a model for an art class.

And Harry - reeling from the deaths of so many innocent people, unsettled from his own death, attempting to find some way to cope with the pain and brutality of his mind when the world becomes stagnant, warless around him - signing up for an art therapy course.

He finds a small class in London, something more private since his life is so often on display nowadays, and uses the paint to find the parts of himself that he’d lost.  And, honestly, his creations aren’t too bad.  He’s always been more tactile, prone to focusing intently, and the opportunity to get lost amongst the hues, the delicate curls of a snitch’s wing, the haunting eyes of a thestral, is something he can now take for granted.  He lavishes in the textures, the patterns, the simple things he can now take a moment to appreciate since the urgency of life has dissipated.  On morning walks, he now stops to admire the texture of brick buildings, the flutter of petals across his neighbor’s sidewalk, the elegance of rust on a fence.  He finds art everywhere.

Now that his life isn’t on the line, the world is monumentally beautiful, even down to the little details.

The painting is helping.

But not everything can work out smoothly.

Harry tries his best to hide the look of distaste, of alarm, smearing across his face as Draco Malfoy walks into the room, poises on a stool.  He’s shirtless, and quite a bit thinner than Harry remembers, with faint scars crisscrossing up his torso, lacing his skin with memories of the past.

When Draco notices Harry, he blanches, eyes widening in horror at running into Potter of all people.  But he doesn’t flee even though he could.

Instead he sits on the stool, quiet and dignified, with the faintest of blushes coloring each cheek.

And Harry paints him.

At first the thought of staring at Draco, inspecting Draco, seems all too horrific for Harry to consider, but he realizes that they must both need this if they’re here.  Merlin knows Harry needs to keep his mind focused on something.  Perhaps this is Draco’s way of coping, too.

So with a shaking hand, Harry mixes his paints, pale ivory swirling onto his palette, and begins to replicate Malfoy’s figure.

This continues for a few days, the blond poised on a chair quietly while the few wizards in the class attempt to recreate him on their canvases.  And although initially Harry thinks Draco looks comfortable, self assured up there on the pedestal, he quickly realizes that the boy isn’t so comfortable up there afterall.

Each time someone comments on his body, an angle or a proportion, Harry notices Draco shift.  It’s only slightly, but it’s still noticeable.  His eyes narrow a nearly imperceptible amount whenever someone queries how to paint his scars, especially the ragged pink one swirling up his forearm.  He seems tired, Harry realizes, and no longer comfortable in his own skin.  All too often, red slashes his cheeks and a pained expression monumentally similar to shame flashes across his face.

Harry doesn’t like Draco looking like that.

Really and truly, he didn’t mean to do anything about it.  The words slipped from his mouth one day after class before his brain could register what he was doing.  “Those trousers look nice on you, Malfoy.”

They both seem equally blindsided by the statement, but that doesn’t make the words any less true.  “Thank you.”  The phrase is awkward, unsure as it falls from Draco’s lips.  It’s all that’s said before Harry walks out the door, but when he sees Draco walking out a little later, hands in his trouser pockets, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips, Harry knows it isn’t the last time he’s going to compliment Draco.

Next it’s how nice his collarbones look in that thin grey shirt.  And how his hair, now long and needle straight, always pristine, looks elegant in a bun.  Before he knows what’s become of him, he’s informing Draco that his eyes are the most beautiful shade of smoke he’s ever seen, and the shape of his body is absolutely perfect.

And at some point in all that, Draco’s walls have broken down, and he’s realized that Harry isn’t so much of a threat anymore.  However, classes must go on and the rest of the group is in need of a fresh model, and Draco has been told that his time is up.  But Harry doesn’t want it to be.  And suddenly without really realizing how they both got there, Harry is closing the paint tubes in his apartment while Draco is standing before the decorative mirror Luna gave Harry as a housewarming gift all those months ago.

It’s not so much that he hates the scars, but that he hates everything about the way he looks and Harry has been disarming him with the most bizarre compliments.

“Your lips are the most beautiful hue.”

“Stay right there, you look like you’re glowing in that light.”

“It’s really unfair how fit your figure is.”

“Your eyes are stunning.”

And Harry’s voice is breaking through the thoughts whirring in his head.  “Draco, are you okay?”  Because it’s Draco now.  He’s no longer a pompous, disgusting Malfoy to Harry, but Draco.  Draco with scarred skin and dark eyes more haunting than any thestral.  Draco, the boy so terrified of who he’s become that he’s staring at himself in Harry’s mirror wishing he could understand what Harry sees in him.

“I feel like a piece of chipped porcelain,” he mutters, fingertips whispering across the scars on his sternum.  His arm is still pink, the hue of healing skin, but the sectumsempra wounds have faded pale, barely noticeable but always there.  “I feel damaged, broken.  Nobody will want me like this.”  The words are hoarse, his deepest fears surfacing in the mirror as he stumbles over thoughts and attempts to prevent his eyes from watering.

And Harry doesn’t know what to say other than, “Any girl would be lucky to have you.”  He sets down the remainder of his painting supplies, studying Draco cautiously as though he’s afraid Draco will vanish in an instant.

“But what if I don’t want a girl?”  His tone is even more gravelly than before, a pained resignation, an admittance of what he wants.  And he still can’t seem to turn around, to look Harry in the eye and have this conversation with him.

That doesn’t seem to matter though because Harry’s already standing, hands pressing gently against Draco’s hips as his words ghost over his pale shoulder, steady gaze coming to meet Draco’s watery eyes in the reflection.  “Anyone would be lucky to have you.  You’re incredible, Draco, really.”

And Draco’s whirled around in Harry’s arms and suddenly they’re both clinging to each other as the blond boy cries into Harry’s shoulder, apologies and promises falling off his tongue amongst broken sobs, and Harry realizes that he’s crying, too.  Because both boys needed this.  Draco needed Harry to see that he was worth more than just his past, just his family name, and Harry needed Draco to see that there was beauty in people, too, not just the world he’d been trying to come to terms with.

When Draco’s cries come to an end, Harry is stroking soothing patterns on his back and reminding him of his worth.  “You’re so brilliant and handsome and brave, Draco.  You’re so strong and incredible.  You’re not a Malfoy.  You’re not a broken piece of china.  You’re Draco.  And Draco is amazing.”

And through his sniffles and the remarkably undignified noises he’s making, the remarkably human noises coming from his snot slicked lips, Draco is reminding Harry that it wasn’t his fault that the war happened or that people were lost.  That Harry did so many incredible things.  And how he’s so sorry for everything Harry had to go through just to help everyone.

They’re both just two broken boys trying to find themselves in a world they weren’t prepared for, a world where they’re both free.  And maybe that’s okay.

Eventually they’re spending all their time together, and they’re getting a flat together to help each other with the nightmares and the guilt and the regret and Draco is taking Harry’s hand and leading him to try new adventures, to reconcile with the fact that life will go on, and Harry is covering the house in paintings of Draco, little sketches of the boy with notes of how handsome and brave he is and how lucky Harry is to have found him after the war.

And maybe together they’ll both be okay.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading!  I know this isn’t my usual style for writing, but I wanted to try something new, and I quite like how it turned out.  Please let me know what you think of it!  I love hearing from each and every one of you!  I hope you’re having a great day!

