#SOLO.

[freddybeezy]

Shot by: Kobe Wagstaff Rafael Rios x Courtney Yates.

Sol-Angel 🖤✨ 21’-23’

[laurestcphens]

location: westriver gardens time: saturday night, post-masquerade

The week since the masquerade had been largely uneventful in her eyes. It seemed that most of the inhabitants in the city decided to remain quiet in its wake, though she imagined it wouldn't be long before something came along to rock the boat once more. But until then, Laure continued to place down the foundation for her plans.

The masquerade had given her plenty to think about, chief among them what she planned to do with Aria. Laure sees now that she had only been delaying the inevitable. In her delusion, she had wanted the girl to be someone she wasn't, and she's since realized that fate brought Aria to her not as a replacement, but as a vessel. Desmona confirmed that it was possible, even if difficult, and she had told the witch to begin preparing.

But that would take time. Laure has waited three years, she supposed she can wait a few more weeks if she must. She hasn't spoken with either Aria or Morgan since the night of the masquerade, fairly certain that neither of them are particularly happy with her at the moment. If she were capable of feeling regret, she might have tried to reach out to smooth things over, at least with Morgan. But obsession has taken over once more, thinking about how close she is to finally regaining what she has lost.

She leaves Westriver for the first time since the masquerade to hunt, unable to stay cooped up any longer. Laure is restless in a way that she detests, feeling unsettled and not entirely in control. Finding a victim is easy, some sad divorcée who wants to be pampered. Laure pays for their drinks, invites her back to Westriver, and leaves her in the sitting room while she fetches a bottle of wine.

Laure has gotten entirely too used to how quiet the house has become after Kiri's death. Music used to fill their home at all hours of the day, but she rarely has the desire to do so anymore. Instead, she has become familiar with the way the wood creaks in the wind, or the groan of the pipes. She knows what it sounds like when she is the only one in the house, and when she has a visitor.

She also knows what it sounds like when there is an intruder.

The bottle of wine is left forgotten as she speeds down the hallway. Long black hair obscures the attacker's face as it is buried in the human's neck and Laure moves forward without hesitation. One hand wraps around a throat while the other sinks into their chest, fingers wrapping deftly around a heart that no longer beats. Laure's eyes are black as she snarls into their face, unable to fathom that someone would dare to be so bold. In the next moment, she freezes as she stares into the face of her wife, whose eyes and fangs now match her own.

"Oh darling, don't tell me you still haven't taken my name off the title."

Laure is breathless, despite the fact that she has not needed to breathe in over six hundred years. Her knees tremble, threatening to give way, even as her hand is still inside her chest, wrapped around a heart that no longer beats.

"Kiri?"

[nightmaretist]

PARTIES: Ingeborg LOCATION: Wicked's Rest TIMING: Current SUMMARY: Inge leaves town

Going away had become a staple in her life from the moment she separated from Hendrik and found her way west, to Amsterdam. In the four decades that had followed, Inge had left place after place, turning her back on cities and countries with increasing ease. But it was never really easy, no matter how lackadaisical she pretended to be. It was especially hard when it didn't feel like much of a choice. 

She'd been considering changing Wicked's Rest for a different city for a while now, admittedly. But the walls were closing in faster than she liked and the bloody bitemarks on her legs were just more proof of that. The amount of hunters who she figured were just lying in wait was too large as well and besides, what was there to do in this town that she could not do elsewhere? The teaching position was so-so, but it ate away from her time spent creating art. There were friends, but she had friends elsewhere too. There was the gap left behind by Debbie, a festering wound even more painful than those left by Wyatt's teeth. 

It was time, the way it was always inevitably time.  

It had been time, back in Antwerp, when Inge had witnessed a hunter chopping off Sanne's head. She had ran into the astral that time, rushing to a plane of existence where no axe could get to her. She had played it over and over again, that image, and only returned to their once-shared appartment to gather her most important belongings before fleeing south, to the crowds of Paris. In that capital she had stayed no longer than three months before there was the hot breath of hunters in her neck, so off to Nice she went. Bordeaux, next. Across the ocean to England and then across a larger ocean, to the Americas. In Mexico she'd enjoyed her time until her neck had been marred with the scar left there by Elena Cortez and she'd fled north again, with few belongings but her life. That was always the most precious thing to cling to. 

The years had continued on, as had the places she'd come and gone. Switzerland, Venice in 2003, and then copious of European capitals as she moved through them as Nika Beinhacker, famed sculpturer. That identity had to be destroyed eventually, though, and soon enough she was herself again. Inge de Jong, returning to the Netherlands, to the hospital and running away from the scene as soon as the funeral of her only daughter was concluded. 

She tried to collect something from each city, but it was not always an option. Sometimes she ran with just the clothes on her back and the few belongings in her bag, and memorabilia were discarded. These days she was clever enough to have a few storage boxes scattered around with some of her things, but even so. Things got lost in the wind. 

This time, though, she was doing it right. Quick, but right. She was gathering her things, ordering a moving van to drive the most precious materials up to New York, where she'd move in with Mona and delve into the vibrant nightlife that Dance Macabre could never claim to imitate. She was trying to say goodbye, though it was never really goodbye — at least not for those who would live as long as she did. It was a good thing, that most of the people she'd learned to value in Wicked's Rest were as undead as her, but there were a few she knew would come to grow old and pass while she remained unchanging. Maybe, then, it was best to leave now, before she grew all the more fond of Anita and her mourning would weigh even heavier than it inevitably would. 

And Inge intended to return periodically, she really did. As a mare it was easy to come and go as one pleased, but she needed her homebase changed. There were things lurking behind corners here. Crocodilian dreamers, hunters whose brothers she'd hurt or who'd deceived her, ghosts that killed indiscriminately. Wicked's Rest would just become a place she visited from time to time, making reappearances in the lives of Anita, Leila and Ariadne as she pleased.  

So her things were packed by the movers. Her appartment was empty. Her studio sold. Her contract at the university ended. She'd seen the people she cared for one last time as an inhabitor of Wicked's Rest and left them her forwarding address. All that was left to do was get in her car and drive off. 