[cloakedinfall-a]

aesthetics for the entities bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

i.  the buried.   weighed blankets.  drowning.  the comfort of a loved one’s weight.  soil and sand piling on top of you.  hugging so hard it hurts a little.  cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you.  not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little.  dragging the last second before you have to inhale.  lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth.  a layer of dirt on you.  looking for something below.  cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts.  hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface.  entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out.  dust and sand speaking to you.

ii.  the corruption.   insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life.  an illness in a community.  a rag that dirties more than it cleans.  an untreated wound.  containment.  breaching containment.  unbreathable air.  fungi.  one with that you love.  one with what loves you.  a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs.  honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person.  a curse passed on.  the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed.  blood on a handkerchief.  parasites.  something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever.  food that’s gone off.  pandora’s box.  death behind a glass.

iii.  the dark.   shadows.  lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night.  the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing.  touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes.  months without going outside during sunlight.  pouring dark.  unscrewing lightbulbs.  black matter.  light sensitivity.  a starless night.  time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable.  winter months in the north.  an empty church.

v.  the flesh.   body horror.  factories.  a hunger for something more filling.  never quite happy with how you look.  the terror of an animal waiitng for slaughter.  a very good meal.  the liquid of a perfect steak.  fighting your worst survival instincts.  a twisted bone.  long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay.  a bag of bones.  bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.  the butcher’s shop.  plastic surgery.  something alien inside your body.  a hunger in the gaze laid upon you.  unwitting cannibalism.  forgetting what you used to look like.  being admired for your appearance and appearance only.  teeth marks on skin.  scars from wounds that should’ve killed you.  cooking in scarcity.  fenced in with one way to go.

iv.  the desolation.   senseless pain.  warmth of faith.  wax where skin should be.  a blazing fire.  heat without a source.  the third or fourth tragedy in the family.  losing everything you’ve ever held dear.  so much to live for, gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline.  touch that scars.  coffee cup that never goes cold.  scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air.  a child born in fire.  death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods.  animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives.  burning hot metal.  sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one.  disfigurement.  a kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat.  a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair.  little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

vi.  the end.   the last page of a book.  nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.  existential pain.  ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambiling with death.  as old as the universe.  soul and spirit tied to an object.  a dream where you die.  closing your eyes for the last time.  the plead of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation.  someone’s life for yours.  an eternity spent alive.  the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial.  causing your own burial.  the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone.  meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

viii.  the hunt.   sharp canines.  sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters.  hide and seek.  running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you.  blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls.  focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstorous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark and running after it.

vii.  the eye.   googling something you shouldn’t have.  eureka moments.  the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colours.  feeling of being watched.  a death recorded in tape.  a tragedy you can’t watch away from.  endangering yourself for knowledge.  truth.  analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document.  turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person.  extracting information.  truth or dare, without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge.  books that speak to you.  coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyerism.  police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers.  books that read you back.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed.  completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.  depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there.  safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter.    a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby.  improvised weapons.  blinding rage.  intent to kill.  a horrific day in a quiet community.  a medal of bravery.  holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers.  a knifeblock on the counter.  a pool of blood.  shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward.  unimaginable pain.  not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster.  an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.  kill or be killed.  unedited wartime memoirs.  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral.   sleep deprivation.  corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions.  losing people.  losing your sanity.  corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality.  walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallusinations.  wrong proportions.  a nameless thing.  a place that has never existed.  doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.  loss of time.  a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh.  jokes and tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  the stranger.   wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together.  the colours of a circus.  a puppet with no strings.  mannequins.  glitter and sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins.  a machine imitating humanity.  the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight.  uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices.  images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiv.  the web.   undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed.  strings of fate.  manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap.  never voicing discomfort.  outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realising it.  red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unrealiability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny legs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing.  suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

xiii.  the vast.   open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in an universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you.  staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control.  a fall that doesn’t end in death.  glass floor to the view below.  terminal velocity.  the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building.  falling into nothing.  feeling your feet let go of the ground.  a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

TAGGED BY:  stole it. 

+  the extinction.   the end of an era.  apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism.  the last written history.  a changed world.  no survivours.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point.  overindulgence.

TAGGING:  @theaterism <any of them> @dcigrxtia @tragicblood @runnerkiller @pickdroses @fartemis-crock @rxdhairxdsirxns @nullcide @discipulusmaleficus @bustcdkneecaps <elias>

[desolationtrial]

aesthetics for the entities. bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

i.  the buried.   weighed blankets.  drowning. the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil and sand piling on top of you.  hugging so hard it hurts a little.  cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you.  not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little. dragging the last second before you have to inhale.  lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you.  looking for something below.  cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts.  hands calloused from digging.  knowing that your purpose is just below the surface.  entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out.  dust and sand speaking to you.

ii.  the corruption.  insects.  a close imitation of the natural course of life.  an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans.  an untreated wound.  containment. breaching containment.  unbreathable air.  fungi.  one with that you love.  one with what loves you.  a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs.  honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person. a curse passed on. the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed.  blood on a handkerchief.  parasites. something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever.  food that’s gone off.  pandora’s box.  death behind a glass.

iii.  the dark. shadows.  lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing.  touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes.  months without going outside during sunlight.  pouring dark.  unscrewing lightbulbs.  black matter.  light sensitivity.  a starless night. time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable.  winter months in the north. an empty church.

v.  the flesh. body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling.  never quite happy with how you look.  the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter.  a very good meal.  the liquid of a perfect steak.  fighting your worst survival instincts.  a twisted bone. long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay.  a bag of bones.  bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.  the butcher’s shop.  plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you.  unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like.  being admired for your appearance and appearance only.  teeth marks on skin.  scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity.  fenced in with one way to go.

iv.  the desolation.  senseless pain.  warmth of faith.  wax where skin should be.  a blazing fire. heat without a source.  the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for, gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline. touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold.  scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air. a child born in fire. death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods. animals with burnt fur.  plastic explosives.  burning hot metal. sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one. disfigurement.  a kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat.  a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.  the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair. little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

vi.  the end. the last page of a book. nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares.  a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.  existential pain. ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambling with death. as old as the universe.  soul and spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die.  closing your eyes for the last time.  the plead of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation.  someone’s life for yours.  an eternity spent alive.  the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial. causing your own burial. the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone.  meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

viii.  the hunt.   sharp canines. sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters. hide and seek. running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you. blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls. focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstrous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark and running after it.

vii.  the eye. googling something you shouldn’t have.  eureka moments. the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colours.  feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape.  a tragedy you can’t look away from.  endangering yourself for knowledge. truth. analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document.  turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person.  extracting information.  truth or dare, without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge.  books that speak to you.  coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.  voyerism. police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.  smell of old papers. books that read you back.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed. completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone. fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd. a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows. isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea. depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you. talking to someone only to realise they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter. a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby. improvised weapons.  blinding rage. intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community. a medal of bravery. holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers. a knifeblock on the counter. a pool of blood. shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward. unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths. kill or be killed. unedited wartime memoirs.  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral. sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions. losing people.  losing your sanity. corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality. walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallucinations.  wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time.  a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh.  jokes and tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  the stranger. wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together. the colours of a circus.  a puppet with no strings. mannequins.  glitter and sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity. the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight. uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices. images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiv.  the web.   undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed.  strings of fate. manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap. never voicing discomfort. outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realising it. red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unreliability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny legs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing. suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

xiii.  the vast. open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in a universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you. staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control. a fall that doesn’t end in death. glass floor to the view below. terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground. a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

+  the extinction. the end of an era. apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism. the last written history. a changed world.  no survivours.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point.  overindulgence.

Tagged by: @notstolen Tagging: @the-mind-of-xelyn, @detective-with-one-arm, @dpds-finest, @shotdownbutstillalive, @swatteam60, @wearera9

[whumping-every-day]

Vampire Whump: New Beginnings

Or, Vampire Whump Part Five! 

This time, we meet our reluctant caregiver, and our poor vampire gets something of a break. Sort of. -shifty eyes- 

Content Warnings for this one: Brief mouth/face gore, pain, dehumanizing language, comfort and reluctant caretaker, changing POV, fear, disassociation, given away, mention of experimentation, description of something awful happening to someone’s vocal chords, brief animal death (pig). 

Tagging @learningtowhump @whumpingmydarlings @shameless-whumper @pepperonyscience @robinshouseofwhump

Masterlist

--

Eventually, to keep the vampire from finally turning into dust, they have to feed it properly. They lock the creature in the small stone room again, and then throw a piglet in with it. The vampire is not proud of what it does, nor of how long it takes to do it.

Pig blood will not heal it. It won’t mend the charred flesh, or the misshaped bones, and it will not restore its voice, which it has lost after the hunters had reached down its throat with a silver knife and twisted. They had put the muzzle back on immediately after, of course, ignoring how the creature was gagging and choking on its own blood.

Pig blood will not heal it, but it will keep it from escaping the hunter’s grasp. And that is all the hunters want.

The vampire does not know how long it has been kept there, and it can’t even contemplate the concept. Time has no meaning, aside from the moving of the sun. Everything else stays the same, and it is only the brand of pain that changes.  The creature wants to beg. It wants to die. But the sun rises, and burns, and falls, and the hunters take it down and subject it to their newest torments. And in the morning, they put it back up again. At no point do they seem to hear the creature’s screams and muffled pleas, and eventually, they find a way to keep it silent altogether.