In her car, Inge felt a level of uncertainty that came with saying goodbye. There was also, more dominantly, a feeling of concern. What if someone was to stop her from leaving now? If all her intentions to not die in this godforsaken town were for naught, and she'd still be caught underneath someone's axe or between someone's teeth or even that same sword once more? If she'd still had a functioning heart, it would have been hammering all the way through her drive out of town, but it remained as still as it always was. 

It wasn't until she'd moved past the Maine stateline that she felt comfortable enough to turn up her music and sing along as loud as she could, the next destination on her horizon a mirage full of promise and potential. 

[bountyhaunter]

TIMING: Current. LOCATION: WR general hospital SUMMARY: Daiyu tries to text her siblings while in the hospital, but decides against it. CONTENT WARNINGS: General hospital descriptions.

Daiyu shared a room with an elderly man called Robert, who she'd started calling Robbie the moment she'd gained enough strength to be a little shit. This had been surprisingly fast, according to all nurses present, who thought her annoying ways a little odd, given the traumatic injuries marring her body. It was impressive to a frustrating degree how quickly the patient used her damage voice box to make bad jokes and come up with bad nicknames, though Daiyu knew very little else to do. Robbie had to be playfully bullied. She had to do something besides lay in the relative silence of the hospital.

Of course, she could invite people. Robbie had visitors, who thought her both pitiful and annoying. It was a fair assessment, considering her bandages and solitude contrasted with her big mouth and lame quips. Daiyu wanted to call out to them in a way that was less provocative, to ask them what it was like to feel the urge to visit hospitalized visitors. To ask them to visit her too. She wanted one of those stupid helium balloons. But she did not ask Robbie's family, nor her own, nor the strange combination of acquaintances she'd made in town.

In stead, she kept her phone battery charged and went online. Snarked to some strangers, tried to cover the fall out of the Keep unsuccessfully, asked for help with her dog. Daiyu did not ask anyone to come, though. It was easier to keep it all online. To speak through text, rather than reveal her raspy voice and her leathery skin. To chat about eating cheeseburgers as if she wasn't nauseated by the medication and the smell of burning flesh that had not yet left her nose. It was easy to show bravado behind that silly profile picture while typing words, even if her arm hurt when she did so.

She heard that Rafael had been given a little wake at the bar and wished she could have been there. Mark Stanson was impossible to keep away from the hospital, but she figured it was only because he wanted to keep her patronage after all that had occurred, and not because he cared.

To be cared for was a notion beyond her understanding. The nurses did a good job of it, but they were paid to. The people who knew about her predicament might want to, but Daiyu kepther them. And her family …

There were a few moments where she opened her text messages with her sister and typed fervently until her broken arm was sore. Inna, she had typed, Do you ever think they should get hunter insurance? Like, I think that's totally something you should get into. Just charge other hunters a fuck ton so in the case they end up in hospital for some reason, they don't have to pay a fuck ton. But ofc most of us are too stubborn to go to hospital, so you'd turn an impressive profit. Been thinking about it lots but I don't feel like becoming an insurance mogul. But like, you can go for it. Take my idea and just give me 10% or something, lol. Oh, right, I was thinking about this because I am in the hospital. In Wicked's Rest, if you feel like coming East. JK, stay where you are. You smell too bad, they'd never let you in. But yeah, got into one of those situations where a first aid box and some staples ain't enough. Sucks ass, man. It's expensive here. And the food's shit, not that I feel like eating it. The guy next to me has people coming by every day. They use a Google calendar and everything to make sure he doesn't go a day without visitors. Would you come if I ask? Not that I'd ask, because again, you smell too bad. It'd be a health risk and I don't want you to embarrass yourself like that. But would you ever do that? A fucking Google calendar? Maybe I would, once you get old and sicky (in like three yrs). Anyway. Some fucking lavagirl jumped me. I didn't even start it! I know you won't believe that, but this time I'm so fr. I was just going to my car and she was killing another hunter who was also just getting to his car? Crazy shit. Anyway. They had to do skin grafts. NASTY! It's fine, though. My scars will look more bad ass than any of yours. You'd cry if you had these kinda burn scars, too. Ummm whatever. I'm fine, though. Just waiting for the right opportunity to make my escape. Don't forget my hunter insurance idea, it's a total get rich quick scheme. How's shit at home? Dad's still not croaked it? Damn huh, I thought

The message had been deleted before she could send it. She'd blocked her sister's number to resist the urge to text her in a moment of weakness and had unblocked her a few days later, just in case of emergency.

Vissarion had been met with a wall of unsent text as well, of course. Vis, you won't believe it. Lavagirl is real. She's probably a fae and also an absolute cunt. I tried to fight her and I lost but if you had tried to fight her, you would have totally died. I'm so bored though. Most boring part of being a hunter, am I right? Waiting for your fucking bones and skin to heal. Anyway, just thought I'd message you. Only because I'm bored to tears. Do you want to come hang out? I want to throw jello at you or whatever. You'd totally hate this town, it's quaint and cute and filled to the brim with weird shit. Have you spoken to dad? Lol who am I kidding you're probably sitting next to him right now and so I'm not going to send this because you'd tattle about me being hurt and that is NOT happening. You suck.

Vissa had received a Blingee gif in stead of the above message, which he left on read and didn't respond to, as was par of the course. Daiyu's finger had hovered over the call button, remembering a long time ago where Vissa had crouched across from her when she'd fallen and messed up her knees. She remembered, too, how he'd carried her from a den of werewolves similarly to how Mark had taken her from that parking lot. She never reached out more besides that one gif.

Her dad was not spared any impulse. She also refused to open her messages with uncle Nik, if only because she knew she'd reach out and that he'd come. That couldn't be.

The solitude was a self imposed consequence of getting hurt. It was how it was meant to be. You only showed people your teeth, never your bleeding gums. She'd put her scars on proud display, proof of having survived where Rafael hadn't, but she would never show the forming of said scars. The period before, where she watched Robbie receive another sister and a drawing from a young niece with a hollowness in her chest, where she longed in the quiet dark for Nugget's snout against her hand, where she heard the whirring and beeping of the hospital and had to wait until she could present herself again as brave and resilient, out in the real world outside that white room where she was alone, again.