The next time the creature is dropped in the same cold, stone room, it is familiar. They take it down for feeding only when the vampire starts to crumble and disintegrate at the edges, and they always seem to catch it in time.

But this time, the bowl of blood is filled to the brim, instead of a few scant inches in the bottom. It is a break from routine, more blood than it’s ever been given at once, and the vampire understands by now that changes will only lead to more suffering. But it is left alone with the blood, and the hunters only kick it around a little bit before they leave and bar the door.

In the resulting silence, the vampire is numb. There is no confusion anymore, no conscious thought or effort to make sense of the hunter’s actions. Just dazed acceptance. But the blood is close, and the vampire is so, so hurt. Old injuries have healed wrong, and new ones have been dealt; crawling over to the bowl is an exercise in pain.

They haven’t removed the muzzle, not for weeks… or months. There is no way to tell. But the vampire can’t remember the last time it could touch its face without it. It’s easier, by now, to get the blood into its mouth through the muzzle, with all the practice it’s had.

By the time it’s done drinking, the vampire’s stomach feels full for the first time in living memory. It’s still pigs blood, but the quantity is new. The creature gasps and shudders as it works its way through its system, attempting to heal some of its internal injuries. It doesn’t get very far – pig’s blood never will - but when the vampire stops trembling and whimpering on the floor, it’s in a little less pain than before.

It’s a mercy, and the vampire knows it will pay for it, in some way. It just doesn’t know how.

When morning comes, the creature is convinced of the worst. Whatever the hunters have in store for it, whatever new torture, it will be truly horrific. What it is not expecting is the sound of new footsteps.

“This is your vampire?” The voice is horrified, and surprised. The vampire is familiar with that, and it lies still in its chains, far too traumatized to sob or cry. But while the tone is disgusted, it’s also incredulous. This is a voice that wants something.

“Unfortunately.” It’s one of the oldest hunters in the small town’s militia; Garret. The vampire remembers his voice, and its eyes go a little more dazed at the sound, already trying to escape from its own body.

The new voice draws closer, and the boots fall heavy on the ground. They’re riding boots, iron spurs at the heels, and the vampire’s breath speeds up as they draw to a stop by its face.

“Has it tried to bite?” Somehow, it sounds as though the man already knows the answer.  

“Well – no.” Garret, again, and the hunter crosses his arms. “These are more… preventative measures.”

“I see.” The new voice is undeniably disapproving. The stranger crouches down, kneeling over the vampire’s brutalized body. The vampire starts to quiver, but there’s no movement, no sound. “And these preventative measures, did they also include breaking its knees? And legs? And-” There’s a short pause, and the creature can feel the eyes that scan up and down it. “And its wrists? That muzzle is made of iron. Jesus fucking Christ.” The stranger is not pleased, and the vampire squeezes its eyes shut as the man stands.

“Our methods work.” It’s Garret, again. “You know better than anyone how to subdue these things.”

“I do know how.” It’s short, terse. “I also know overkill when I see it. So if we still have a deal…”

There’s a pause, then Garret sighs. “Yeah. We have a deal. My boys are bored of this thing. Besides, if you’re researching how to better kill these animals… then you should have a test subject.”

“I appreciate it.” It’s still tense, even as the stranger shrugs his travelling pack off and drops it to his feet. “I’m going to need a minute to prep him for travel. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Keep the muzzle. It’s very effective.���

“Yeah, I bet.” There’s silence, then the door opens and closes. The vampire flinches as the wooden beam thunks into place from outside. Then the stranger approaches again, and the creature’s body begins to quake in response, even as it stays deathly silent.

There is only silence for a few long, agonizing moments. Then a heavy sigh, and the man crouches down again. “Honestly,” the man mutters. The creature’s eyes stay fixed dully on nothing, blank and distant. The man isn’t talking to it. They are never talking to it. The man sighs again. “There’s no way to do this without it hurting.” The man reaches out, and the creature slips further away from reality, giving only a panicked gasp as it is turned over.

“Holy christ.” The vampire wheezes on its back, its ribs aching fiercely, but doesn’t so much as twitch. The hunter is staring, and in the dim light his hair is the same color as golden straw. There’s a thick scar running across the left side of his face, and the man’s eyes are sad. Perhaps in the beginning, the creature would have wondered at that sadness. But it doesn’t wonder about anything, anymore.

The hunter seems to realize that he won’t get a response, and he shakes his head quickly before dragging his pack closer. “Alright,” he mutters to himself. “Same plan. The plan hasn’t changed.” His eyes track the state of the vampire’s injuries for a long moment, cataloging and assessing, before motion.

“You, still.” The vampire can tell the moment that the hunter starts speaking to it, instead of to the room. It’s a command, an instruction, and the creature immediately freezes, save for the minute trembling. The stranger’s hands appear in its line of vision, and the vampire squeezes its eyes shut, not wanting to see.

There’s a faint click, and the shackles loosen. It’s immediate relief; the bones underneath have been broken and rebroken so many times that the skin underneath is swollen and fevered, and there is puss and blood weeping from where the metal has dug into skin. The vampire lets out a low, wounded moan as the cuffs are unlatched, the only sound it can still make with its damaged throat. There’s a pustules stench, and the shackles come free with a wet sound.

“Jesus christ. Jeeesus christ.” The vampire barely even registers the sound of the stranger’s voice as the shackles are dropped. The pain is only sending the creature deeper into disassociation, floating somewhere high above its body. “Okay. Alright.” The hunter holds his nose for a moment, visibly bracing himself. “I do regret that I have to do this,” he murmurs. But the next time he moves, it’s with purpose.

The ankle shackles are also removed, then the thick metal collar, and the hunter hesitates at the muzzle. The vampire stares back blankly, only partially present in its own head.

“I can’t have you biting me,” the man murmurs. “But there’s no way I’m leaving that thing on…” He trails off, and makes a grab for his pack. The vampire has no consciousness, no thoughts, but it remembers the command that was given. Still. Be still. So it doesn’t move, barely even dares to breath, in the distant, impossible hope that perhaps being perfectly obedient would earn it leniency.

The man reaches for the straps holding the muzzle in place, but he stops, stares down at the vampire. The creature feels ice in its stomach at the look his eye. “If you try to bite me,” he says slowly, “I will put a stake in your chest. Do you understand?” The threat is the only thing that’s made sense since the man had stepped inside. The vampire trembles and nods, too frightened to even breathe. “Okay. Good.” Normally threats are backed up with pain, and it feels like missing a step when instead the man is satisfied. “Still,” he reminds, and the vampire squeezes its eyes shut again and holds its breath.

The creature tries to hold still, it really does. But when the hunter starts to pull on the muzzle, it can only gurgle and thrash, and then immediately pass out. The muzzle is stuck, half burnt into its face, and eventually the hunter can only apologize, get a good grip on it, and yank. It takes the vampire a solid ten minutes to come back to. It can’t see past the stinging, but it can smell blood.

“Easy,” the man mutters. He’s got the bowl out, and a knife in his left hand. The knife glints in the dim light, makes the creature’s bladder heavy with terror, but the hunter is already bleeding… into the bowl? The vampire stares, then blinks, then blinks again. The picture doesn’t make sense.

“They fucked you up pretty bad, huh.” It’s the hunter again, and when grey eyes turn back to the wounded creature at his feet, they are gentler than expected. “You know, I always thought this kind of thing was barbaric excess. I’ve killed enough vampires on my own, but I don’t…” His brow creases, shaking his head. “I don’t like to play with my food, you know? They shoulda just staked you.” The vampire flinches, and the man balks, then frowns deeper. “Not that I’m going to… Ugh.” He groans, rubs a hand over his face, before straightening again. “Look. This is all you need to know. My name is Callum Devorak, and you are coming with me. If you can behave yourself, you will not be hurt. Do you think you can do that? No biting, no scratching, no fighting.”

It sounds… too easy. It sounds impossible. The vampire can barely move, can barely even breath, but it nods again, even more frantically than the first time. It knows there is no escape. It would do anything, anything at all, to make its torment a little less.

“Okay.” The hunter, Callum, looks vaguely uncomfortable. A few moments later, and he shakes his bleeding hand off over the bowl, moving to bandage the shallow slice. The vampire is hyper-aware of the bowl’s content; this is real blood, something that could actually ease its suffering.