[finalmere]

WHEN: A few days after her attack. WHERE: Meredith and Stevie's apartment. WHO: Meredith. WHAT: Meredith deals with her grief and increasing paranoia.

Paint swirled around on the paper plate Meredith was using as a palette.  She hadn’t done much of anything the past few days, smearing color against canvas had been the only thing keeping her from completely losing her mind.  Work gave her a few extra days off, it seemed being the sole survivor of a murder gave her a bit of leeway.  It was just as well anyway, no part of her was ready to face her coworkers and feel their eyes staring daggers into her back.  No one knew how to talk to her or approach the subject, she wasn’t sure how to either. Wicked’s Rest wasn’t exactly a stranger to odd goings-on, deaths and disappearances were a common occurrence.  But not only had Meredith never been a part of one of the stories that passed from ear to ear, she usually scoffed at them.  She assumed most of the sensational tales that spun around her university were hoaxes and jokes pulled by drunk college kids.  She never believed in Bessie or things that go bump in the night.  Now she didn’t know what to think.

A loud noise came from across the apartment and Meredith’s head snapped up.  Her paintbrush fell to the floor with a clatter and she tried to scramble to her feet and stumbled backwards.  A shaky hand reached for the kitchen knife that hadn’t been far from her side since she got home.  She inched towards Stevie’s bedroom door, her feet careful not to step on any of the creakier floorboards of the cheap Harborside flat.  She wasn’t sure she was ready to face her demons again- but before she had to make up her mind, a small feline came lumbering out the cracked door, loudly meowing up at Meredith likely in protest of the giant knife in her hand.

“Fucking hell,” she groaned, smacking the blade down on the kitchen island as she sighed.  “You’re back.”  In her death Stevie had left behind a cat.  He was a stray that seemed to be drawn to the apartment.  He’d somehow make his way on their fire escape where Stevie began leaving small plates of food.  Eventually she started propping her bedroom window open and he’d come and go as he pleased.  Meredith would start to come home to find them curled up on the couch together.  

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” she told him, a pause lingering in the air.  “She’s not here.”  She couldn’t believe she’d avoided people for days and now she had to have this conversation with a fucking cat.  She felt a pang of guilt in her gut.  Mere had never considered herself much of a cat person, but she felt a sudden kinship to the creature who was likely mourning just as she was.  “Hang on, I think I know where she kept the food.”  She walked around the counter to find the cabinet that was stacked with small cans of cat food.  She cracked one open and dumped it on a plate, her nose scrunching in disgust.  “Here,” she said, placing the plate down in front of him.  “Bon appétit.” Mere sat herself on the floor next to him, her back leaning against the wall of the kitchen island.  Her eyes stared through the window across the room as she listened to the quiet noises of a hungry cat.  “She’s not coming back,” she said softly, and she swore for a moment he stopped to listen.  “But I guess I have nothing else to do with the food so I suppose I can keep putting it out for you.  Until it’s gone.”  Her head fell back, gently hitting the counter behind her.  After a moment, she felt the soft fur of the stray cat rest against her bare leg.  She took a second, then carefully scratched his head.  For the first time since the attack, she let a tear roll down her cheek.

[ohwynne]

TIMING: Current. PARTIES: Wynne & Mealla (NPB) LOCATION: Saol eile SUMMARY: A banshee invites a wandering Wynne over to tea and speaks of their impending sacrifice. It brings up memories. WARNINGS: Hints at abuse (cult), medical blood (vein mentions)

"You know, I have seen many people die. Have you ever? Seen the light leave their eyes, I mean. I have seen it often. Sometimes it’s almost peaceful, like our sisters in our pit who are giving themselves over to a slow death — but most often there’s something sharp in their eyes. Emotion! Oh, I cannot help but wonder what your eyes will portray. Fear or anger? Relief? Peace? I so love it when they look peaceful."

Every day Wynne woke from nightmares. The improvised beds were not comfortable, nor was the stench of death in the air but at the end of the day it was the lack of Ariadne that made them sleep most fitfully. It seemed they had grown too dependent on her ability to siphon away bad dreams and now they were left to play catch up on all the ones they’d evaded over the past months. 

So every day they woke from nightmares.

Most of the time they dreamed of home. The estate on the shore of Moosehead lake would merge with the estate the banshees called home merged with the barn. Irish lilts came from the mouths of their former loved ones. Their parents lived in white cottages and showed their fangs, ready to sink them in their neck. Nora’s head was ripped off clean. Wynne could not stop screaming. Regan rose in the air with inky eyes and an echoing, berating voice. Siors held his ceremonial knife and brought it down. Iwan pleaded, begging them to stay as he was bled out on the altar. 

Every day they woke from nightmares in an attic that seemed smaller every day and so every day Wynne got out. They walked the streets of saol eile hoping that an answer would come to them, that somehow they would find a solution to the situation they had gotten themself into. That they’d have an eureka moment and finally realize how to get Nora to want to leave. The right combination of words and facial expressions, the exact way to make her fold without doing some irreparable damage. 

They were supposed to leave in one day, but it was hard to feel optimistic. Nora was angry. Elias still was a tall man with a beard destined to die. Regan was nowhere to be found. Wynne was desperate.

So they kept walking and they kept hoping for a metaphorical hole in the fence. It was good to scope the perimeter — they had known exactly where and how to run when they’d left home because they knew the place like the back of their hand. It would be good if they knew the way. It would be good —

It would be good if they succeeded. But how much luck was one person allowed? How often was someone allowed to evade fate? Wynne should have died on an altar, but didn’t. Wynne should have died in the barn, but didn’t. Wynne should die here, but didn’t want to. Was want enough? Was determination? Was bravery? They were surrounded by a people that revered death and saw human sacrifice not as a necessary evil but more like a past time. How could it be enough?

But they kept walking anyway. 

That was until someone stopped them. 