When his hand is cleaned up, Callum picks the bowl up and moved to help the vampire sit up. The creature panics and wheezes when the hunter approaches, making a short, frightened sound low in its chest. “Easy, easy.” The hunter is out of his depth, but he is gentle when he lifts the bowl to the vampire’s lips, his other hand coming up to steady the back of its head. “Open up. There you go.”

The vampire can’t even lift its own hands. It’s defenseless, completely vulnerable, but instead of causing it further harm, the hunter is feeding it. Its lips are malformed from the muzzle, but it tries its best to open its mouth, begging for any scraps the hunter feels like offering.

It’s the second full bowl of blood it’s had in the last day, and by the middle point, the vampire is nearly drugged with it. There’s a quiet snap as its hip clicks back into place, and the vampire jerks and gasps, breathing heavily with pain. Callum seems to understand what’s happening, and he takes the bowl away while the creature’s body stitches back together, and waits patiently until it can breathe again. His hand stays curled around the vampire’s nape, cradling the back of its skull.

“That’s it, good,” he murmurs. “Just a bit more.”

When it swallows down the last drop, the vampire has to take a minute to adjust to the sudden presence of blood in its system. It has crumpled to its side at some point while it heals, and the hunter lets it happen. The creature has been starved for so long, that being fed feels strange. Agony has become the norm. This amount of blood won’t entirely heal it, but it’s enough that the vampire feels its knees starting to knit back together. Its throat itches, then burns, and the vampire chokes and scrabbles at its neck in a panic.

“Whoa, whoa! Easy, hang on.” There’s hands on it, then, warm and broad, settling on its emaciated shoulder. The vampire jerks and heaves, and those hands only squeeze softly, stroking along its bare flank, like a person might try to stroke a skittish horse. “I know it hurts,” Callum murmurs. “Your body is repairing old damage. Try to breathe.”

It’s the gentlest it’s been spoken to in as long as it can remember, and the vampire can only choke and twitch and cling to the words. Eventually, the stinging, searing pain in its throat abates, and the next time the vampire tries to whimper, its throat can make sound again.

“There we go.” Callum gives the creature one last little pat, and it’s startling, but also uncommonly gentle. The vampire can only stare up at him in utter bewilderment. What sort of hunter was this? “Now, I need you to hold still again.” The man pulls out a bundle of rope, and the vampire lets its head fall back to the stone floor. The pain of healing has only just faded, and there is much more left to go. But it’s in less pain than it has been in – ever. As long as the creature can remember. As long as it’s been here. It is perfectly still as the hunter turns it over, and it lays limp while the man brings its arms behind its back and binds them in place. The rope is firm, but not tight; it doesn’t burn against the creature’s skin, doesn’t scald the way iron would. It is still, and obedient, and it is not hurt.

It feels an awful lot like mercy.

Its ankles are not tied, and the unusual freedom of motion is unsettling. Once its arms are bound, the hunter rustles around his pack, and returns with a new muzzle. It’s leather, with a metal bit for its mouth, and it’s rounder than the old one. The vampire whimpers softly, already anticipating the pain of having it fastened on top of old wounds. But when Callum raises it, frowning, the vampire just opens its mouth to accept it. It’s leather, it thinks as it waits. It won’t burn. The man is kind.

But Callum only stares at the creature for a long moment, before sighing. The muzzle falls back to his lap. “No, you don’t need this, do you.” It’s not a question, but the vampire desperately wants to agree. It doesn’t need it, it’ll be good, it’ll follow any order the man gives if it means no more sun, no more iron…

The muzzle is put back in the hunter’s pack, and the vampire’s mouth is left free. The creature almost feels naked without the harsh metal eating into its face.

“Now, I’m sorry, but this part does need to happen.” The vampire’s eyes flick up fearfully, and hesitate on the burlap fabric in the hunter’s hands. A blanket? A bag? Callum is watching, and he sighs softly at the naked terror in the creature’s eyes. “I have to take you outside,” he explains softly, trying to reassure. The fabric is, after all, intended to keep the creature from burning. Instead, the vampire reacts like it’s been shot.

Its back hits the stone wall with a hollow thump, and the vampire cowers. It’s making a primitive keening sound, somewhere between a ragged sob and a scream, and its eyes are lost and glazed again. Outside. Outside. Sun. Torment and agony. It had tried to be good, it tried, it couldn’t take any more of the sun, please please no—

From his position a few feet away, Callum can only watch as the creature crumples in on itself. It’s begging, little broken, half bitten-off pleas, just a series of no and please don’t. They’re not even complete words, just an abortive attempt.

“Hey, hey, easy!” Callum can’t even deny it, the sight is… disturbing. Everything about this is disturbing. “I’m not going to burn you, kid, c’mon. Can you just – just listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you-” But the vampire is gone again. It’s rocking against the stone wall, hyperventilating and crying, and Callum jumps when something knocks against the outside door.

“Yo, Devorak! Are you done in there yet?” It’s Garret, and Callum doesn’t know how he’d forgotten about the other hunters. He’d forgotten they were on a time limit. “How long does it take to prep a leech for transit?” 

“Just a minute,” Callum calls back. “I’m almost done.”

There’s grumbling from outside the door, but the footsteps move away, giving Callum his space. The man hisses through his teeth, watching the vampire quiver. “Okay,” he mutters. “Okay. Kid, I’m sorry about this.”

He can’t afford to wait for the creature to calm down. So Callum picks up the burlap fabric and the rope, and gets in real close. The vampire wails and twists its face away, and all Callum can make out is its emaciated rib cage and the horrible scars running the length of its side. The hunter reaches out and firmly guides the creature down onto its belly, and the vampire folds, whimpering the whole way. Once it’s flat, Callum sets the fabric down beside it, and then, firmly but gently, rolls it over. The vampire isn’t resisting, but it’s scared out of its mind, almost literally. Its pleas aren’t making sense anymore.

“Okay, okay, easy,” Callum mutters, over and over, as he carefully turns the creature one more time, wrapping it in the coarse fabric. Once the vampire is covered, Callum lashes a rope around it, starting at the top and ending at the ankles. It won’t be comfortable, but it will keep the sun off.

The blood he had fed the creature should have healed its broken ribs… at least, Callum hopes so. Otherwise, he’s going to feel very bad about the next step. He drapes a last layer of black cloth over the covered vampire, completely obstructing the creature’s view of the outside. Then, Callum leans down to pick it up.

When Garret pulls open the door, it’s to Callum with the bound vampire slung over his shoulder, quiet and unresisting. For a moment, Callum looks into the eyes of the man who had allowed the vampire’s torture, and feels something murderous in his heart. Callum is a hunter. Callum has done terrible things. Hell, his plans for the vampire hadn’t been altruistic either, when he’d first asked to take it. But now, after the things he’d seen… “You people are fucking animals.”

Callum shoulders past Garret, and the older man gives way with an indignant shout. “Hey! You’re no fucking angel yourself, Devorak. You know damn well what these creatures deserve.” Callum’s grip only tightens where he’s holding the vampire’s legs, keeping it from sliding off. Just keep walking. Keep walking.

“It’ll turn on you, if you let it.” Callum’s horse is waiting right where he left her, and he pats her muzzle gently, slings the reigns over her neck.

“I won’t let it.” It’s not quite what he wants to say, and Callum settles the vampire across his saddle as carefully as he can. The bound creature hasn’t moved, and if not for the audibly labored, panicked breathing, Callum would have thought it had passed out.

Garret has followed him out, and the man crosses his arms, watching the younger hunter swing up into the saddle. “You’d better not get soft on that thing,” he warns, and Callum’s grip tightens on the reigns.

“You don’t have to worry about it, either way.” Callum places a hand on the rope-bound bundle in front of him, and it’s far more protective than he would have liked.

Garret only watches, quirking an eyebrow. “Okay, man. Whatever you say. But I warned ya.”

A muscle ticks in Callum’s jaw, and his stare is ice as he nudges his mount into motion. He doesn’t respond to Garret. Doesn’t think he can, not politely. Instead, he gains some distance from the stone building, and he glances back as the main square, and the gallows, disappear behind them. It feels strange. It feels like a new beginning.

Callum gives the frightened vampire the gentlest little pat, letting his hand rest on the creature’s back through the layers of fabric. “Don’t worry, bud,” he murmurs. “They’re not going to hurt you anymore. No one is going to hurt you anymore.” Even if Callum had meant to. Callum is a scientist before he’s a hunter; he likes to learn things, and he likes to experiment. He’d wanted a test subject, so he could learn more… but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him in that little room. And nothing he could do, or not do, was going to fix what had happened.