Sometimes the banshees talked to them. Wynne regressed into a former version of themself when they did, cowering and gentle and submissive. Most of the banshees looked down on them, pushed them aside after a comment or two. They weren’t nice comments, but they also weren’t particularly mean — they just were aligned with the doctrine, odd and confusing but something Wynne was trying not to think about too much. They weren’t here to investigate the banshees. They were here for the hole in the fence and to find a way to convince people to leave.

But this banshee looked at them with wide eyes that went from inky to a dark brown, taking them in. “You are perfect.” They were ready to stammer something in response. They didn’t want to know how or why they were, nor did they want to argue. The banshee took their face in their hands before they could, though. “I will make you tea.” 

They were guided into the banshee’s house where a kettle whistled merrily and the walls were lined with mounted animals and bones. The banshee sat them down on a chair (Wynne was not sure where the control of their body had gone as they let themself be guided and pushed onto the seat, but they figured it might be best to remain pliable) and ran around to gather the things needed for tea.

It took a short three minutes and then there were two steaming mugs between the pair of them, a scent of a herbal mix filling the room. A small animal bone laid at the bottom of their mug of tea. Wynne knew better than to thank the banshee, so they just nodded.

“I heard — oh, you — yes, I heard about the arrival. We get so few of you that just arrive, that are this — this perfect.” The banshee was speaking in a tone that was euphoric, hands folded around her mug. “You know, I have seen many people die. Have you ever? Seen the light leave their eyes, I mean. I have seen it often. Sometimes it’s almost peaceful, like our sisters in our pit who are giving themselves over to a slow death — but most often there’s something sharp in their eyes. Emotion! Oh, I cannot help but wonder what your eyes will portray. Fear or anger? Relief? Peace? I so love it when they look peaceful. Oh!” She moved her hand and some of the tea sloshed on the table. Wynne noted a moment too late that she was extending it. “I’m Mealla.” 

With a bit of hesitation they shook it. “Alys.” Mealla was blinking at them and they realized that she was waiting for an answer. They didn’t know what their eyes would show when they were going to die. They didn’t want to know because they weren’t going to die.

Once, they had sat like this with the real Alys. She had been one of the elders back at home, one of the people closest to Siors and one of the people that Wynne sometimes got to spend one on one time with. When they did, it was special. It was special when an elder took time out of their day for you, to dedicate their energy to you. Whenever the real Alys had spoken, Wynne had listened with such intent and concentration that it sometimes gave them a headache. 

She had spoken of how their position was an unique gift. That dying in serenity was their gift to the commune. “Wynne,” she’d said as they walked the shores of the lake, “I need you to think about that moment. About every single second of it. You need to paint it in your mind’s eye. To imagine it in detail.” She’d made Wynne hold the jute rope that would tie their hands on that inevitable day, make them feel every fiber with their fingers. One time she’d wrapped the rope around their wrists, not too tight and mostly for show. Just to make them familiar with the sensation. “I need you to try and feel it already so that when it happens, you know how to respond. A prepared person cannot be afraid. You need to be calm. You need to give yourself over to it. You can do that, can’t you?” She’d halted and turn to Wynne then. “For me? For us? I know you can.”

Mealla was still waiting for an answer. “Peaceful,” they said. “I’m ...” Your death means more than all of ours ever will. You are so special. “Honored.” 

The banshee let go of their hand and returned to her tea, seemingly not minding that she’d spilled hot water over her table. “Yes! Ah — you did well to come here. You understand, do you? You — not so short sighted as other humans, thinking death the very sad end.” She mocked a human expression of sadness. It would be comical if Wynne wasn’t so scared. “Honor! Oh,” Mealla reached for Wynne’s face again, “You will bleed so beautifully. We can make it slow so you can feel the honor all the way through. Not many get such a death! Most die in boring ways. Old bones or weak hearts or someone driving a car badly or disease. You will get to feel it!” She pinched the meat of their cheek. “Do you have any preferences on where you are punctured? I hold some sway. I can arrange this for you. I personally enjoy the thigh, it’s so supple yet so very effective. It bleeds beautifully there. And the chest! It’s a canvas for carving. My si—” Mealla forgot herself as she nearly spoke of ancient family traditions not reserved for human ears. “You will make a very beautiful corpse, Alys.”

Wynne blinked. It seemed to go in slow motion, the way their eyelids made the world go smaller until it was nothing but a strip of light and then darkness. Then light again. The banshee was still sitting there. The hand was still on their cheek. They would make a beautiful corpse. They would be bled out. Not even on an altar, this time. Not even to save their community or spare their brother. Just because.

Once, at home, Siors had sat with them. This was even more rare than sitting with Alys. Siors was their patriarch — he was elusive and when he was present, he took center stage. He had a voice you wanted to listen to and when he turned all his attention to you, it felt like you were chosen. And though Wynne knew they were chosen, it was still different when it was just Siors across from them. It was exhilarating to have his presence be purely dedicated to them and so they’d sat upright and with all their emotions carefully wound up and put away. They’d breathed serenely. Alys and Padrig had taught them well.

On that day, Siors had shown them the ceremonial knife. They had seen it before, of course. Every ritualistic sacrifice was done by this knife. It had sunk into the necks of some thirty youths before them and hundreds of animals. It was something from back in Wales. Engraved and sturdy and sharp. Sometimes they’d catch him sharpening it as he watched his community. The day he’d shown them had been about a week before their sacrifice. Every day had been filled with preparation. 

“This isn’t something to flinch at,” he’d said, turning the blade in his hand. “It is part of us.” He hadn’t asked them where they’d like to be cut, slit or punctured. There had been tradition to honor. The demon had liked his sacrifices a certain way. Siors had guided Wynne’s hand to their throat which had bobbed nervously. “Calm yourself.” It was a demand that they had listened to reflexively. He’d pressed their fingers against their pulsing artery. “There.” He made them tilt their head so the artery was more accessible. “Alys has explained it, right? How it needs to be calm. You cannot squirm, Wynne, nor cry. You remember how quiet Jac was? How good? How dutiful?” He had tilted their head towards them, thumb and index finger holding their chin softly. “I believe you can do that too. I’ll be gentle.” He had looked so sure of it that any doubt washed away. “I will be so proud.” They would make a good corpse for him. For all of them. 

And now Wynne was staring at a woman who might have made them feel certain and special and chosen, had they not ran from that duty. Had they not come here with the intention to run again. But a lot had changed since they’d looked at Siors and Alys for guidance. They stared at her and felt her hand on their cheek and did not cry. They could not squirm nor cry — they had to press their feelings into a corner of their stomach and remain calm. They could not panic. If they panicked, they’d all know something was wrong.

“The thighs. I’d prefer that. It’s better than the neck.” Their voice sounded hollow. Their ears were ringing and it wasn’t because of all the screaming they’d heard. It was the overwhelming urge to run. The even more overwhelming urge to live, despite the threats that hung over their head like an ax. But they could not give the banshee an inch of fear or reluctance. To panic was to make them aware something was wrong. Nothing was wrong. They could only know something was wrong when they were gone along with Nora, Elias and Regan. So for now they remained seated. "Anything but the neck."

Mealla smiled. “You are right. the neck lacks creativity.” She pet their cheek. “Drink your tea.” Demonstratively she took a sip of her own. The tiny clavicle she'd dropped in it made music in her mug as it hit its corners. Wynne sipped their own. It was nice. At least the tea was nice. They wanted to drink more nice tea for years and years to come, but in stead Mealla continued to speak, “Do remember to enjoy the last of your days, Alys. It is beautiful that you are so open to death, but you must also remember that there is no death without life. The weather is nice.” It was raining. The weather had been very much misty and dark, as if spring was reluctant to come around. It would be better to die on a grey day — but they didn't want to die yet. Wynne was quiet, unsure of how to form words that weren't no and please and so filled their mouth with more tea. “Enjoy the last of them. Do this for me, and I will ensure it is your thighs we cut first.” 

[razorsharpteeth]

TIMING: A few years prior. PARTIES: Samir & Pat LOCATION: Jacksonville, FL SUMMARY: The newspaper at Samir's work bears headlines of two murdered tourists. He's normal about it. CONTENT WARNINGS: Mentions of murder.

FLORIDA RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN: TWO TOURISTS FOUND DEAD.

JACKSONVILLE — The bodies of two honeymooners were found on the shore this morning by a local fisherman. “Looked like someone had gone to town on them. This freak’s gotta go,” he said, before going on to describe the ripped states of their bodies poking out of the sand. Local authorities have no answers yet.

Bex and Dawn were a newly married couple exploring the Keys on their honeymoon. The pair went missing the night before their planned departure a week ago and had not been seen since. Their bodies were found on the shore after winds blew the sand they’d been buried under away …

Samir shut the newspaper with force, hands clammy as he tried to neatly fold it and return it to its rightful place in the breakroom. Nausea took a hold of him as he shoved his chair back, a tremor spreading from his hands to his stomach to his lips. 

It had happened again. It had happened in the Keys, it had happened in West Palm Beach, it would happen if he went further north. What would they call him then? Would he still be the Florida Ripper when he ditched his state? Clammy hands ran through his hair, then over his face. He needed something cool, so turned to the drink machine and used a few of his last dollars to buy a can of coke.

Pressing that against his temple, he wondered for the umpteenth time if his DNA would match that of the wolf inside. He thought of the deaths that hadn’t been written off as murders, but rather as animal attacks. He wondered what was more accurate. Murder by man or animal.

The door creaked open, one of his colleagues slipping in the break room. “Alright?” Pat saluted, offering Samir a grin before seeing his slack and sweaty face. He looked like a melting wax figure, desperately pressing a cool tin can against his head. “Shit. Like, are you alright?”

A nod. “Yeah, the fuck’s telling you that I’m not?” Samir’s eyes flashed up, anxiety twisting into something more manageable. Anger was ever-present and poorly suppressed, especially in a moment of apparent weakness. He bristled. “It’s just hot out, yeah? Bitch-ass humidity. Can’t catch a break.” 

He tried not to look at the newspaper, which appeared to have not been touched. The headline was screaming at him from his periphery, but he kept his eyes trained on Pat for a moment, as if challenging him to say something. To give him an excuse to go off. What did it matter, anyway? He’d have to get out of town soon enough, find another place to do the same shitty work. Soon enough, he’d never see Pat or think of him again.

The other just held up his hands. “Relax, man.” Samir watched him sit down at the round table, fingers reaching for the paper. His stomach lurched. A drop of sweat ran down his back and he found himself straightening, fingers pressing in the can but not strong enough to do any damage. The monster inside would break it.

“Well, hey, gotta go. Break’s over. See you ‘round.” Exiting the breakroom before Pat could comment on Florida’s own local serial killer, Samir found himself outside in the humid, blaring sun. Steps were taken with haste, though none of it alleviated the tension that made his chest grow tighter, tighter, tighter. Not even throwing the can against a wall and watching it explode was enough to leash the rage inside.

[intxication]

Paint it Black

The world had been burst open at it’s seams, and all the horrible things had come out of it. There was a total rewrite of his brain, sending Mathias into a daze. His conversation with Lee had a lasting impact on him. There were rules that he always assumed he was meant to follow, for the safety and wellbeing of the gang. He always made sure to stick to the shadows and to not be so obvious with his kills. He even wore a mask most of the time to conceal his face because he didn’t want to give an identity to his violence. Now suddenly he was told that he didn’t need to care about any of that. Mathias was a killer well before he had been a hitman for the Syndicate. It was in his nature to kill without reason or fear of consequence. 

His mind was the loudest it had ever been, but Mathias wasn’t listening to it anymore. The voices called for the death of strangers he passed by, but he didn’t spare a second glance at any of them. The voices had some sort of order to them, and what Mathias wanted couldn’t rely on order. He wanted to act purely on impulse. 

His legs took him through the city in the late night, which was the best time for him to do as he pleased. The only people out and about were those who didn’t have anywhere else to go, and those who were just in the wrong place and at the wrong time. Mathias could have picked any of them as he walked the streets. He could have ditched their bodies in a dark alley to not be found until the sun came up. Or he could kill in a place that wouldn’t go unnoticed for too long. As he walked down the steps to a subway station, he settled on the latter idea. 