But at the end of the day… there is one thing Callum can do about it, and that’s to keep the poor thing from any further harm. If nothing else, he can do that. So he rides, and leaves a hand soft and warm on the creature’s back, and slowly, eventually, the trembling eases.

It’s a three-day journey back home, and Callum doesn’t know what he’s going to do with the vampire when they get there. But he’s got some time to figure it out.

--

Previous  Next

[hyperions-angel]

aesthetics for the entities.

bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. this is based on a horror podcast; potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

(original post on sagamemes here & here; this is post combining both into one long post under the cut)

i. the buried.   

weighed blankets. drowning. the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil and sand piling on top of you. hugging so hard it hurts a little. cramped hiding spots. letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool. walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little. dragging the last second before you have to inhale. lonely subways. feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you. looking for something below. cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts. hands calloused from digging. knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you. a storm drowning you out. dust and sand speaking to you.

ii. the corruption.   

insects. a close imitation of the natural course of life. an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans. an untreated wound. containment. breaching containment. unbreathable air. fungi. one with that you love. one with what loves you. a corpse unfit for a glass case. hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs. honeycomb patterns. an ecosystem within a person. a curse passed on. the hubris of a scientist. an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief. parasites. something pushing up the sewer. a mask to keep something out. trypophobia. knowing you belong. death weeks after impact. fever. food that’s gone off. pandora’s box. death behind a glass.

iii. the dark.   

shadows. lights that turn off by themselves. the feel of cold marble. a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing. touch of something you can’t see. hiding under a blanket. white, clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs. black matter. light sensitivity. a starless night. time before light was created. a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to. withering plants. a world without a sun. footfalls in an empty house in the night. a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should. desperate reach for a flashlight. clothes that hide your shape. staying unperceivable. winter months in the north. an empty church.

iv. the desolation.   

senseless pain. warmth of faith. wax where skin should be. a blazing fire. heat without a source. the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for, gone so soon. the smell of gasoline. touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold. scorch marks on wood. inescapably warm air. a child born in fire. death of a loved one. a candle without a flame. an altar in the middle of the woods. animals with burnt fur. plastic explosives. burning hot metal. sweating in an interrogation room. never touching a loved one. disfigurement. a kiss that ruins you. the scent of burning fat. a tattoo that terrifies its viewer. the agony of hellfire displayed as art. auburn hair. little clothing in cold weather. a ripple in the air. trying to cool down in vain.

v. the flesh.   

body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone. long nights working out. more than one heart. appearance that shapes like clay. a bag of bones. bone broth in a pot. knowing to fear pigs. the butcher’s shop. plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance and appearance only. teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.

vi. the end.   

the last page of a book. nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares. a skeletal hand. the grip of the grim reaper around your throat. existential pain. ivory dice. flatlining in a hospital. gambling with death. as old as the universe. soul and spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die. closing your eyes for the last time. the plead of a dying one. knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it. a thousand cords tugging you towards your end. skin that’s freezing to the touch. an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours. an eternity spent alive. the cost of your selfishness. watching your own burial. causing your own burial. the smell of death. numbness to fear. words from someone gone. meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe. multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii. the eye.   

googling something you shouldn’t have. eureka moments. the unforgiving lens of a camera. witness reports. hidden libraries. eyes of different colours. feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape. a tragedy you can’t look away from. endangering yourself for knowledge. truth. analog records. a symbol of an eye. a watch tower. compulsion to document. turning on recording devices without thinking about it. saving the evidence before the person. extracting information. truth or dare, without the dare. a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you. coordinated shelves. cataloguing systems. voyeurism. police report you can’t put down. reasoning your way out. smell of old papers. books that read you back.

viii. the hunt.   

sharp canines. sore calves after a run. the scent of blood. an adventure for the journey’s sake. the adrenaline right before the kill. a whistle’s echo. the woods. the doe eyes of a prey animal. your own breath in the air. sharpened claws. being tracked. fear of someone knowing your every movement. hunting down monsters. hide and seek. running away only to end up where you started. staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run. a set of footsteps behind you. blood dripping from bare hands. barks and growls. focused eyes. a victim going limp under your hands. a mouth full of fresh blood. catching the scent of something monstrous. perfecting your craft. peering into the dark and running after it.

ix. the lonely.   

an apartment too small for a double bed. completely vacant streets. waking up to see everyone gone. fog. point nemo. a house too big to hear your family members in. alone in a faceless crowd. a mask with nothing behind it. separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be. a blinding spotlight. the least missed in your friend group. streets without lights in the windows. isolation. not truly knowing your friends. your friends not truly knowing you. need for silence. fear of crowds. staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you. a ship alone at sea. depression. knowing your friends are better off without you. talking to someone only to realize they’re gone. a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.

x. the slaughter.   

a game of tag. senseless violence. a true crime hobby. improvised weapons. blinding rage. intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community. a medal of bravery. holding on to what validates your anger. history books that spare no details. an injury you want revenge for. war. counting kills. songs of soldiers. a knife-block on the counter. a pool of blood. shellshock. unspeakable horrors. anger pushing you forward. unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming. a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths. kill or be killed. unedited wartime memoirs. a weapons collection. not knowing the names of who you kill. too many to remember. loss of hope. there’s no heroes in war.

xi. the spiral.   

sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves. losing possessions. losing people. losing your sanity. corkscew curls. rows of funhouse mirrors. optical illusions. a separate reality. walking through the wrong door. delusions. not knowing what your hands are doing. blank spaces in documents. hallucinations. wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind. blind faith. losing track of names, labels, categories. distorted sound. an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time. a garish colour. doors that open to nowhere. lies. an unnatural laugh. jokes and tricks. illusions. a doorway. a sculptor with a wild imagination. limbs in impossible angles. doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible. fractals you can get lost in.

xii. the stranger.   

wax figures. a close approximation of a human face. a borrowed appearance. a strange smell. glass eyes. furs and pelts. a dance. a song of a choir. the uncanny valley. stitching yourself together. the colours of a circus. a puppet with no strings. mannequins. glitter and sequins. a stranger you’ve always known. someone strange in the place of someone you knew. stolen identities. stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity. the anonymity of a service worker. hiding in plain sight. uncomfortable to look at. a faked accent. concealing. forgetting who you are. forgetting who others are. a replacement no one notices. images that look posed. the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii. the vast.   

open spaces. carnival rides going up and down. fear of heights. endless infinity around you. your insignificance in an universe. stomach turning at a drop. fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip. the sway of a cable car. an adventure holiday. losing track of where the surface is. miles and miles of nothing around you. staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it. loss of control. a fall that doesn’t end in death. glass floor to the view below. terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears. a reach over the railing. a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground. a leap of faith. motion sickness.

xiv. the web.   

undecipherable code. a puppeteer holding the strings. power over the weak-willed. strings of fate. manipulation. an arranged accident. a hundred minions doing your bidding. cobwebs. spiders. a laid trap. never voicing discomfort. outwitting a cheater. doing things without realizing it. red string across a corkboard. finding something lost where you were sure you checked. power over the unreliability of chance. watching others dance for you. an entangled death. a thousand tiny legs and fangs. shady forum threads. something important gone missing. suspiciously disregarded case. a missing witness. connections. the world wide web. power of victimhood. gullibility. no control over your own decisions. an invisible leash. mass psychology. a horror film in the making. scapegoat. never remembering to ask for a name.

+ the extinction.   

the end of an era. apocalypse movies. the alarms of warning systems. a desolate landscape. end of the world cults. nihilism. the last written history. a changed world. no survivors. old prophecies. a thousand predicted ends. a new chapter. an end with no escape. catastrophes. a calendar counting down. breaking point. overindulgence.

tagged by: @maliwan012

tagging: @numericalassassin @thehandsomeasshole @redjaybird

I’m not sure I did any of this right but I tried my best! Thank you for tagging me in this, it was super fun! Also sorry for the long post and small font, I wasn’t able to change it.