There were always a few stragglers in the cars late at night, usually with their heads down as they tried to get some rest on their way home. Quiet cars with maybe a person or two in them and no one waiting on the platform. A perfect setting for something terrible. 

The last car on the train had two men in it, sitting close to each other. Mathias boarded without a word, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket with his fingers brushing the cool blade of his weapons of choice. As the train pulled away from the station he put his plan into motion. 

It was surprisingly quick. He didn’t take his time like how he would if it was a job. This was all to just scratch an itch he hadn’t been able to get to in a long time. He closed the small space between himself and the two other men. The moment of of them looked up at him, his knife was already coming down. Words didn’t even have a chance to be formed as Mathias sliced through the skin, veins, and cartilage of the man’s neck. Blood spurted, covering all three in crimson. Giddiness filled him, and a smile twisted and stretched his face. The voices were still so loud, screaming that it wasn’t their time, but they still went ignored. The only thing Mathias listened to was a quiet whisper that sounded a lot like himself. All that could be heard was this is me. The next time he used his knife, it lodged itself into the man’s gut, slicing him open and letting all the viscera spill out. 

The panic started next. The last man stood up and slipped in the forming puddle of blood. Suddenly the subway car felt a lot smaller than it was. With nowhere to run, escape was impossible. Another swing of the knife, and the man’s cheek split open in an angry red smile. The screaming came, and Mathias took it all in. This is what he should have been the whole time. He killed not because he was told to, but because he could and he wanted to. They could not regulate what he brought to the world. The man screamed and screamed until Mathias took his knife and stabbed it through his temple. It was like hitting an off switch on a machine, and suddenly it was so quiet. The body slumped to the ground, leaving a scene of pure violence and chaos. The racket of the subway was cut with the announcement of the next stop. 

Mathias took his time to clean the knife on his shirt, suddenly feeling so much more himself. He needed this, and he wanted more of it. The sight of the bloody car brought so much joy to him. When the train came to a stop, Mathias waited for the doors to open before stepping off. Eventually someone would find his scene, and he was anticipating it. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, pressing buttons with bloody fingers. The dial tone echoed in the empty station and Mathias waited to hear someone’s voice on the other line. 

“Hello, my name is Mathias I would like to report a murder I just did. It’s two men on the last car of the A-Train. You can come to this location if you want, but I won’t be here by the time you do”. He paused as the dispatcher tried to comprehend what was being said, then asked a simple why? “Because I wanted to. It’s not my first, won’t be my last. I’m going to do this more, it makes me feel good. I wish you luck, and goodnight”. 

He didn’t let another word out before hanging out and tossing his phone on the tracks. Mathias looked up to where I assumed cameras were and gave a little wave, his face in full view. It felt good to finally have the freedom he always wanted. 

[gswnoeul]

( tw murder )

The day sees you go about it as usual, leisure as any Tuesday could be. Through midday, you receive a call. The number is unknown but something compells you to pick it up and place it to your ear. The man on the other end enthusiastically exclaims your name. “Jeon Noeul!” His breath is labored over the other end, and a laugh cuts through the receiver. “That little problem of yours … that guy? Consider it … taken care of.” A clicking noise akin to a revolver muffled in the background. “Remember this: you fucking owe me one.” The other end clicks again. Then silence. The next sound that emerges from the receiver is a different voice: Every wish comes at a price.

The muddled sounds find clarity–it’s a voice of an unknown man, the sound of a gun, the words of murder and a threat that only crashes against his ears; he can’t make sense of what’s happening, can’t make sense of this, of anything. One moment the man has been in coma since years, and the next–

he’s dead, he tells himself, he’s dead–he’s killed a man, and he doesn’t have to move past that realization for his father’s shadow to wash over him; it feels cool, completely in his head but so real, so heavy; his shoulders curve and he stares, eyes still wide, breaths still paused, brim with a heat that forces his lungs to expand, to inhale. Of course he’s wished for this, for the only person who knew about what he’d done to finally find peace in heaven or hell, or wherever people who engage in illegal gambling activities go. 

Still, Noeul never thought it’d happen this way: with a stranger showing up and ending someone’s life. And while it wasn’t Noeul who pulled the trigger, it feels as though this is all his fault: he has killed someone, he’s no better than his father; he’s just as cold, just as deadly, and even his hands feel distant, foreign, as though he’s changing in the aftermath.

Maybe this is what a murderer feels like, he thinks: cold hands, quivering lips, eyes that sting with tears, little pricks of guilt and confusion and that inevitable sense of doom. He’s wished for this, he reminds himself, and finally finds his voice to answer. When he opens his mouth, the line clicks dead already and Noeul is left staring at the wall, at the window, at the way the sky is clouded by a blank sheet of gray, grim and ugly. 

He should be glad, he reminds himself, and yet he isn’t sure of what he seeks anymore, whether mercy or forgiveness, whether an opportunity to have a different outcome. He can only hope the threat was nothing but empty words. 

OOC // Your wish has been fulfilled. The result of this wish will have echoes throughout your character’s journey. Answer the submit with your character’s reaction to the result; doing so will count for activity.

[bexstevie]

Name: steven park Date of Birth: july 17th, 2003 Height: 166cm

Preferred Company: n/a Performing Resume: 

received second place in a surfing competition in his sophomore year 

Inspirations: michael jackson, yoojung, yuna, tony hawk, tony alva, kelly slater, stephanie gilmore, goeun, kyle hanagami, my dad? Additional Talents/Skills: 

english fluency

skateboarding

surfing

cpr + first aid training

very adaptable, go with the flow

optimism & good energy

Why are you auditioning for NEXT GEN?

on christmas, this nice lady gave me a card to contact for auditions. and i didn’t go. stuff came up, i got sick, and i honestly thought she was just meeting quota. but she was nice, and i felt bad, so now i’m gonna try here! i never really thought about being an idol before. i like dancing, and i like making choreography. it’s the new year so...figured i’d try something new! i don’t have too much faith i’ll get in, but you never know until you try, right? 

Audition Tape: ( here )

[gswsoohyun]

Some things are bound to happen as the universe wills them. The leaving of a package on your doorstep, your caretaker placing the object within on a high shelf, a calming day seated on the couch with calming music in the background. Minji runs the vacuum along the floor, adding a slight hum to the air. Beneath the droning, a soft tinkling begins to chime. A familiar tune that you do not quite hear. The shelf just above you rattles and shakes, the wind up piano. It scoots across the floor centimeter by centimeter until it teeters over the edge and falls ... right atop your head. Your eyes dot with various colors, then total darkness. It does not hurt nearly as much as you expected but it is enough for a visit to the emergency room.

OOC // Your wish has been fulfilled. The result of this wish will have echoes throughout your character’s journey. Answer the submit with your character’s reaction to the result; doing so will count for activity. Additionally, while your character recovers from his injury, he will be endowed with TELEKINESIS. Please refer to the features page or message the main for more information.

Soohyun wakes up to something familiar. It's antiseptic, slightly bitter, coying and thick in the air, mixing with the smell of soap and diluted bleach. The steady beeping of hospital machinery, keeping track of his heartbeat. He closes his eyes from the bright white lights, focusing on the slow beep, beep, beep. It's rhythmic, almost like a metronome.

He tries to remember how he got here. He remembers a calm day at home, the sound of Minji vacuuming throughout the living room. He's leaning back on the couch, eyes closed as he listens to the song playing from the radio. The notes crinkle through the air, mixing with the vacuum and Minji's soft humming. He had opened his eyes for...something. Maybe Minji had spoke to him, or the song had changed to something that struck a chord. He remembers looking up at the ceiling, staring at the blank white before feeling something strike him on the head, coloring his vision before blacking out.

As he opens his eyes now, he takes in the site of a doctor in a white coat speaking to Minji, who is wringing her hands in worry. The two turn to him at the same time. Minji grabs one of his hands, speaking a mile a minute until the doctor steps in.

"Mr. Kang, you gave us a real scare there. Do you know where you are?"

Soohyun's throat felt hoarse and dry. "The hospital."

The doctor smiled, kind. "Yes, good job. I'm going to ask you a few questions you might find a bit silly, but I'd love if you answered them anyway. Is that alright with you?"

He nodded, eyes looking around the room. "Yes, that's fine."

"Thank you. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"

"I was at home. Something...something fell. That's the last thing I remember."

The doctor nodded. "Good. Apparently a music box fell on you. Luckily head wounds always look worse than they actually are. Do you remember how you got here?"

Soohyun shook his head, wincing. "No. I don't remember anything after that. It's kind of...can I have a glass of water?"

The doctor nods. "Of course, Mr. Kang. Let me take some vitals first, and then you can have whatever you need."

Minji puts a cup of water she had grabbed down on the bedside table, watching as the doctor began checking Soohyun over.

Here is what no one in the room notices:

The cup of water moves.

[freddybeezy]

Sol-Angel 🖤✨🦀

21’ - 23’

Shot By: Rafael Rios, Kobe Wagstaff & Courtney Yates

[nightmaretist]

PARTIES: Ingeborg and Sanne LOCATION: Ingeborg and Hendrik’s home. TIMING: 1979, approximately two weeks after unwell SUMMARY: Inge is hungry

She hadn't felt like this in years — starving. The last time she had really felt like she was hunkering for something was when she'd been carrying Vera and had scarfed down pickles and cheese like there was no tomorrow. But even that was incomparable to the thing she felt now, that ache in not just her stomach but her entire being. And it could not be satiated with any of the food in her kitchen, none of the meals she made or snacks she tried. 

Something had changed within her, since that one night where she'd become as stiff as a board and Hendrik was thought she'd died. Inge no longer slept, though this time the insomnia did not make her exhausted. It seemed she was simply above sleep now, which was both a comfort and a discomfort. Sleep had been such a plague over the past years and there was no need for it any more, and thus no more room for nightmares. The sleeplessness left a gap to be filled, though.

There was an explanation, but it was ludicrous. A woman had come to her house in the middle of the night, a week ago. It was like she knew Inge would be awake while her husband was not, like she knew that there was no need to turn on the lights. She had introduced herself as Sanne and spoken plainly and easily.

Inge had recognized her from her dreams. Sanne was the doctor in her nightmares, the firewoman who couldn't put out the housefire, the midwife, the murderer, the witness, the monster. Sanne was a woman, sitting in her living room and telling her this: “I know you. Your fears and wants. The things you hate, when you pretend not to. The things you crave above all else.”

And then she'd told her more. She'd told her something about walking nightmares, also known as merries in their native tongues. About how they were both creatures of the night now. About the way she had to sustain herself going forward, how human food would do little for her but it was dreams in stead that she had to feast on. She'd suggested they go out now, so she could show her all the things she'd given Inge. She disappeared and reappeared and promised to teach her about this, too.

Inge had called her a demon and asked her to leave, shaking like a leaf at the sight of this intruder and the nonsense she spat. What logic was there, in the notion that she was now a nightmare herself? Something else must have happened. Some strange disease must have taken hold of her. And Inge would have thought all of it were in her head if it wasn't for the way Hendrik looked at her now, still remembering her corpse in his bed.

Time had passed since the intruder had come into her home, and now Inge was aching. Normal food did not fill her, it was true. Her eyes glowed red in the dark. Her skin shone in the watery March sunlight in a way that seemed above natural. She had not slept in over a week, not even for a minute. She was cold to the touch but did not feel cold herself.

Sanne had left her phone number behind, that day. Inge picked up the phone at 2am and rang the number. 

After four rings: “Sanne speaking.”

“It's … me. Ingeborg.”

“Ah.” She wasn't sure if the other sounded triumphant or impatient with that singular ah. “I suppose … you figured it out, hm?”

“I don't know if I believe you. But ...” She pressed two fingers between her brows, pushing up. “I'm so hungry.” There were some strange sounds on the other side of the phone, like someone gathering some of their things. “Sanne?” More rummaging, and then a click and the dial tone.

Tears of frustration jumped into her eyes, the phone stuck in her hand and pressed against her face. She was about to gather the courage to redial the number when there was an apparition in the room, Sanne's equally red eyes staring her down. 