[maliwan012]

aesthetics for the entities.

bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. this is based on a horror podcast; potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

(original post on sagamemes here & here; this is post combining both into one long post under the cut)

i. the buried.   weighed blankets. drowning. the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil and sand piling on top of you. hugging so hard it hurts a little. cramped hiding spots. letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool. walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little. dragging the last second before you have to inhale. lonely subways. feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you. looking for something below. cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts. hands calloused from digging. knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you. a storm drowning you out. dust and sand speaking to you.

ii. the corruption.   insects. a close imitation of the natural course of life. an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans. an untreated wound. containment. breaching containment. unbreathable air. fungi. one with that you love. one with what loves you. a corpse unfit for a glass case. hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs. honeycomb patterns. an ecosystem within a person. a curse passed on. the hubris of a scientist. an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief. parasites. something pushing up the sewer. a mask to keep something out. trypophobia. knowing you belong. death weeks after impact. fever. food that’s gone off. pandora’s box. death behind a glass.

iii. the dark.   shadows. lights that turn off by themselves. the feel of cold marble. a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing. touch of something you can’t see. hiding under a blanket. white, clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs. black matter. light sensitivity. a starless night. time before light was created. a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to. withering plants. a world without a sun. footfalls in an empty house in the night. a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should. desperate reach for a flashlight. clothes that hide your shape. staying unperceivable. winter months in the north. an empty church.

iv. the desolation.   senseless pain. warmth of faith. wax where skin should be. a blazing fire. heat without a source. the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for, gone so soon. the smell of gasoline. touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold. scorch marks on wood. inescapably warm air. a child born in fire. death of a loved one. a candle without a flame. an altar in the middle of the woods. animals with burnt fur. plastic explosives. burning hot metal. sweating in an interrogation room. never touching a loved one. disfigurement. a kiss that ruins you. the scent of burning fat. a tattoo that terrifies its viewer. the agony of hellfire displayed as art. auburn hair. little clothing in cold weather. a ripple in the air. trying to cool down in vain.

v. the flesh.   body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone. long nights working out. more than one heart. appearance that shapes like clay. a bag of bones. bone broth in a pot. knowing to fear pigs. the butcher’s shop. plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance and appearance only. teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.

vi. the end.   the last page of a book. nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares. a skeletal hand. the grip of the grim reaper around your throat. existential pain. ivory dice. flatlining in a hospital. gambling with death. as old as the universe. soul and spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die. closing your eyes for the last time. the plead of a dying one. knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it. a thousand cords tugging you towards your end. skin that’s freezing to the touch. an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours. an eternity spent alive. the cost of your selfishness. watching your own burial. causing your own burial. the smell of death. numbness to fear. words from someone gone. meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe. multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii. the eye.   googling something you shouldn’t have. eureka moments. the unforgiving lens of a camera. witness reports. hidden libraries. eyes of different colours. feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape. a tragedy you can’t look away from. endangering yourself for knowledge. truth. analog records. a symbol of an eye. a watch tower. compulsion to document. turning on recording devices without thinking about it. saving the evidence before the person. extracting information. truth or dare, without the dare. a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you. coordinated shelves. cataloguing systems. voyeurism. police report you can’t put down. reasoning your way out. smell of old papers. books that read you back.

viii. the hunt.   sharp canines. sore calves after a run. the scent of blood. an adventure for the journey’s sake. the adrenaline right before the kill. a whistle’s echo. the woods. the doe eyes of a prey animal. your own breath in the air. sharpened claws. being tracked. fear of someone knowing your every movement. hunting down monsters. hide and seek. running away only to end up where you started. staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run. a set of footsteps behind you. blood dripping from bare hands. barks and growls. focused eyes. a victim going limp under your hands. a mouth full of fresh blood. catching the scent of something monstrous. perfecting your craft. peering into the dark and running after it.

ix. the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed. completely vacant streets. waking up to see everyone gone. fog. point nemo. a house too big to hear your family members in. alone in a faceless crowd. a mask with nothing behind it. separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be. a blinding spotlight. the least missed in your friend group. streets without lights in the windows. isolation. not truly knowing your friends. your friends not truly knowing you. need for silence. fear of crowds. staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you. a ship alone at sea. depression. knowing your friends are better off without you. talking to someone only to realise they’re gone. a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.

x. the slaughter.   a game of tag. senseless violence. a true crime hobby. improvised weapons. blinding rage. intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community. a medal of bravery. holding on to what validates your anger. history books that spare no details. an injury you want revenge for. war. counting kills. songs of soldiers. a knifeblock on the counter. a pool of blood. shellshock. unspeakable horrors. anger pushing you forward. unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming. a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths. kill or be killed. unedited wartime memoirs. a weapons collection. not knowing the names of who you kill. too many to remember. loss of hope. there’s no heroes in war.

xi. the spiral.   sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves. losing possessions. losing people. losing your sanity. corkscew curls. rows of funhouse mirrors. optical illusions. a separate reality. walking through the wrong door. delusions. not knowing what your hands are doing. blank spaces in documents. hallucinations. wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind. blind faith. losing track of names, labels, categories. distorted sound. an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time. a garish colour. doors that open to nowhere. lies. an unnatural laugh. jokes and tricks. illusions. a doorway. a sculptor with a wild imagination. limbs in impossible angles. doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible. fractals you can get lost in.

xii. the stranger.   wax figures. a close approximation of a human face. a borrowed appearance. a strange smell. glass eyes. furs and pelts. a dance. a song of a choir. the uncanny valley. stitching yourself together. the colours of a circus. a puppet with no strings. mannequins. glitter and sequins. a stranger you’ve always known. someone strange in the place of someone you knew. stolen identities. stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity. the anonymity of a service worker. hiding in plain sight. uncomfortable to look at. a faked accent. concealing. forgetting who you are. forgetting who others are. a replacement no one notices. images that look posed. the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii. the vast.   open spaces. carnival rides going up and down. fear of heights. endless infinity around you. your insignificance in an universe. stomach turning at a drop. fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip. the sway of a cable car. an adventure holiday. losing track of where the surface is. miles and miles of nothing around you. staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it. loss of control. a fall that doesn’t end in death. glass floor to the view below. terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears. a reach over the railing. a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground. a leap of faith. motion sickness.

xiv. the web.   undecipherable code. a puppeteer holding the strings. power over the weak-willed. strings of fate. manipulation. an arranged accident. a hundred minions doing your bidding. cobwebs. spiders. a laid trap. never voicing discomfort. outwitting a cheater. doing things without realising it. red string across a corkboard. finding something lost where you were sure you checked. power over the unreliability of chance. watching others dance for you. an entangled death. a thousand tiny legs and fangs. shady forum threads. something important gone missing. suspiciously disregarded case. a missing witness. connections. the world wide web. power of victimhood. gullibility. no control over your own decisions. an invisible leash. mass psychology. a horror film in the making. scapegoat. never remembering to ask for a name.

+ the extinction.   the end of an era. apocalypse movies. the alarms of warning systems. a desolate landscape. end of the world cults. nihilism. the last written history. a changed world. no survivors. old prophecies. a thousand predicted ends. a new chapter. an end with no escape. catastrophes. a calendar counting down. breaking point. overindulgence.

tagged by: no-one! stole it from @sagamemes (idk if you’d mind me @’ing u but uh <3 thank u for making this thing!) tagging: @mysterybusiness , @agentbeyond , @floyb , @gracesmuses , @grenkids , @hyperions-angel , @skiesking , @elegys , @sonicbreak , @writedisaster , @ everyone who sees this (or else.. :gun: /jk)

[deivorous]

aesthetics for the entities.   bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

i.  the buried.   weighed blankets.  drowning.   the comfort of a loved one’s weight.  soil and sand piling on top of you.  hugging so hard it hurts a little.  cramped hiding spots.  letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool.  walls pressing in on you.  not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little.  dragging the last second before you have to inhale.  lonely subways.  feeling like one with the earth.  a layer of dirt on you.   looking for something below.  cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts.   hands calloused from digging. knowing that your purpose is just below the surface.  entering your final resting place before it kills you.  a storm drowning you out.  dust and sand speaking to you.

ii.  the corruption.   insects. a close imitation of the natural course of life.  an illness in a community.  a rag that dirties more than it cleans.  an untreated wound.  containment.  breaching containment.  unbreathable air.  fungi. one with that you love.  one with what loves you.  a corpse unfit for a glass case.  hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs.   honeycomb patterns.  an ecosystem within a person.  a curse passed on.   the hubris of a scientist.  an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief.  parasites.  something pushing up the sewer.  a mask to keep something out.  trypophobia.  knowing you belong.  death weeks after impact.  fever.  food that’s gone off.  pandora’s box.   death behind a glass.

iii.  the dark.   shadows. lights that turn off by themselves.  the feel of cold marble.  a beaked creature in the night.  the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing.  touch of something you can’t see.  hiding under a blanket.  white, clouded eyes.  months without going outside during sunlight.  pouring dark.  unscrewing lightbulbs.  black matter.  light sensitivity.  a starless night.  time before light was created.  a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to.  withering plants.  a world without a sun.  footfalls in an empty house in the night.  a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should.  desperate reach for a flashlight.  clothes that hide your shape.  staying unperceivable.   winter months in the north.  an empty church.

iv.  the desolation.  senseless pain.  warmth of faith.  wax where skin should be.  a blazing fire.  heat without a source.  the third or fourth tragedy in the family.  losing everything you’ve ever held dear.  so much to live for, gone so soon.  the smell of gasoline.  touch that scars.  coffee cup that never goes cold.  scorch marks on wood.  inescapably warm air. a child born in fire.  death of a loved one.  a candle without a flame.  an altar in the middle of the woods.  animals with burnt fur.   plastic explosives.  burning hot metal.  sweating in an interrogation room.  never touching a loved one.  disfigurement.  a kiss that ruins you.  the scent of burning fat.  a tattoo that terrifies its viewer.   the agony of hellfire displayed as art.  auburn hair.  little clothing in cold weather.  a ripple in the air.  trying to cool down in vain.

v.  the flesh.  body horror.  factories.  a hunger for something more filling.  never quite happy with how you look.  the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter.  a very good meal.  the liquid of a perfect steak.  fighting your worst survival instincts.  a twisted bone.  long nights working out.  more than one heart.  appearance that shapes like clay.  a bag of bones.  bone broth in a pot.  knowing to fear pigs.  the butcher’s shop.  plastic surgery.  something alien inside your body.  a hunger in the gaze laid upon you.  unwitting cannibalism.  forgetting what you used to look like.  being admired for your appearance and appearance only.  teeth marks on skin.  scars from wounds that should’ve killed you.  cooking in scarcity.  fenced in with one way to go.

vi.  the end.  the last page of a book.  nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares. a skeletal hand.  the grip of the grim reaper around your throat.   existential pain.  ivory dice.  flatlining in a hospital.  gambling with death.  as old as the universe.  soul and spirit tied to an object.  a dream where you die.  closing your eyes for the last time.   the plead of a dying one.  knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it.  a thousand cords tugging you towards your end.  skin that’s freezing to the touch.  an act of desperation.   someone’s life for yours.  an eternity spent alive.  the cost of your selfishness.  watching your own burial.  causing your own burial.  the smell of death.  numbness to fear.  words from someone gone.   meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe.  multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii.  the eye.  googling something you shouldn’t have.  eureka moments.  the unforgiving lens of a camera.  witness reports.  hidden libraries.  eyes of different colours.  feeling of being watched.  a death recorded in tape.  a tragedy you can’t look away from.  endangering yourself for knowledge.  truth.  analog records.  a symbol of an eye.  a watch tower.  compulsion to document.  turning on recording devices without thinking about it.  saving the evidence before the person.  extracting information.  truth or dare, without the dare.  a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you.  coordinated shelves.  cataloguing systems.   voyerism.  police report you can’t put down.  reasoning your way out.   smell of old papers.  books that read you back.

viii.  THE HUNT. -  sharp canines. sore calves after a run. the scent of blood. an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.   the woods.   the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.   sharpened claws.   being tracked.   fear of someone knowing your every movement. hunting down monsters.   hide and seek.  running away only to end up where you started.   staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you.   blood dripping from bare hands.   barks and growls.   focused eyes.   a victim going limp under your hands.   a mouth full of fresh blood.   catching the scent of something monstrous.  perfecting your craft. peering into the dark and running after it.

ix.  THE LONELY.   -  an apartment too small for a double bed.  completely vacant streets.   waking up to see everyone gone.   fog. point nemo. a house too big to hear your family members in.   alone in a faceless crowd.   a mask with nothing behind it.   separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be.   a blinding spotlight. the least missed in your friend group.   streets without lights in the windows.   isolation.   not truly knowing your friends.   your friends not truly knowing you.   need for silence.   fear of crowds.   staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.   depression.   knowing your friends are better off without you.   talking to someone only to realize they’re gone.   a family too large to notice you there.  safety in being alone.

x.  THE SLAUGHTER.  -  a game of tag. senseless violence.    a true crime hobby.   improvised weapons.   blinding rage.   intent to kill.   a horrific day in a quiet community.  a medal of bravery.   holding on to what validates your anger.   history books that spare no details.   an injury you want revenge for.   war.   counting kills.   songs of soldiers.   a knifeblock on the counter.  a pool of blood.  shellshock.   unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward.  unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming. a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.   kill or be killed.   unedited wartime memoirs.   a weapons collection.   not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.   loss of hope.   there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  THE SPIRAL.   -  sleep deprivation.   corridors you can get lost in.   maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.   losing possessions.   losing people.   losing your sanity.   corkscrew curls.   rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions. a separate reality. walking through the wrong door.   delusions.   not knowing what your hands are doing.   blank spaces in documents. hallucinations. wrong proportions.  a nameless thing.   a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind.   blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.   distorted sound.   an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.   loss of time.   a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.   an unnatural laugh.   jokes and tricks.   illusions.   a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.   limbs in impossible angles.   doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible. fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  THE STRANGER.   -  wax figures.   a close approximation of a human face.   a borrowed appearance.   a strange smell.   glass eyes.  furs and pelts.   a dance.   a song of a choir.   the uncanny valley.   stitching yourself together.   the colours of a circus.   a puppet with no strings.   mannequins.   glitter and sequin.   a stranger you’ve always known.   someone strange in the place of someone you knew.   stolen identities.   stolen skins.  a machine imitating humanity.   the anonymity of a service worker.   hiding in plain sight.   uncomfortable to look at.   a faked accent.  concealing. forgetting who you are.   forgetting who others are.   a replacement no one notices.   images that look posed.   the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii.  THE VAST.   -  open spaces.   carnival rides going up and down.   fear of heights.  endless infinity around you.  your insignificance in an universe.  stomach turning at a drop.   fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.   the sway of a cable car.   an adventure holiday.   losing track of where the surface is.   miles and miles of nothing around you.   staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.   loss of control.   a fall that doesn’t end in death.   glass floor to the view below.   terminal velocity.   the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.   a jump from the top of the building.   falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground.   a leap of faith.   motion sickness.

xiv.  THE WEB.  -  undecipherable code.   a puppeteer holding the strings.   power over the weak-willed.   strings of fate.   manipulation.   an arranged accident.   a hundred minions doing your bidding.   cobwebs.   spiders.  a laid trap.   never voicing discomfort.   outwitting a cheater.   doing things without realizing it.  red string across a corkboard.   finding something lost where you were sure you checked.   power over the unreliability of chance.   watching others dance for you.   an entangled death.   a thousand tiny legs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing.   suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.   connections.   the world wide web.   power of victimhood.  gullibility.   no control over your own decisions.   an invisible leash.   mass psychology.   a horror film in the making.   scapegoat.   never remembering to ask for a name.

+  THE EXTINCTION.   - the end of an era.  apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.   a desolate landscape.   end of the world cults.   nihilism.   the last written history.   a changed world.   no survivours.  old prophecies.   a thousand predicted ends.   a new chapter.   an end with no escape.   catastrophes.   a calendar counting down.   breaking point.   overindulgence.

Stolen! from: @paismurcielago​ Tagging: Its free real estate

[wiresdonttalk]

aesthetics for the entities.

bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. this is based on a horror podcast; potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

(original post on sagamemes here & here; this is post combining both into one long post under the cut)

i. the buried.  

weighed blankets. drowning. the comfort of a loved one’s weight. soil and sand piling on top of you. hugging so hard it hurts a little. cramped hiding spots. letting out air underwater to sink to the bottom of the pool. walls pressing in on you. not moving from a position even though you’re cramping a little. dragging the last second before you have to inhale. lonely subways. feeling like one with the earth. a layer of dirt on you. looking for something below. cardboard boxes and tiny pillow forts. hands calloused from digging. knowing that your purpose is just below the surface. entering your final resting place before it kills you. a storm drowning you out. dust and sand speaking to you.

ii. the corruption.  

insects. a close imitation of the natural course of life. an illness in a community. a rag that dirties more than it cleans. an untreated wound. containment. breaching containment. unbreathable air. fungi. one with that you love. one with what loves you. a corpse unfit for a glass case. hearing a song in the sound of tiny wings and legs. honeycomb patterns. an ecosystem within a person. a curse passed on. the hubris of a scientist. an ugly death where a glorious one is owed. blood on a handkerchief. parasites. something pushing up the sewer. a mask to keep something out. trypophobia. knowing you belong. death weeks after impact. fever. food that’s gone off. pandora’s box. death behind a glass.

iii. the dark.  

shadows. lights that turn off by themselves. the feel of cold marble. a beaked creature in the night. the difference between seeing darkness and seeing nothing. touch of something you can’t see. hiding under a blanket. white, clouded eyes. months without going outside during sunlight. pouring dark. unscrewing lightbulbs. black matter. light sensitivity. a starless night. time before light was created. a shadow on the wall without a body to attach to. withering plants. a world without a sun. footfalls in an empty house in the night. a light that doesn’t reach as far as it should. desperate reach for a flashlight. clothes that hide your shape. staying unperceivable. winter months in the north. an empty church.

iv. the desolation.  

senseless pain. warmth of faith. wax where skin should be. a blazing fire. heat without a source. the third or fourth tragedy in the family. losing everything you’ve ever held dear. so much to live for, gone so soon. the smell of gasoline. touch that scars. coffee cup that never goes cold. scorch marks on wood. inescapably warm air. a child born in fire. death of a loved one. a candle without a flame. an altar in the middle of the woods. animals with burnt fur. plastic explosives. burning hot metal. sweating in an interrogation room. never touching a loved one. disfigurement. a kiss that ruins you. the scent of burning fat. a tattoo that terrifies its viewer. the agony of hellfire displayed as art. auburn hair. little clothing in cold weather. a ripple in the air. trying to cool down in vain.

v. the flesh.  

body horror. factories. a hunger for something more filling. never quite happy with how you look. the terror of an animal waiting for slaughter. a very good meal. the liquid of a perfect steak. fighting your worst survival instincts. a twisted bone. long nights working out. more than one heart. appearance that shapes like clay. a bag of bones. bone broth in a pot. knowing to fear pigs. the butcher’s shop. plastic surgery. something alien inside your body. a hunger in the gaze laid upon you. unwitting cannibalism. forgetting what you used to look like. being admired for your appearance and appearance only. teeth marks on skin. scars from wounds that should’ve killed you. cooking in scarcity. fenced in with one way to go.

vi. the end.  

the last page of a book. nightmares that don’t feel like nightmares. a skeletal hand. the grip of the grim reaper around your throat. existential pain. ivory dice. flatlining in a hospital. gambling with death. as old as the universe. soul and spirit tied to an object. a dream where you die. closing your eyes for the last time. the plead of a dying one. knowing the fate of someone you know and being unable to prevent it. a thousand cords tugging you towards your end. skin that’s freezing to the touch. an act of desperation. someone’s life for yours. an eternity spent alive. the cost of your selfishness. watching your own burial. causing your own burial. the smell of death. numbness to fear. words from someone gone. meaninglessness of the actions or lives of single people in the universe. multiple near-death experiences you refuse to die from.

vii. the eye.  

googling something you shouldn’t have. eureka moments. the unforgiving lens of a camera. witness reports. hidden libraries. eyes of different colours. feeling of being watched. a death recorded in tape. a tragedy you can’t look away from. endangering yourself for knowledge. truth. analog records. a symbol of an eye. a watch tower. compulsion to document. turning on recording devices without thinking about it. saving the evidence before the person. extracting information. truth or dare, without the dare. a thirst for knowledge. books that speak to you. coordinated shelves. cataloguing systems. voyeurism. police report you can’t put down. reasoning your way out. smell of old papers. books that read you back.

viii. the hunt.  

sharp canines. sore calves after a run. the scent of blood. an adventure for the journey’s sake. the adrenaline right before the kill. a whistle’s echo. the woods. the doe eyes of a prey animal. your own breath in the air. sharpened claws. being tracked. fear of someone knowing your every movement. hunting down monsters. hide and seek. running away only to end up where you started. staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run. a set of footsteps behind you. blood dripping from bare hands. barks and growls. focused eyes. a victim going limp under your hands. a mouth full of fresh blood. catching the scent of something monstrous. perfecting your craft. peering into the dark and running after it.

ix. the lonely.  

an apartment too small for a double bed. completely vacant streets. waking up to see everyone gone. fog. point nemo. a house too big to hear your family members in. alone in a faceless crowd. a mask with nothing behind it. separated cubicles. a deafening silence where joy should be. a blinding spotlight. the least missed in your friend group. streets without lights in the windows. isolation. not truly knowing your friends. your friends not truly knowing you. need for silence. fear of crowds. staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you. a ship alone at sea. depression. knowing your friends are better off without you. talking to someone only to realize they’re gone. a family too large to notice you there. safety in being alone.

x. the slaughter.  

a game of tag. senseless violence. a true crime hobby. improvised weapons. blinding rage. intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community. a medal of bravery. holding on to what validates your anger. history books that spare no details. an injury you want revenge for. war. counting kills. songs of soldiers. a knife-block on the counter. a pool of blood. shellshock. unspeakable horrors. anger pushing you forward. unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming. a fully human monster. an authority sending its lessers to their deaths. kill or be killed. unedited wartime memoirs. a weapons collection. not knowing the names of who you kill. too many to remember. loss of hope. there’s no heroes in war.

xi. the spiral.  

sleep deprivation. corridors you can get lost in. maze puzzles that loop back on themselves. losing possessions. losing people. losing your sanity. corkscew curls. rows of funhouse mirrors. optical illusions. a separate reality. walking through the wrong door. delusions. not knowing what your hands are doing. blank spaces in documents. hallucinations. wrong proportions. a nameless thing. a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind. blind faith. losing track of names, labels, categories. distorted sound. an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time. a garish colour. doors that open to nowhere. lies. an unnatural laugh. jokes and tricks. illusions. a doorway. a sculptor with a wild imagination. limbs in impossible angles. doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible. fractals you can get lost in.

xii. the stranger.  

wax figures. a close approximation of a human face. a borrowed appearance. a strange smell. glass eyes. furs and pelts. a dance. a song of a choir. the uncanny valley. stitching yourself together. the colours of a circus. a puppet with no strings. mannequins. glitter and sequins. a stranger you’ve always known. someone strange in the place of someone you knew. stolen identities. stolen skins. a machine imitating humanity. the anonymity of a service worker. hiding in plain sight. uncomfortable to look at. a faked accent. concealing. forgetting who you are. forgetting who others are. a replacement no one notices. images that look posed. the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii. the vast.  

open spaces. carnival rides going up and down. fear of heights. endless infinity around you. your insignificance in an universe. stomach turning at a drop. fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip. the sway of a cable car. an adventure holiday. losing track of where the surface is. miles and miles of nothing around you. staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it. loss of control. a fall that doesn’t end in death. glass floor to the view below. terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears. a reach over the railing. a jump from the top of the building. falling into nothing. feeling your feet let go of the ground. a leap of faith. motion sickness.

xiv. the web.  

undecipherable code. a puppeteer holding the strings. power over the weak-willed. strings of fate. manipulation. an arranged accident. a hundred minions doing your bidding. cobwebs. spiders. a laid trap. never voicing discomfort. outwitting a cheater. doing things without realizing it. red string across a corkboard. finding something lost where you were sure you checked. power over the unreliability of chance. watching others dance for you. an entangled death. a thousand tiny legs and fangs. shady forum threads. something important gone missing. suspiciously disregarded case. a missing witness. connections. the world wide web. power of victimhood. gullibility. no control over your own decisions. an invisible leash. mass psychology. a horror film in the making. scapegoat. never remembering to ask for a name.

+ the extinction.  

the end of an era. apocalypse movies. the alarms of warning systems. a desolate landscape. end of the world cults. nihilism. the last written history. a changed world. no survivors. old prophecies. a thousand predicted ends. a new chapter. an end with no escape. catastrophes. a calendar counting down. breaking point. overindulgence.

tagged by: no one

tagging: anyone who wants to do this