“Let's go out to eat, then.”

Inge remembered what she'd said, about knowing her. It was startling, to be told you were seen like that. And though the other could be bluffing, there was a chance she was not — and if this was really the woman who had been in all those dreams, all those years, perhaps she did know her. She wondered if she should resent the semi stranger in her living room, if she should smack that extended hand away and scream at her. Maybe she would have, had she not been so hungry. Had her child and husband not been in the house with her, asleep soundly. 

If it was true, what this woman said, that she really did know her and that she was a walking nightmare, that they were both dead and alive at the same time, then what choice did Inge have but to take her hand? She was starving. She needed to be fed. She took Sanne’s hand and let herself be guided towards fulfillment.

[bountyhaunter]

TIMING: Recent. LOCATION: Home. WARNINGS: Allusions to child abuse. SUMMARY: Daiyu struggles with owning a Squonk.

She knew – and it was this knowledge that enraged her so – that she envied it for its ability to give into its sadness without inhibitions. She knew that she hated herself for yelling at it for its tears.

The door closed behind her like a heavy sigh ending abruptly, with some kind of finality. Daiyu let Nugget rush over to her, tongue lapping at her fingers as she absentmindedly petted her dearest friend, a real sigh now leaving her lips. Exhaustion didn’t look well on her. It was not something she was built for — she was all energy, never ending wildfire. But she was exhausted now.

It tended to happen from time to time, this bone-deep ache. Something she might call shame, if she had the words for it, but in stead she just called it being very, deeply sleepy. And why shouldn’t she be? She’d just finished a successful hunt. She’d taken out a Baukbear that had been causing trouble. She’d delivered his head and received her reward and gotten her food. Maybe it had something to do with her fingers still feeling the sensation of cutting through muscle and meat to sever the head. Maybe it was just because she hadn’t slept properly in a few days.

Or maybe it was because of the sniffles she heard in the other room.

The cabin she was renting wasn’t big. Daiyu didn’t require a lot of space — she preferred her spaces to be small, so she could keep an eye on all that was around her. When places of dwelling were too big, she felt like she was being swallowed, like there were too many corners for her to be put away in or other things to appear from. Still, the cabin was big enough for the Squonk to find corners to cry in.

She’d had it for three days now and no explanation had presented itself. She’d tried to gauge if any of the hunters at the bar knew something about a breeding program, but she’d not gotten far. And as she’d start asking questions, she’d started to wonder what it meant to her, anyway. What would she do, should she find out there was a breeding program? Expose it? Destroy it? Play at being a hero while she beheaded monsters for a nice coin? She didn’t know, so she’d stopped asking.

Besides, there was the main problem at hand. The Squonk in her bedroom. Sniffling away. As she creaked open the bedroom door, she took in the sight of the mutilated creature crying as he stood across from one of Nugget’s balls. His favorite ball, the one he’d lost.

Daiyu blinked. “Did you find that?” She moved over, taking the ball and getting ready to throw it at Nugget with great triumph (even if it would probably break some things). The moment she did, the Squonk started weeping even more. “Stop that,” she snapped, noting that she was standing in a puddle of tears. “Stop.” 

She did not know how to console. Not herself, not others and certainly not a stupid squonk who was idiotic enough to get his tail torn off. Daiyu glared at it and was glad she was still wearing her shoes, that at least her socks weren’t getting wet. She should get rid of it. She should just put it out somewhere in the woods and let nature take care of it. No, she should kill it. Get her hunter knife and sever another head from a body, because why would it matter? Why should she suddenly gain an inhibition for killing when she’d just hand-delivered a bear head to someone who’d given her cash in return?

Nugget followed nudged past her, tongue lapping at the Squonk, not paying much mind to his ball. 

“Stop it.” The dog listened, at the very least and Daiyu looked at him as if he’d betrayed her somehow. “Stop it.” The words were repeated now, “Stop fucking crying, you stupid, useless —” The sniffles became louder and she let out a groan. “Squonkb–” She stopped, hearing something familiar in her own voice. Squonkbaby, her father’s voice echoed.

Daiyu stalked out of the room, crossed the living room and swung open her backdoors, feeling rage bubble in her chest. A trail of tears followed her, the salty water sticking to her boots. She bristled at the woods in front of her, felt her fists ball. If she wasn’t herself, she might cry now — but Daiyu Volkova did not cry. There was no reason to, as there was never any reason to. The instinct to weep had been taken from her by a father who told her she’d grow as wrinkly as a squonk if she didn’t stop. Who mimicked her scrunching face, who asked her with judgment if she was really going to cry every time her lip trembled. Who told her to press her knuckles in her eyesockets to stop the tears from flowing.

No, she did not cry. Not in the moments of release like these, when she came home after a long hard day and had no one to prove anything to any more. Not in the moments in the woods where she escaped with her life and relief coursed through her. Not when she felt loneliness stab her like a cold knife. Not when she thought of her siblings, who she hated and who she missed and who probably did not miss her at all. Not when she recalled childhood. Not when Nugget got sick that one time. Not when she broke her arm two years ago, unless you count the two tears that jumped into her eyes. 

She just stood there with her fists balled, digging half moons into her hands until they bled and her blood mixed with that of the bear. She stood and somewhere in her rented house – not her home, as that was a concept that existed vaguely and distantly, and only for other people – and knew the Squonk was still crying. She knew she wouldn’t kill it. She knew Nugget would grow attached to it. She knew – and it was this knowledge that enraged her so – that she envied it for its ability to give into its sadness without inhibitions. She knew that she hated herself for yelling at it for its tears.

She went back inside. She ignored the Squonk, which was the kindest she could do. Ignoring wasn’t yelling at, wasn’t expelling it, wasn’t drawing a knife through its folds and its throat. She let it coexist, even if every spilled tear made a rush of anger pass through her. She sat on the couch with her food and Nugget at her side and an hour later, found herself giggling at the thought of naming the creature Fries.

[ksukiii]

how studio bones draws katsuki:

how 𝒽ℴ𝓇𝒾𝓀ℴ𝓈𝒽𝒾 (<3) draws katsuki: