#When Nightmare lies in bed and stares at the yellow picture on the wall he feels safe for a moment

[somegrumpynerd]

I'm certain I've seen this said somewhere else already and I cannot for the life of me track it down but Dream's favourite colour being purple and Nightmare's being yellow

Everybody assumes Dream's is yellow because, well, he's dressed in it head to toe and his magic is yellow and his eyelights are yellow. It's just a bright happy colour, it must be his favourite! Only Blue and Ink know it's not, Ink because he takes note of how Dream favours purple any time he gets to pick something or joins in on an art project and Blue because he just asked.

Everybody assumes Nightmare doesn't have a favourite colour, that if you asked he'd say he was above that sort of thing or tell you something edgy like black because it's the colour of his soul. And it's kind of true, if you asked he would never admit to liking a colour, especially not one so cheery and bright. But the boys have definitely noted how he has paintings of sunrises in his offices and sunflowers planted outside.

[baronessblixen]

The Three Lost Children

This is my entry for the @xfilesfanficexchange Horror Fanfic Exchange. My words were lost and abandoned. Set in season 6.

The reason I’m posting it here as well as on AO3 is because this is also today’s Fictober story! Tagging @today-in-fic and @xffictober

Fictober Day 24

New England in autumn is a sight to be seen. Mulder drives them through the vibrant, popping colors and Scully watches, almost like a child, in silent awe. She can’t wait to stop the car, walk through the rustling leaves, take in the fresh air. Listen to the breeze of the nearby ocean. She hasn’t been to the ocean in so long and her soul aches for it. She chances a glance at Mulder. They’re both quiet, lost in their own thoughts. She wouldn’t be able to guess what he’s thinking about. Lately, this is all they’ve been; a long stretch of silence, of unspoken pains.

The longer they drive, the lonelier it becomes. She doesn’t know why they’re here, not really. Something about apparitions, something about a cold case. As so often, she just followed him, barely asking for an explanation, still trusting him with their work. Even after Diana. They’ve been inching back towards normalcy. But in her mind, it’s ever present. Before Diana, after Diana.

Mulder sets the blinker and turns onto a small, nondescript gravel path. She glances at him but he doesn’t say anything. They follow the path and Scully watches as the trees grow rarer, most of them bald, barely alive. She shivers involuntarily as a house comes into view, growing bigger and bigger. Mulder slows the car and parks at it what must have been a gate once.

“We’re here,” he says unnecessarily, turning to her. They get out of the car and Mulder stretches, holding his nose into the air, half a smile on his face. Scully watches him, half amused and, despite herself, a little bit in love with him.

“Mulder,” she says, looking at the house in front of them, abandoned and broken, “why are we here?”

“This house is said to be haunted.” Whenever he talks about haunted places, his face lights up. An enthusiasm she’s never been able to share.

“You already took me to a haunted house on Christmas Eve, Mulder.” And they almost ended up dead. Or so she thinks. The memories of that night are still hazy and untrustworthy. ���I can’t keep doing this,” she says to herself but he hears her, throwing her a look she can’t decipher. They’re the only living things around here. Not a single bird is singing. The trees are watching on, dead und unmoving. Something is not right. She stops and looks around. The cold feeling is back, taking hold of her. As if someone were softly scratching her with long fingernails, making her shiver all over. She takes a step forward but the sensation remains.

Her eyes are drawn to the house. She squints, tries to see it for what it must have been once. The bricks are laid bare, the house a mere skeleton. It seems to be standing up by pure will. Part of it has crumbled to the ground, a big hole gaping in between the main house and a smaller cottage. They must have been a unit once. Now, they’re standing on their own sides, not touching, decaying by themselves, still in sync.

“Let’s go inside.”

“Mulder, wait.” He stops and turns around. “Why are we here? How is this an X-Files?”

“Just follow me.” He keeps on walking, pushing open the creaky wooden door. Scully huffs. So much for her New Year’s resolutions. There’s something about this house that repels her. She’s not going to admit it to Mulder. She barely admits it to herself. But she feels it all around her in the cool air, the eerie silence. There’s a presence here. Something rotten and evil.

“Scully?” Mulder asks from inside, his voice sounding obscured. She takes a deep breath, the smell of decomposition in the air growing stronger the closer she gets to the ajar door. She steps inside the damp, old ruin and looks around.

Mulder is on the stairs and they creak in pain with every step he takes.

“You still haven’t told me,” she says, walking through what must have been a kitchen once. There are a few cups on the table, on the counters. One day, someone walked out here and never returned. She doesn’t dare to look into the cups. One is chipped, another one has faded colors. There was life here, once.

“Told you what?” Mulder yells from upstairs.

“What we’re doing here.” Scully leaves the kitchen and finds herself in the main hall. She stares at the big, dark wooden grandfather clock in the corner. Her heart starts pounding as she realizes that it’s showing the right time. The hands are moving, tick tock, tick tock. How is it possible that this clock is ticking? How is it possible that anything is alive in this house?

“Come up here, Scully. I want to show you something.” She gives the clock one last look but it goes on steadily. It feels as if it were watching her with stern eyes, judging her. As soon as she turns around, facing away from the clock, she hears it. At first it’s soft, barely discernible. A laugh. She keeps on walking and there it is again. More laughter. It sounds like… like… children’s laughter. She turns back, gasping. There’s only the clock, mocking her with its precision. She takes a breath, reminds herself that perception can play tricks on your mind. There might be children outside, playing games. That’s what she heard. It must be.

As she ascends the stairs, the wood moaning, she touches the walls where yellow lines speak of picture frames that must have hung here once. Who lived here? She wonders. What happened to them?

“There you are,” Mulder says upstairs, his head peeking out of a small room.

“You owe me an explanation.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He touches her arm and leads her into the room. Gloomy light falls through the broken windows, fracturing this room, a child’s bedroom. Scattered toys, old and dusty, some gnawed on. Sadness engulfs her as she stands there, cold to the bone. She hugs herself but it neither brings her comfort, nor warmth.

“What are we doing here?” she asks again, the anger in her rising.

“One day in 1879, a girl named Lucy Monroe disappeared. No one expected fowl play. An accident, everyone said. The parents were devastated, left their house and moved away. No one heard from them again. Things went back to normal and no one thought about poor Lucy or her parents. That is until the next two children disappeared, a pair of siblings.” Mulder picks up a toy car and blows off the dust.

“Is this- did Lucy Monroe live in this house?” Scully looks around and her eyes linger on the wallpaper with colorful balloons and clowns.

“She didn’t,” Mulder goes on. “When Lucy disappeared, this house belonged to one Richard Watkins. His neighbors described him as an inconspicuous, religious man. He, his wife and their three children went to church every Sunday but liked to keep to themselves. Until a fire claimed the life of his wife and children. That’s when everything changed.”

“What changed?” Scully asks. Damn Mulder for knowing how to tell a story. He’s walking around in circles, still holding the small toy car. He turns to her, his face solemn.

“Richard Watkins bundled all his pain and his hate against God. He stopped going to church, stopped leaving the house altogether. People in town started talking about him. It became a dare for children to find this house and catch a glimpse of this ungodly man. The gossip started, as it always does. They said Richard Watkins turned his back on God, like he’d done to him, and worshipped Satan instead.”

Scully wants to roll her eyes, or laugh. She can’t. Mulder’s voice is mesmerizing. As is the story he’s telling. She stares at the three small beds, barely touched. She freezes. One bed, an old moldy mattress still in place, has an indentation. It almost looks like a child’s body. Scully looks away, focuses on Mulder and nothing else.

“What does this have to do with the case, Mulder?”

“Don’t you feel it, Scully? This house… it’s haunted.”

She feels it. She feels it in the strange scratching sensation that’s intensifying. She feels it in the heaviness of her bones. This house has memories and it is aching from them. She feels that same ache, too.

“I don’t feel it,” she lies. “Maybe you should have brought Diana. All I feel is a draft. I’m leaving.” She is angry with Mulder and angry with herself. Why does she continue to let herself be lured out to these places, into myths and folklores? This is not her job. She could be at home, she could be doing something of consequence. But here she is, in yet another haunted house, chasing ghosts and chasing Mulder.

This has to stop.

“I haven’t told you the rest of the story,” Mulder calls out but she’s already back on the stairs. She doesn’t reply, refuses to listen. She’s not as proficient in running away as Mulder is but she can manage.

Still on the stairs, she hears the clock in the main hall. Is that her imagination or has the noise increased? Drawn by an unknown force, Scully returns to the hall. Her eyes fall on the clock, the wood darker than she remembers it. Among all these broken, forgotten things, the clock doesn’t fit in. It doesn’t fit at all. Her eyes are trained on the hands. Maybe none of it is real, maybe she’s just imagining it, fueled by Mulder’s story. But they keep moving steadily.

The clock strikes the full hour and there’s a drawn-out creak that sounds as if someone were opening a door, but slowly. She stares at it, the clock, unmoving but for the hands. Tick tock, tick tock. The creaking stops and then everything else does, too. Scully holds her breath for a second, then lets it out. It’s all in my head, she reminds herself. She relaxes. There’s nothing wrong with this clock. Nothing at all.

Just as she’s about to leave, the clock-face crumbles, falls apart, and reveals a new face, half man, half not. Blood-red eyes meet hers for the flash of a second. An evil grin with sharp teeth, horns protruding from the forehead. She’s seen this face before. In stories, in her nightmares. It’s the face of the devil. Unable to look away, her shaky fingers search for her gun. She stops when she hears the soft, gentle sound of laughter close to her.  

Someone’s touching her. There’s pressure on her arm but as she looks down at it, there’s nothing there. Only laughter in the air. Happy, unabashed children’s laughter.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” a child’s voice singsongs. Scully makes a complete turn but she’s all alone. There’s only her and the big, dark clock that sits there unremarkably. The face, she notices, has gone back to normal.

“I’m losing my mind,” she murmurs, slowly walking backwards. She needs to get out of this room, out of this house. When her back comes into contact with something warm, something solid, she screams.

“Hey,” Mulder says, holding her by the arms. “It’s just me.”

“Did you hear it, Mulder?” she asks him.

“Hear what?”

“The children.”

“What children?”

“There was children’s laughter, there was-“ she stops. She sounds crazy. Mulder looks at her as if she’s lost her mind before he cracks a smile.

“So now you agree with me? This place is haunted.”

“Why did you bring me here?” she yells at him. All the anger and frustration she’s been feeling these last few weeks break out of her.

“I- the case, I-“ He’s stunned by her outburst. “I thought we could… I wanted to show you this house, tell you the story. I’ve been fascinated by it ever since I was a child myself.” His eyes grow soft and so does she.

“Tell me,” she says, feeling weak. “But not in here. I need fresh air.” They walk outside together, Mulder holding Scully’s hand. “I can’t believe I’m admitting this but this place is creepy, Mulder.”

He chuckles softly. “I know. Can I finish my story now?” Scully nods at him. “No one ever found out what happened to Lucy Monroe or the other two kids that disappeared. They were never found. But Richard Watkins was. The details are hazy but he slipped one night, fell down the cliffs and died. An act of God, it was later surmised. Because of what he’d been planning. They never found the kids but they found Lucy Monroe’s doll in his house, clothes that the kids had been wearing, too. They searched the whole place but no other traces could be found. It was said that Richard Watkins was planning to sacrifice the children to Satan the night he died.”

“The children,” she mumbles. She thinks of the laughter she’d heard and shivers. It can’t be. It just can’t be. There’s no such thing as haunted souls, a haunted house.

“You heard them.”

“I heard something,” she admits. “There might be children playing here somewhere that-“

“There are no children here, Scully. Listen. You heard the three lost children. That’s what folks around here call them. The three lost children. They’re said to be haunting this house. In early 1900, people tried to sell this house. Enough time had passed, they’d figured. No one has been able to stay here longer than a few weeks. The last recorded family that moved in were the Hendersons in the 50s. A newly married couple, just starting out. While Mr. Henderson never heard the children, his wife sure did. She thought she was going insane. They’d been trying for a baby and everyone, including her doctors and her husband, thought that unfulfilled wish was causing her audiovisual hallucinations.”

Is that why she heard them? Because of her own failure to conceive? She pushes the thought away.

“What happened to them?”

“They moved out. Their marriage was in shambles by the time they did. Mr. Henderson was so angry that this house, their dream house, was causing them so much misery that he destroyed half of it.” They both turn to look at the house, at the gaping middle.

“They separated?”

Mulder shakes his head. “They almost did. Their love for each other was strong though.” He stares at her, his eyes so green, so open, that she feels powerless. “They moved away. They worked on their marriage. They healed. Together. And then, not long after, Mrs. Henderson became pregnant. She gave birth to a healthy baby girl. The end.” He grins at her.

“How do you know all this, Mulder?”

“Because,” he says, taking her hand and leading her to the car. The more distance they bring between themselves and the house, the freer Scully feels. The tension leaves her body. “The Hendersons were our neighbors. That little baby girl? She grew up and used to babysit me. We came here when I was about 10 years old after I’d begged my parents. I haven’t been able to forget about this story ever since. Neither of us heard the three lost children though. But you did.”

“Mulder…”

“It’s okay. I know you don’t want to admit it. Most people don’t hear them. Only a few have reported the laughter and… feeling an evil presence in this house.” He touches her arm, strokes it gently. “Legend says only people who are pure of heart can hear the children.”

Scully snorts. “You had me until that last bit, Mulder.” He shrugs and smiles at her. “There is no case here, is there?”

“Oh, there is. But not here exactly. It’s further up north. I just wanted to take you here, share this with you. After… after everything.”

She bites her lip, but she can’t resist. “Have you ever taken Diana here?”

Mulder looks genuinely surprised. “No,” he says and she knows he’s telling the truth. “I never even thought about it.”

“Good,” she says and opens the car door. Mulder puts his hand over hers.

“I know it may take a while,” he says, his voice breaking. “But I want to win your trust back.”

“You never lost my trust,” she says. “And you and Diana… I know it’s none of my business and-“

“Of course it’s your business,” he cuts in. “It is your business. I want it to be. I thought I’d made that clear.”

“Clear, Mulder?” She raises an eyebrow. “When?”

“The hallway,” he says, his eyes fixed on hers. She blushes. “Taking you on all these adventures when we were off the X-Files. I mean it, Scully. I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to do it alone. I want you here by my side. If that’s what you want, too.”

She stares at the house, thinks about the Hendersons. He tore half of it down to repair something else, in a new place. Maybe they can too. She thinks of the laughter, of the three lost children, of the evil in this house. She doesn’t want to stay here in this place. She wants to move on, move past what’s holding her back.

Scully takes his hand and interlaces their fingers. They both stare at their hands as if they were a small wonder. Maybe they are.

“I want to be here, do this with you. I- I should probably tell you what I saw in there or what I thought I saw. Maybe there’s an X-Files here after all.”

“You don’t have to, X-Files or not.”

“I want to,” she says. “But not here. Let’s keep driving. Okay?”

He nods. “Just one thing before I lose my nerve again or before anything else happens.” He lowers his head, giving her ample time to move away. She won’t. She wants this. She’s been wanting it for so long. Their lips meet and everything around them stops mattering. It’s a soft kiss, a hesitant first. There’s still some rubble between them that they need to clean up.

There will be time to do that later.

“I’ve always wanted to make out at a haunted house,” Mulder admits when they disconnect. Her lipstick is smeared against his mouth, a bit on his cheek, too.

“Why am I not surprised?” she says with a smile.

“Let’s go. I think there’s something you wanted to tell me.”

[thesquidgame]

be gay fight crime- part one.

this is how i disappear

Series Summary: Allison tries to escape to something called normal, only to be met by the sharp realization that you can't outrun your past without getting destroyed by a new future. Eudora discovers that her world isn't as black and white as she once thought it was, and is thrown into a race of justice and reflection. two healing people, a system of murder and deceit, and one bed

Chapter summary: Just a train ride away from Allison's old life to her new one.

Word Count: 1.5k

Trigger Warnings: Abuse implications, cursing, intrusive thoughts, custody battle, accidental child abuse, trauma

A/N: First fic on this blog! every chapter in this series will be based off of a mcr song. requests are open for criminal minds and the umbrella academy, masterlist and part two coming soon, and taglist open <3

~~~

People do stupid things for people they care about. Cheating, organ donations, joint bank accounts, but Allison was pretty sure she was the first person to be this colossally horrible. Brainwashing your own baby? To help her forget a trauma, of course it would be justifiable. Anything to help Claire. But just to make her go to bed? Eat her vegetables? Stop a hissy fit? Allison was a monster. A monster down to her very core.

She had spent over a decade trying to get away from everything she had done as a child. And within a 4-hour train ride staring at water droplet races on her window, Allison had destroyed all of that progress. No better than she was at 14 when she stepped over an innocent corpse so the media could get a better shot of her. But so much worse. She didn’t know who the man was, but she knew her daughter. She used her own child. Purposefully not on purpose.

Some people weren’t meant to get happy endings, and once Patrick found out what she was telling her daughter, she knew that she was one of those people. 

The worst part wasn’t that she couldn’t see her daughter, the worst part was that Claire would grow up without a real childhood. Always wondering that there was a better part of life out there, but never getting it. At least not until she grew up when she realized that there wasn’t simply a puzzle piece missing, but that the whole picture was wrong. The exact thing that Allison had spent her whole life trying to prevent.

But she knew that if she was there every day begging to see her baby, and showed the wreckage that she had become, and internally always was, it would only hurt Claire more. So, Allison knew she had to disappear. She couldn’t explain anything to Claire, no matter what she said it would never make any sense to Claire, to herself, to anyone. How she could do such unforgivable things.

The words inside her head bounced around like bullets inside of an indestructible chamber. Screeching and scraping, but never shutting up. There were so many despicable words ricotetaround. But the most important and the most painful was only two words; you’re a monster. 

Hating yourself and being hated by others are two completely different things, but never ones that Allison could ever distinguish between. If everyone didn’t love her, she couldn’t begin to even like herself. So she lied. And cheated. And hurt people. People who didn’t deserve it. And at the end of the day, it wasn’t worth it.

Allison could sense that she was getting closer and closer to the place she regretfully called her childhood. With every sign the train passed, she felt the sinking dreadful feeling grow deeper and deeper into her stomach. Nothing hurts more than returning to the place that started your painfucked you up in the first place. 

Claire would never come here. Ever. Even if it meant she could see her daughter, she would never let her here. She could never see this house of horrors. No one else had to know what he did to her. What Allison did to herself.

The train suddenly screeched to a halt. It probably wasn’t sudden, but at the moment Allison was too busy drowning in her own sorrows to notice anything around her. She patiently waited for everyone else to get off. Setting her foot down on the soil would make it all real.

Once everyone else was off the train, Allison took several deep breaths and stepped off the train. The second her feet hit the concrete, she started to feel the city. 

The smell of shit and anger floated through the air, andthe breeze that was likely filled with weed and nicotine smoke hit her skin, it almost burned her skin. 

Like always random strangers stared at her. Looking at her and then glancing away the second she caught their eyes. But no one approached her like they did only months ago. Everyone knew her, but no one loved her anymore. 

With one hand on the railings of the stairs, as she lugged her suitcase behind her, she wondered who snitched the details of her case. It wasn’t like she didn’t deserve it, but at the minimum she didn’t want Claire to think she was a monster.

Rain poured on her skin and soaked her hair. She needed to get a haircut to match this colossal change. She waved down a taxi, whose driver luckily didn’t seem to recognize her. He plugged in the address of her new apartment that she had never seen before. It was the last job of her manager, right before she found out he was testifying against her at court, but not for Claire, just for a buck.

It was probably for the best. She didn’t want to have it leaked, and she didn’t want to know what hellhole she was probably going to spend a long time living in.

Allison got out of her cab in front of a beaten-down yellow three-story townhouse. It was attached to 3 other columns, and when she got to the entrance she discovered on the buzzers there were 15 rooms in total, so probably 6 on the front and 9 on the back. It was unlikely that none of them would recognize her, but she hoped that at least they wouldn’t call people magazine, or entertainment tonight, or another capitalistic nightmare that thrived off of the breakdown of people’s lives.

The lobby was empty besides a kindly old woman sitting at the front desk. She checked in, got her key, a nice formality of a hug, and Allison was on her way to her new life. 3rd floor, backroom. Room 12b. 

There wasn’t an elevator, but that didn’t bother Allison. It took her a minute to carry her suitcase (only the essentials, the rest of her stuff was arriving in about a week). She received a nice sticky note on her door from her neighbor across the hall. There were 5 other rooms in her hall, and one seemed to be playing loud music, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, Allison had bigger problems at hand.

From her view at the entrance of her new home, there were 4 rooms connected by a hallway. A living room in front of her, a kitchen to her left, and a bedroom and bathroom on the right. The walls were covered with ugly flower wallpaper, and the couch was leather and scruffed. 

The kitchen was pretty much the same, with wobbly furniture and an ugly fridge and stove. There was fake marble covering the countertops, and it was peeling off in places. 

The bathroom seemed to be tinted a yellow color, and there wasn’t a bathtub. Just a small shower next to the toilet with only a sheet and foot tall fake tile barrier separating the two. Above the toilet there was a window that Allison tried to open (it stunk for reasons that Allison didn’t want to deal with at the moment), but couldn’t manage to. 

The bedroom wasn’t incredible, but it would be a crime to say it wasn’t better than the rest. She would be sleeping on a waterbed, and there was a nightstand made of wood. The closet was small, but fortunately, there was a pretty big dresser next to the door. She set down her suitcase and laid down on the bed. Comfy.

There were a few windows in all the rooms (except the bathroom) that gave way for a view of a gravel parking lot, a strip club, a cash-checking place, and a butcher. There were other apartments on the street that she could see, and Allison was happy that it was far from her childhood in the same city.

Patrick said in court that he didn’t want Claire to see how far she would sink but Allison wanted to see how far down she’ll go without the light of her life; her precious daughter.

Right then and there, with the soft filtering of cloudy sunlight pouring through the shitty blinds, and even though she wasn’t certain if she locked the door, and she could still hear the loud music that was surprisingly in good taste, Allison slept.

At 10 in the morning, Allison got up. Pledging to get breakfast later, she took the bus to the place that she would never go to in her right mind. But unfortunately for her, right now she wasn’t in her right mind.

Seeing the tall doors hurt so bad, and the stabbing thoughts came back. 

But Allison was going to disappear. And unfortunately, the only person who could help her do that was the person who made her be like this in the first place. Reginald Hargreeves.

[cinnatales]

Exposure Ch. 1

Summary: Beaten down detective Sebastian Castellanos is at the end of his rope. The ruins of his family have left him in shambles, and only the comfort of a glass of whiskey can make the days more bearable. Though, a deadly encounter in the middle of the night marks new beginnings, dragging him further down into the case on Krimson City’s serial killer.  

With headless victims turning up frequently, and dead ends that mark a mastermind of a murderer, Sebastian is challenged left and right with this case. As he’s thrown into obsession, and the killer’s interest in him grows sicker and sicker, one man seems to tie it all together: an infamous artist known as Stefano Valentini.  

He just might be the key to solving this case. 

______________________________________________________________

It’s a lonely night in Krimson City, a sliver of the moon the only beacon of light piercing through the inky depths of the sky. Sebastian’s boots clack softly against concrete, his hands stuffed within the depths of his worn trench coat as he wanders the streets. He travels the roads currently untouched by crowds and traffic, devoid of the usual bustling of life within the hours of daylight. It leaves the detective alone with his thoughts, with memories and reminiscing.

Of better times, of Myra’s goodbye letter, of Lily’s screams in his nightmares.

He’s disappointed in himself, disappointed that he only finds sleep at the bottom of an empty bottle nowadays, but he cannot handle being left alone with memories of them. Without it, without a distraction, he’d lie awake in bed for hours, sometimes staring up at the ceiling or the far wall, sometimes with his eyes squeezed shut as he tosses and turns. He’s haunted by her face every night, of flesh melting away, of eyes burning red, of charcoal stained hands gripping at his shoulders.  

Always too late.

He huffs out a shaky breath, steps nearly faltering. God, he needs a drink, just a little farther and he’ll be at the downtown-

Click.

Brown hues lift at the soft shutter through the air, head raising as he inspects his surroundings. He’s almost believing it’s his imagination, a figment of his sleep deprived mind when-

Click.

He hears it again. A flash of white light accompanies it, spilling out from a shrouded alleyway. Sebastian’s feet move on their own accord, dragging him towards the source like a moth drawn to a flame. Who the hell is taking pictures at this hour? And within an alleyway no less?  

That’s when a tang of copper hits his nose, intertwined with the underlying sweet, familiar scent of rot. On instinct, his hand is hovering over his revolver, nerves bristling at attention.

He’s pausing right at the mouth of the alleyway, brows furrowing as he takes a shaky breath through his nose. In one swift motion he’s turning down the corner. What greets him is the carnage of a young woman. A headless corpse lied out across pavement, rivets of red spilling from the juncture of her severed neck, staining her yellow dress. Rose petals decorate her, pale hands clutching at a bouquet, pressing it to her chest. Standing before the flowery slaughter is a man dressed in black, a gloved hand framing his camera as it obscures his face.

The man jerks at the sight of Sebastian, and then there’s a glint of silver, a flick of his wrist. Sebastian is ripping out his revolver, when his left shoulder is suddenly giving out, igniting with a searing pain. His gun clatters to the ground, teeth gritting together as he bites back a cry.

Click.

He’s blinded by the flash of light, forcing his eyes shut as he jerks his arm up in defense. A sadistic chuckle taints the air, before there’s the retreating clacks of dress shoes. He’s blinking several times in desperation, his vision coming back to him right as the maniac’s back disappears behind a corner.

“Stop!” He yells, chasing after him despite the agony coursing through his shoulder, at how it nearly makes his boots drag. When he rounds the corner with shaky breaths, the man is gone.

…

The soft beeps of a heart monitor fill Sebastian’s ears, distracting him from the nurse’s gloved fingers as she checks over the stitches in his shoulder. After a brief moment of poking and prodding, she’s dressing the sutured wound with a soft hum.

“Alright Mr. Castellanos, you should be good to go. Make sure to keep your stitches dry for at least 48 hours, and keep them clean. We wouldn’t want you to end up back in here because of an infection! And please, don’t put any strain on your shoulder.”

The detective simply grunts in acknowledgement, eager to get back on his feet and leave this sterile cage as soon as possible. He never was fond of hospitals and two days was certainly long enough for him.

“Your friend also brought in a change of clothes for you. He’s waiting for you out in the lobby.”

Sebastian waves her off with a tired, “Thanks.” before taking the bundle of folded clothes that is presented to him.  

He’s shuffling off into the bathroom, the door closing behind him with a soft click, ensuring him with a bit of privacy for the time being. His gaze rests upon his reflection, black ringed eyes staring wearily back at him from the mirror. He sheds the hospital gown with careful fingers, revealing the square of white protecting his newly acquired stitches.

The man’s taunting laughter echoes in his ears, the headless body of that poor woman stained behind his eyelids. It was him; he’d recognize that work anywhere, his crimes pasted front right and center upon every newspaper and tabloid. The serial killer plaguing Krimson City.

He had him, he was so close to putting an end to his reign of bloodshed, and yet he failed. If only he had been faster, more prepared, then perhaps that blade wouldn’t have punctured his shoulder and that bastard wouldn’t have gotten away. How the hell did he even do that? Who the hell throws knives with such unnatural precision? The whole thing is downright insane.

And... Why was he taking pictures of the victim?

With a sigh, he’s tugging on his new shirt, wincing ever so slightly when he jostles his shoulder. He better not keep Joseph waiting.

…

Rain drops pelt against the standard issued police car, windshield wipers rapidly whisking droplets away, keeping a clear view of the road as thunder booms overhead. The bitter aroma of coffee wafts through the interior, settling over Sebastian and his partner Joseph. Sebastian’s hands are warmed by the paper cup clasped within them, that heavy fog of weariness beginning to part as caffeine courses through his veins.

He really needed that.

“Hey... Are you doing alright?” Joseph’s voice is... Careful, as if Sebastian is a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at the slightest movement.

He doesn’t blame Joseph for his wary approach, he hasn’t spoken to him properly in weeks aside from work, and frankly, he’s grown used to tight smiles and pitying eyes.

“Besides having to spend two days in a hospital and being knifed by a psychopath? I’m fine. It’s a little difficult to move my shoulder, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” He assures, before taking a long sip from his coffee.

Joseph nods, a small sigh escaping his lips, “I’m glad to hear it.”

They lapse into silence, having Sebastian fidget in his seat, fingers drumming against the paper cup. It’s uncomfortable, the quietness between him and Joseph. It was never like this before.

“Thanks...” Sebastian breaks through suddenly, eyes kept pointedly to the towering buildings drifting by, “I mean it, you didn’t have to do all of this. You really are a life saver.”

There’s no response, and for a moment, Sebastian believes that he won’t be answered at all. That is, until he’s glancing over, catching sight of the small smile brightening his partner’s face. It’s definitely a welcomed sight.

“Yeah... It’s no problem,” Joseph states, pleased and reclining back against the car seat, almost like old times, “I just figured you’d need a little pick me up before you see the chief.”

And as quickly as it comes, the warmth within Sebastian’s chest dispels, his mood souring. He almost scoffs at the mention of the chief, and the fact that he is being called in again. It doesn’t help that Joseph is the one to deliver the news.

“The chief wants to see me? I wonder what I did this time,” He remarks dryly, almost accusingly.

Joseph goes rigid, quickly realizing his mistake, his lips pursing into a thin line, “Sebastian... I-”

“I know, you don’t have to tell me again. It was for my ‘own good’, even if my work remained unaffected.”

Joseph’s hands tighten against the steering wheel, eyes going dark as he grits out, “Has it ever occurred to you that I wasn’t worried about your work? That I was worried about you?”

Sebastian pauses at that, taken aback.

“I still am, you know. I only reported you because... You were falling apart. You quietly sink into a bottle and-”

“Joseph-” He bites out.

“And pretend everything is fine when it isn’t! You were out late that night, you called for help at nearly 3 o’clock in the morning. Don’t tell me you were just going out on a ‘nightly stroll’. Can’t you just think about your life for a second?”

“That’s enough!” Sebastian snaps, his hand squeezing around the coffee cup, threatening to crush it into a scalding mess, “I’m not in the mood for a fucking interrogation! It hardly matters. Not when another girl is dead.”

Joseph goes quiet, leaving Sebastian to stew in an uncomfortable silence once more. He’s left glancing over at his partner, and when he does, a lump gathers in his throat. Joseph’s expression is grave, brow creased in defeat.

“Joseph I-”

“Listen. I know it’s none of my business, but... I’m just concerned about you, Seb. That’s all. I just wish you’d talk to me,” Joseph sighs out quietly.

Guilt prickles within Sebastian’s heart. He’s huffing out a shuddering sigh, almost tempted to spill his hardships, about how difficult it is to just… Keep going. But... Joseph doesn’t deserve that, he deserves a solid partner, and Sebastian is only going to weigh him down.  

And so, he’s forcing out, “I’m fine, Joseph.”

Joseph’s mouth opens as if to protest, but nothing comes out. Instead, he’s closing it, giving a curt nod and resigning to the heavy silence.

Mercifully, it doesn’t take too long after that to reach the KCPD. As Joseph pulls the car up into the parking lot, Sebastian takes note of the small gathering that has swarmed in front of the police department. Of course, the press.

“Not even the rain deters them.” Sebastian mutters under his breath.

His partner gives him a sideways glance before he’s exiting the car, Sebastian following suit almost immediately. The downpour soaks into Sebastian’s vest and dress shirt, his bangs falling in front of his eyes as it’s weighed down by water. Cameras flash as the two approach the crowd, microphones being shoved into Sebastian’s face as he’s bombarded by questions.

“Are there any new leads on Krimson City’s serial killer?”

“What can you tell us about the fourth victim?”

He squints against the harsh lights, his face twisting into a grimace as he swallows down a curse. He’s beginning to really hate having his picture taken.

“No comment,” His voice is firm as he attempts to get by them, but they’re ever persistent at blocking his path.

“What does this killer look like?” Another reporter pipes up.

“I couldn’t see his face.” He’s attempting to shove through them once more, but he’s halted by another eager journalist.

“How did you feel when you found that headless body?”

“As any other normal person would feel,” What kind of question is that? It’s getting harder and harder not to tell all of these reporters to fuck off. Why can’t they just leave him alone?

“Why did you let the killer get away?”

Sebastian stiffens as if he’s been socked right in the gut. That particular question stings, like rubbing salt into an open wound, serving as a bitter reminder of what he couldn’t do. It’s not as if he meant to let that bastard go. They hadn’t been there. They don’t know what it was like. God, he’s had enough of these people. Though, right as he’s about to give them a piece of his mind, Joseph steps in.

“That’s enough questions!” His partner intervenes, grabbing Sebastian’s wrist as he pushes through them, “Lock your doors, and don’t go out alone at night. We are going to do everything in our power to catch him.”

More questions are thrown their way, but Joesph and Sebastian manage to fight through and get into the police department at last.

The two breathe out a sigh of relief once they’ve made it in. Sebastian’s shoulders and hair are thoroughly damp. The nurse’s words ring in his head, keep those stitches dry, but he can’t really bring himself to care at the moment. He’s reaching up, fingers brushing through his brown locks in an attempt to dry it. Joseph isn’t in much better shape either, left smoothing out the front of his uniform, before wiping at his glasses. It’s almost a comical sight.

“It looks like I owe you again. I was about to make a fool out of myself.”

Joseph’s head raises at that, “You can thank me by just taking care of yourself.”

Sebastian is silent, busying himself with finishing off the last of his coffee, before tossing the paper cup into the bin. “I do take care of myself.” He mutters at last.

“And how do you define ‘taking care of yourself’?” Joseph asks with a raised brow.

“I’m really not in the mood for this.”

Joseph stares at Sebastian for a long moment, disapproval written all over his down turned lips and steely eyes. Sebastian stares right back, his glare sending a clear message, drop it.

That’s when Joseph breaks eye contact, huffing out a long sigh, “Alright… We can talk about it later. Kidman and I will be waiting in your office once you’re done speaking to the chief. We’ll catch you up on everything that’s happened over the last two days.”

We are not going to have a talk about this later, he almost bites out, but he manages to hold his tongue. Instead, his expression is kept carefully neutral as he simply gives his partner a nod, before parting from his side. Though, even with how annoyed he is, he can’t deny the shame squeezing at his chest.

The precinct is filled with the shrill rings of phone calls, along with the sharp scribbles of pencil to paper and the clacks of keyboards. Sebastian passes by several of his coworkers, either seated at the packed nooks of desks, or hovering around close to their offices. Most give him warm, sympathetic smiles, which he returns with a small nod of his head.  

Hopefully, he doesn’t get another lecture. He can only hope.

The chief's office door stands tall and foreboding, Chief of Police written in black letters against clouded glass. Sebastian sucks in a quiet breath, straightening up before stepping inside. The chief is sat behind his desk, nose buried within a stack of papers, before his gaze lifts at the detective’s entrance. He’s clearing his throat, brows furrowing as his eyes settle on Sebastian.

“Castellanos.” He greets gruffly.

“Chief Perrin.” Sebastian returns, “You wanted to see me?”

“Yeah, I want to know what the hell happened out there,” The chief gripes, “You couldn’t catch him? Couldn’t even see his face?”

Sebastian sighs, “Look, I’m just as disappointed as you are. It happened so fast-”

“I don’t want any excuses, Castellanos!” The chief's hands are slamming against wood, his papers fluttering against the outburst, “This maniac already has four bodies to his name, and you could’ve had him. I’m beginning to question just how incompetent you are, and whether I should’ve put you on this case to begin with.”

Sebastian remains unfazed, his voice raising, “Sir, let me assure you that I am competent. I was caught off guard, I wasn’t expecting-“

“Tell me one thing, Castellanos.” The chief cuts in without batting an eye, “Were you intoxicated that night?”

A cold ball sinks to the bottom of Sebastian’s stomach. “No. I was sober.”

The chief doesn’t appear convinced, much to Sebastian’s distain, “What were you doing parading around the city in the middle of the night?”

“I...” Sebastian hesitates for a brief moment, before his brows are furrowing, “I couldn’t sleep, so I took a walk.”

“Were you going to the bar?”

“What the hell is your point?” Sebastian nearly snaps, hands balling into fists.

“My point is, Castellanos, if you cannot get your god damn act together, you’re going to have more to worry about than just getting taken off of this case.”

Sebastian’s teeth grit together, managing to at least suppress his anger.

“Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, I read you loud and clear,” Sebastian answers begrudgingly.

The chief waves him off with disinterest, his eyes already landing back upon his documents, “Alright. Now get out of my sight. You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”

Sebastian doesn’t need to be told twice, more than eager to leave. He’s turning on his heel without another word. Once the door is shut behind him, he’s huffing out a heavy breath.  

God damn it.

His hands are lifting to his face, suppressing the urge to kick out the waste bin next to him. He’s so sick of this shit. The chief- No, they all needed to mind their own fucking business. They don’t understand what the hell he’s going through. He just wants to do his job, to be left alone. Is that so much to ask?

He’s cursing as he gets himself together, before he’s managing to straighten up. His eyes settle upon the police department as he reminds himself to keep calm, to breathe. The memory of that night flickers through his mind’s eye once more, keeping him grounded, focused on his goal.

Taunting laughter, a headless woman with roses. The knife, the camera.

With one final calming breath, he’s striding through the station with new found vigor.  

It doesn’t matter. He has a killer to catch.

[zootopiathingz]

Siblings’ Quest

Part Four: Unloved, Unwanted

June 20th, 1999

"Mommy!" Candace chirped, skipping into the kitchen to find her eight-month pregnant mother washing off plates in the sink.

Linda looked down at her rather excited daughter, a small smile appearing on her face. "Hey sweetie, whatcha got there?"

Candace proudly help up the folded paper card that she had colored with markers and decorated with stickers, glitter, and sequins. "I made Daddy his Father's Day card on the last day of school! Do you think he'll like it?" The six-year-old asked eagerly, barely keeping herself still on her feet.

Linda's smile faded as she slowly took the card from her daughter to examine it. The front had the words boldly written in green and yellow: Happy Father's Day! with a few hearts and smiley faces on the corners.

"After he gave me Ducky Momo, I think he deserves the best card ever! Don't you?" Candace asked, tilting her head with a gap-toothed grin.

Linda had no idea what to even say to her ecstatic child. She opened the card, biting her lip and forcing herself to hide a frown. Inside the card was a small paragraph—with many misspelt words and crooked letters—explaining to her father just how much he meant to her. On the other side was a drawing of two stick-figures. One was a man, tall with dark orange hair, holding hands with the shorter little girl figure. The little girl was holding a duck toy in her other hand, with the biggest grin on her circle-face.

Linda felt like crying, overwhelmed by guilt, sorrow, and weariness.

Candace took notice to her mother's expression and suddenly frowned. "Oh no, is it bad? You don't think Daddy will like it?" She asked, fidgeting with her pigtails.

"No, no it's not that, honey." Linda assured, setting the card on the counter. "It's beautiful. It's just that..."

She couldn't do it.

She couldn't tell her.

Looking at her daughter's adorable, innocent little face. That purity in her eyes. The sweetness, the gentleness. No, the truth would destroy all of that. She would tell Candace when she was older, when the innocence didn't need protecting.

"Um, your dad's away on a business trip. He won't be back for a while." She lied, nervously pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Candace lowered her gaze, "Oh. How long will he be gone? I wanna give him his card soon while it's at least still the Father's Day month!"

Linda shook her head, "He'll be gone for a while, sweetie. But how about I mail the card to him? How does that sound?" She suggested, forcing a smile on her face.

Candace shrugged, "Um, I guess."

"Great. Now, go play outside while I find a special envelope for this, okay?"

"Okay, Mommy." Candace nodded, walking out into the backyard. She didn't seem too satisfied with the idea, but it was better than nothing.

Linda waited until she saw the little girl hopping onto the swing, then quickly walked up the stairs into her bedroom.

She pulled out a shoebox from her closet, the inside filled with jewelry, cards, letters, money, and pictures. This was a box she had to keep her daughter from finding at all costs. Sighing, she stared at the Father's Day card one last time before setting it inside, right on top of the pile of letters addressed to her. She secured the lid on the box and placed it back on the high shelf.

If she ever finds that box...Linda thought warily, then shook it away, refusing to even imagine what Candace would think of her if she did find it. No. She'll never know. Not now, not ever.

With a heavy sigh, and a heavy heart, Linda walked back down the stairs to supervise her daughter in the backyard, already deciding to get rid of that swing that her husband built.

—

April 3rd, 2003

"I wish you'd stop doing this!"

"You can't make me!"

"It's not good for you! It's not good for any of us!"

"Shut up, Lawrence! You don't control what I do!"

Ferb lifted his head up upon hearing faint but audible shouting coming from downstairs. He knew what it was, and though he knew better than to eavesdrop on his parents when they were arguing, his curiosity got the better of him.

He glanced at the old clock on his wall, and could only assume it was late at night, maybe early in the morning. He wasn't good at telling time yet, since he was only four-years-old. Pushing the quilt off of his small body, he stepped out of bed and carefully walked out of the room. He had to take tiny steps, considering the wood was old and rickety, and he didn't want his parents knowing he was awake.

He stepped over until reaching the end of the hall, where he could hear their voices getting louder as he got closer to the living room.

"You can't keep doing this, you know." Lawrence spoke, gesturing around the living area at all the used cigarettes and empty bottles. "You're ruining your mind and your body. You're going to get sick and eventually die! And you have a family to think about!"

The chubby green-haired woman merely scoffed, rolling her eyes and she lit yet another cigarette. "I don't have to do shit for you, Lawrence." She murmured with the cigarette between her teeth. "I can do whatever the fuck I want, and you're just gonna have to deal with it."

"What happened to you, darling?" Lawrence asked, shaking his head in disbelief. This was not the beautiful wife he married five years ago, this wasn't the woman he fell in love with. This was some monster of a person. He didn't know how she changed or why, but it wasn't long after their son was born that she started drinking and smoking like there was no tomorrow.

"Shit happened." She slurred, exhaling a puff of smoke in the air, causing the aroma to worsen. "You and that little crap-face happened."

Lawrence gapped at her choice of words. "Excuse me, that is our son you're talking about!" He exclaimed, utterly offended that anyone would dare talk about his little Ferb that way. "Have you no respect for the child you gave birth to?!"

"I don't give a rat's arse what that little cunt is!" She fired back, her raspy British voice echoing through the walls of the old apartment. "I don't care that he's my son, I don't care that he's however old he is, I don't care!"

"What the hell is wrong with you? How can you say that?!" Lawrence exclaimed.

The woman picked up a half-empty beer bottle and retorted, "He's a little pain in the arse! Thinking he can just get whatever he wants by begging for it! And don't get me started on that annoying voice of his! Gives me a fucking headache! I'm sick of him and I'm starting to get sick of you, too!"

"Well if that's how you feel, then leave!" Lawrence shouted, not even hesitating on his words.

This wasn't his wife. This was some bitch who took advantage of his money to buy alcohol. A woman who abused her own son and husband because she felt like it. This was truly a nightmare in reality. Lawrence didn't care if she was out of his life now. She wasn't decent enough to call herself a Fletcher.

The woman scoffed, "I'm not leaving. This is my home. You take your little shit of a child and leave!"

Lawrence was about to retaliate, but was instantly in shock when he saw his wife begin to lose it. "GET OUT OF HERE!" She yelled loudly, then threw the glass bottle at him, but thankfully, he dodged it in time, causing it to shatter against the wall.

He scoffed at her and shook his head as he walked away, "Go to hell, you bloody bitch."

Ferb shakily stepped out from the darkness, seeing his mother standing unsteadily in the living room, staring off at nothing. Her mouth hung open a bit, showing off crooked yellow teeth. Her greasy green hair was tied up in a sloppy bun, the purple dress was ripped and stained with alcohol. Her eyes were bloodshot and baggy underneath. She was the exact representation of an addict.

"Mama...?" Ferb dared to speak up, quietly and cautiously.

The woman snapped out of her little trance and looked over at the scared four-year-old. "The hell you want?" She asked, putting a hand to her hip.

Ferb opened his mouth to speak, but she quickly cut him off. "Know what, I don't wanna hear your annoying voice, anyway. Get out of here." She commanded, shooing him away with a wave of her hand.

Ferb remained still, which only increased his mother's rage. She glared at him with deadly eyes. "I said, get out of here, now!"

He took a step back, but that clearly wasn't good enough for her. She reached over and grabbed another empty bottle and screamed, "GET OUT OF HERE, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!" before throwing the bottle right at him.

The boy gasped and quickly made a run for it before the bottle could even reach him. He heard the louder crashing off the glass hitting the floor as he darted up the stairs and into his bedroom. He locked the door behind him and hopped into his dirty bed. Pulling the covers over himself, he began to sob hysterically.

Oh Mama, what's happened to you? Ferb wondered to himself as his body trembled under his heavy quilt. He hoped what his father said was true, that she would leave and never come back.

He didn't hate his mother, he didn't want her to leave. But he was terrified of her. He was terrified to so much as speak, because every time he even opened his mouth, all he could hear was his mother screaming at him to shut up and see her throwing glass at him to make him stop.

That was all he'd ever see from now on.

—

May 17th, 2004

Phineas carefully walked through the hallway, hesitating to even be in it considering how dark it was. It was who knows what time, and he was desperate for maternal nurturing. Eventually after what felt like forever, little Phineas pushed the cracked-open door to the master bedroom.

But only to hear the soft sound of crying.

He frowned, tilting his head as he saw his mother, sitting up in her bed with her face in her hands, weeping softly to herself.

"Mommy?" He asked softly, nearly making his mother jump.

Linda looked over, seeing it was only her four-year-old son standing in the doorway. "Oh, Phineas sweetie, you scared me." She spoke, her voice making it sound like she'd been crying for hours. "What are you doing awake at this hour?"

"I...I had a bad dream." The boy admitted, clearly frightened by whatever nightmare he had earlier.

Linda frowned, "Oh honey, it's okay. Come here." She patted the bed, signaling him to join her.

Phineas climbed up onto the mattress and crawled under the covers, laying next to his mother as she ran a hand through his bright red hair. "It's okay, sweetie. It's only a dream. It can't hurt you."

"Did you have a bad dream, too?" The boy asked, "You were crying."

Linda sniffed, wiping away her tears with the sleeve of her nightgown. "I'm fine, sweetie. Don't you worry about a thing. You just close your eyes, think happy thoughts, and go back to sleep. I'll be right here with you the whole time. I'm not gonna let anything hurt you."

"Promise?" Phineas yawned, pulling the blanket up so it covered everything except his face.

Linda nodded, kissing her son's head. "I promise."

[chanbangblog]

ive only felt religion when ive lied with you- 9

A/N: (smut, Chan x reader, Canon compliant, fan/idol)

That night you dreamed more than usual.

You dreamed you were with Chris back home at the park you usually jogged at.

“Chris this is where I used to play when I was a kid! Isn’t it so small and quaint?” you asked, grinning. This must be tiny compared to the parks in Seoul.

“Yes, it’s so peaceful. Thank you for bringing me here, it’s healing.” He beamed back at you.

The golden sunlight was trickling through the limbs of the trees and the breeze rustled the leaves. Chris looked beautiful in this scenery. Like he was just part of it.

“I used to love to swing, sometimes I would swing and sing Disney songs! Even when I was in college!” you confessed.

“I want to hear you sing y/n! I thought you said you couldn’t!” Chris said while taking your hand and walking in the direction “you’ve got to let me hear it now.”

“Chris I really can’t sing! I just did it for fun. It was therapeutic, I guess.” You said, while picking a swing.

“Just pick a song you enjoy. You said you liked Disney, those aren’t hare to sing. You’ve heard me sing a million times but I’ve never heard you. It’s not fair.” He said the last sentence while pouting his lips like a baby, he looked so damn cute you couldn’t resist.

You opened your mouth to sing when you noticed something out of the corner of your eyes. People. Walking in your direction. Your stomach twisted when you remembered you weren’t supposed to be in public with him, even in your small town.

You turned to tell him you both should leave but he was gone, his swing still swaying back and forth. You started walking which quickly turned to a run to find him.

But you never did.

You awoke from your dream feeling like you had a nightmare, recalling the times you had woken up still so scared from a dream that you didn’t even dare move or open your eyes. The feeling you were having now was the same. Your limbs were stiff as board and your eyes stayed shut.

You slowly wiggled your fingers to bring yourself out of your self-induced paralysis and felt Chris’s bare skin beneath them. This was your second morning waking up to him and you again wondered if anything would ever beat this feeling you had with him. You willed your eyes open, recalling the heavenly sight that you knew was waiting for you.

Opening your eyes you turned your head to see him. Your limbs were tangled together and his arm was thrown across your stomach. No, you never would get used to this. Whoever this man ends up marrying was the luckiest person in the universe for being able to see this sight every morning.

You didn’t move anymore knowing it would wake him if you did. You just watched the rhythmic motions of his chest rising and falling with his breaths until his eyes popped open. You jumped at the sudden movement and gasped.

“Were you watching me sleep y/n? That’s a bit creepy.” Chris grinned over at you.

“Um, no. Well, yes. But I’m not a creep! I just wanted you to sleep in and you’re attached to me like a koala!” you sputtered.

“I’m just kidding babygirl, calm down.” Chris said, cuddling back up to you.

“I mean you’re like really beautiful, so who wouldn’t stare?” you quipped.

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” he questioned, twisting his head in an angle to move in to a kiss.

“Ah-!” you yelped, pushing him away while getting up, “we have morning breath, let’s brush our teeth” you beckoned him towards the bathroom.

“You’re right,” he said following you, “but I was going to deal with it to kiss my beautiful girl.”

Yeah, I already woke up once but somehow I think it’s possible to do it again? Am I in Inception? Cause there’s no way he just called me that in real life right now.

“You’re gross.”

Smooth, y/n. Smooth.

“Hey that’s something coming from you!” Chris sputtered, “I saw you eat a pepperoni off the concrete last night!”

“I was drunk and hungry!” you defended.

“It was before we took shots!” Chris retorted back.

Well he had you there.

“Shut up and brush your teeth. Stays don’t want to see you with yellow teeth.” You teased, putting toothpaste on his brush.

“They’d love me either way,” Chris hummed.

He had you there too.

You turned your attention to the mirror and realized you were both still naked. But honestly, when did you ever wear clothes around each other when you two were alone? You’d learned the hard way your first morning together that he preferred you sans clothes.

More importantly, when did you all get so fucking domestic? Having playful banter while brushing your teeth in the morning together getting ready for the day. Relationships repulsed you. You absolutely gagged when your friends would talk about their significant other’s and their fluffy domesticated bullshit. But now you kinda got it. You could wake up and get dressed and spend every single day watch paint dry with Chris and probably never get tired of it, because he would be there with you.

Damn, you have it bad for this guy.

“Perhaps we should take another shower?” Chris smirked at you, looking like the devil.

“What?” you questioned, “we just took one before bed.”

“Shhhh…” he waved you off while turning to turn on the water.

God. He has a nice ass.

You both stepped in the shower and the water felt lovely running over your skin, you breathed in the steam. Chris hugged you around the waist in an effort to get some water on him. Your face naturally found it’s way to the crook of his neck and you just couldn’t help but kiss the soft skin there. It felt so right. His body was so perfect, it deserved to be worshiped, in your mind.

Chris let out a sigh at your ministrations, and you slowly began to kiss lower, his chest, his stomach, all the way down to his half-hard dick. God, his dick was pretty. It was just impossible not to taste.

He let out another sigh as you took him in his mouth. Your hand pumping him at the bottom while you used your tongue to coax him to full hardness. You swirled your tongue around like you knew he would like, his subtle thrust into your mouth confirmed it and spurred you on further.

You snaked your free hand around his back side and pulled him closer, encouraging him to keep going. He continued bucking his hips into your mouth until his dick was hitting the back of your throat. Your eyes watered but you willed yourself not to gag. Not when he was enjoying himself this much.

“You look so good down there taking my dick babygirl,” he rasped at you, sounding utterly fucked out. Which was good, that’s just how you wanted him. You tried to smile and looked up at him. Your eyes locked. “God I wish I had a picture of this,” he mused.

You decided to respond, show him how nasty you could be, you sucked off his dick with a pop, “you fucked me so good babe, you deserve to have your dick sucked every day for how hard you made me cum,” you said in the sultriest voice you could muster.

His eyes glistened, darkened.

“Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you again until you cum?” but he didn’t wait for an answer, he was too busy lifting you off your knees and spinning you around to bend you over.

Your hands met the wall as you waited for his fingers, but the head of his cock was pressing into your entrance instead. God, you relished the feeling. Your pussy was throbbing for him.

He pushed into you with such force your head almost hit the wall, your arm muscles worked hard to support yourself against his pace. You let out a moan, he was fucking you like his life depended on it. You sighed at the feeling, loving knowing he was using your body to get off. Stretching your walls with no foreplay. It was nasty, it was urgent and you loved it.

“Is this what you wanted baby?” he asked, voice strained.

“Yes, yes, fuck yes,” you chanted.

He pulled out and grabbed you once again to spin you around to face him.

“Go to the bed, I want you to ride my cock until you come undone again.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice, you scrambled out of the shower, not even bothering to turn the water off and he followed you. You were both soaking wet when you pushed him down on the bed. The bed was sure to be ruined after this, but you didn’t care, not when you had this beautiful man underneath you who was determined to make you cum. What else could matter?

You climbed on top of him and straddled him, taking time to line up his cock with your entrance before sliding down, there was no time to be wasted now. You started to ride him, just like he’d asked. His hands were bruisingly tight at your hips.

“Don’t hold back baby,” you said, “I want you to feel good too.”

“Fuck, what did I do to deserve you?” Chris sighed as he started fucking up into you with brutal force. It burned in the most delicious way.

He sat up and put one hand behind your ass while his lips found your nipple. He began sucking as you threw your head back in pleasure, it was so much, so many achingly good sensations, all at once. You felt like you were going to explode.

“I know you’re close baby, cum for me,” he instructed, and who were you to deny him something he wanted so much? You increased the pace, which you didn’t realize was possible as his hand moved down to where your bodies met.

He found your clit easily and began tapping it and rubbing rough circles, just enough to send you toppling over the edge. Your orgasm rocked your core, sending vibrating sensations throughout your whole body, you rode it out, mouth falling open in a gasp while Chris fucked you through it.

When you came back to your senses Chris was staring at you in what looked like awe.

“Cum baby, I want you to cum.” You said, pushing him back down on the mattress.

Your limbs felt like jello after your orgasm but you wanted him to cum so bad, you used every ounce of strength to keep the pace, he saw your struggle and you swore he said “cute” under his breath, and flipped you over on your back. You arched your back to raise your hips to give him better access.

“Fuck you’re so hot,” He said, with both hands on your hips, fucking into you until he pulled out and finished himself with his hand, white spurts covering your stomach. Watching him touch himself was the most erotic thing you’d ever witnessed.

You couldn’t help it when you ran your finger through his cum pooling on your stomach and licked it clean with your tongue for him to watch. He faltered while watching you, his hand grabbing your knee to hold himself up.

“Y/n…” was all he said, and then he collapsed next to you.

You laid there like that, side by side on the completely soaked bed, breathing roughly, both fighting for your composure.

“Well,” you said, making note of the water you could still hear running in the bathroom, “I guess we should go finish that shower.”

[lovelahela]

❛ it lives in the woods ❜ ─ prologue

⇢ masterlist ; check masterlist for fancast!

⇢ pairing: noah marshall x f!mc (marisol reyes)

⇢ genre: horror

⇢ chapter: zero (prologue)

⇢ words: 2687

⇢ description: something old and powerful lives in the woods surrounding the small town of westchester... something that knows their names. tensions flare, old wounds are reopened, and lives hang in the balance of one, very important question: are you scared?

⇢ notes + warning: this story will include disturbing scenes, potentially dark/triggering subjects (including but not limited to underage substance/alcohol abuse, depression, anxiety) and strong language. reader discretion is advised.

        Tonight, the moon is playing peek-a-boo, weaving in and out of ribbons of black clouds scudding across the sky. Accompanying the flickering radiance of lampposts scattered across the small town of Westchester, the light of the moon stretched across the vast cluster of trees that surrounded it and to a cosy, modern house far away from said lampposts that stood out significantly next to the worn-out, withering shack that stood meters away from it. The town was characteristically quiet, its folk invested in whatever dream of winning the lottery and marrying the most good-looking Hollywood actor they were having. It was almost peaceful.

        The functioning word here being almost.

        Inside that modern little house lay a young teenage girl, fast asleep in the comfort of her mattress and scented candles. Marisol Reyes tried very hard to be normal, thank you very much. She ran two clubs, maintained outstanding grades, and managed Westchester High's successful swimming team as an efficient captain. Some might even say she was one of the "popular kids," but she was no where near that (proven by the constant degradation courtesy of Britney and her posse), and preferred to keep it that way. All Marisol wanted was to blend, to be away from the spotlight - she had enough of it after being drowned in all the wrong kinds of attention when one of her best friends perished a decade ago. Being pointed at by judgemental kids and gossiping parents took a toll on her, and she swore to go out of her way to erase the devastating, untimely death of Jane Marshall from her life - she would never be the "best friend of that girl who died" ever again.

        Although Marisol strongly refused her mother Soledad's advice to see a child psychologist and cope with the horrible trauma that cost her her childhood, she insisted that she was able to, get over it. She pushed aside the recurrent nightmares and the obsession with self-defense and martial arts classes, plastered on a smile, and said she was fine - every single time, all through the ten years of looking over shoulder and denying just how damaged she really was.

        The sound of violent vibrations against a wooden surface startled Marisol Reyes out of her uncharacteristically peaceful slumber. She jumped out of her bed and grabbed the kitchen knife that always lied stoically on her bedside table like a war veteran, hair frazzled and muscles tense. The focus of her almond-shaped eyes darted around the room frantically, fingers tightening around the hilt of the knife as her heart beat wildly in her chest. Once she could not make out an outline of an intruder in the darkness that enveloped the area, she realized the vibrations were coming from her phone, buzzing enthusiastically with text notifications. She groaned at her overreaction to such a harmless event while rubbing the sleep from her eyes and picked up the small electronic device in her tense hands.

TEXT MESSAGE

3:12 AM

UNKNOWN NUMBER

marisol, you there?

it's dan.

i messed up. i'm sorry, i'm so sorry

Mark as spam?

Block number?

        "Oh my God..." whispered Marisol, rereading that one text over and over again to make sure she didn't imagine it.

        it's dan.

        Those two words stole the breath and heat from her very skin. Suddenly her defenses are like paper, paper being soaked by rapidly falling rain drops. Dan Pierce. They hadn't spoken since the tragic incident a decade prior - after the funeral, the eight children went their separate ways, determined carry the truth behind that catastrophe with them to the grave no matter how deep they buried it inside of them. She debated replying - she hadn't so much as greeted him in so many years, and suddenly he bombards her phone with frantic messages in the middle of the night? Something seemed off. Marisol could practically feel danger creeping up slowly but surely behind her.

TEXT MESSAGE

3:15 AM

DAN PIERCE

marisol?

MARISOL

dan, hey.

it's been a while, u okay? what's up?

DAN PIERCE

i went into the woods.

i had to be sure, i had to prove to myself that he wasn't real.

that it was all in our heads.

but he is, mari. he's real. it was all real.

read 3:16 AM

        Marisol's previously tense hands began shivering vigorously along with the rest of her limbs, all of them weakening by the second. She closed her eyes and drew in long, deep breaths, attempting to calm down and muster up whatever courage she had left. She wasn't sure if the texts she responded with were an attempt to convince Dan, or herself.

TEXT MESSAGE

3:17 AM

MARISOL

hey man, u sure ure not drunk?

DAN PIERCE

he was whispering, just like when we were kids.

MARISOL

dan, please stop.

we made all that stuff up, we were kids.

mr red was just a dumb game that spun out of control.

we made it all up.

DAN PIERCE

 he does. he's with me right now.

MARISOL

for fuck's sake dan

if ure in the woods get out NOW

it's not safe in the dark

DAN PIERCE

i can hear him in the trees.

i can hear him whispering...

read 3:18 AM

        Marisol hissed a long string of curse words, fumbling around in the dark for her jacket. It didn't matter that they lost touch with each other, she couldn't bear the thought of losing him - of losing someone else in the disbanded group that she once would have said she trusted with her life. Maybe, if you dug deep enough through the traumatic, emotional baggage she lugged around every waking moment, she still would.

        Just as she snatched the keys to her mother's car (which she was only allowed to use in the case of an emergency, much to her dismay), someone rapped the window harshly, startling a shriek out of her. Her phone slipped out of her hands and landed on the wooden floorboard with an upsetting thud, just barely illuminating the room with a disturbing glow.

        With the manner of a paranoid animal about to get preyed on viciously, Marisol snuck a peek at the window. Her blood ran cold when she made out the shape of what she was hoping was a human. Wasting no time, she jumped towards her lamp and turned it on. A yellow light filled just enough of the vicinity - enough to see that the man waiting outside her window was none other than Dan. She heaved out a relieved sigh and opened the window  (reluctantly so), ushering him inside outside of the chilly embrace of the crisp night.

        He climbed into his former friend's bedroom, hoodie dirtied by mud and hints of dead leaves. His long hair was unkempt, his eyes were accompanied by worrying and prominent bruises under them, and what used to be his beautifully tanned skin was then pale and sickly as though he was near death itself. Dan sat hunched over on the floor like a frail puppet being held up by a single fraying string. It was horribly peculiar to see him like this - he always held himself with confidence, tall and muscular frame towering over even those taller than him. To see him lying on her floor, so vulnerable and beaten down, it was heartbreaking to say the least.

        "God, Dan, what happened to you?" asked Marisol, eyes softened with concern as she scanned his body for the injuries littered on his skin and mud staining his clothes. He looked up at her, expression shallow, striking a faint but growing fear inside of her. "How... how did you even get here? We're on the second floor."

        "I climbed." His answer was curt and simple, no emotion to his voice at all. Nothing in his eyes or the tone of his voice supported the signs of terrifying struggle that blemished him. Marisol gulped.

        "Oooookay, Spider-Man!" Nervous laughter cut through the uncomfortable silence choking them. She frowned and took small, careful steps forward as to not startle him. She crouched down to look him in the eyes as calmly as she should, slowly pulling down the zipper of his hoodie.

        "Listen, bud, why don't you take a shower? I'll wash your clothes, give you some of my dad's, and you can tell me happened, yeah?" Her voice was low and soft, as though she was consoling a frightened child. Peeling the hoodie off his slouched shoulders, she avoided his eyes, which were - very creepily - trained on her paling face. She sighed, visibly relieved when he decided to focus on the string of Polaroid pictures and what looked like dozens of framed award certificates hung up on her wall, suddenly completely neglecting her physical existence next to his enfeebled body.

        "I'm fine." His words resembled that of an accused, soulless criminal awaiting his punishment in court, perfectly trained to deny his guilt to his grave no matter what the situation was — it seemed to rehearsed. Then, abruptly, his head snapped in her direction and he grabbed her forearms tightly, staring at her with wide, crazed eyes. She could have sworn she felt all of her internal organs cease functioning for a split second and yelped pathetically. "Come on! We need to get the others!"

        Her breath hitched in her throat. She searched and searched her brain for the proper response, hyper-aware of the growing madness that distorted his handsome face. When she spoke, the pitch of her voice was a bit too high for her liking. "What — What others?"

        Dan's hold on her tightened noticeably, causing her to flinch and whimper involuntarily. A curt, mad laugh that sounded like one the Joker himself would utter left his lips. "Our friends, of course! Noah, Lily, Ava, Lucas, Andy, Stacy — the whole gang!" Another laugh that deepened the pit in her stomach, a laugh that would haunt her for days.

        Suddenly, Marisol regretted turning away psychological help. The rate of her breathing quickened anxiously as she felt a gate in her mind burst open, letting unwanted memories flood it mercilessly at the mention of their names. She could not see Dan anymore, only flashing images of ruins, of an eerie forest, and of nine children irresponsibly skipping through the trees, on their way to revisit the entity that would then change their lives forever. Her eyes were coated with a glossy sheen of tears that were more than ready to flow down her cheeks against her weakening will. When she finally mustered the courage to speak again, she whispered: "I've barely spoken to them for years, Dan. Not since Jane — "

        Before she could register what was happening, Dan stood up and pulled her with him with an unimaginable force that was sure to leave bruises. Their faces were uncomfortably close, so close she could smell the scent of blood and dirt that replaced his usual cologne. He stared at her like an enraged panther, tiny bubbles of froth forming at the corners of his mouth and face contorted with a venomous outburst. Fear was struck inside her that she felt in her very core — she almost thought he would kill her right then and there. "They have to come. Everyone has to be there. That's the rule."

        She could feel the sweat trickle down her neck, the throbbing of her tear-filled eyes, the ringing screaming of a little girl in her ears, and the thumping of her horror-stricken heart against her chest. "Rule?"

        The world stilled around them. Suddenly, she could not hear a single thing, not even her own breathing — only the awfully familiar words that the boy hissed: "Everyone plays together."

        Marisol could not have been more thankful for the sound of her phone buzzing yet again against the floorboards. She took that as an excuse to gingerly wiggle out of his loosened grip and, with shaking legs, approached her cell and picked it up. A crack tarnished the previously pristine screen, but she decided to worry about that later when it was a more appropriate time to fret over a slightly broken phone. 

        But what she saw was her breaking point. Her free hand reached up to cover her mouth and stifle a sob threatening to spill out of her quivering lips and before she could control it a steady flow of salty tears coated her cheeks.

TEXT MESSAGE

3:26 AM

DAN PIERCE

are you still there?

i think i'm lost

marisol? my battery's almost dead, please help me!!

read 3:26 AM

        The shock ricocheted up her skeleton; an enormous engulfing terror made her feel so, so sick in her mind and body. She's seen darkness before, the kind that makes an empty street look like an old-fashioned photograph, but this was different — this was the kin of darkness that robbed her of her common sense and replaced it with a paralyzing fear. By her genes, she is a predator with the intelligence and perceptive eyes to hunt, but in that moment, she felt like a helpless prey. Marisol slowly rose from the illuminating screen of her phone, her wide, suspicious eyes meeting his. 

        "Dan?" She sniffled weakly.

        Although his eyes were cold an empty, right underneath them a grin stretched his lips impossibly from one ear to the other, radiating clear indications of raging madness.

        "Marisol."

        She lunged for the knife on her bedside table yet again, shrieking as he took large and quick steps towards her violently shaking form. She searched desperately for an escape route that wasn't blocked by the towering body of the intruder in front of her but to no avail. He grabbed her wrist with a bone-crushing hold, squeezing yet another helpless screech out of her. Her voice broke when she cried out: "Dan, please! Don't make me do this!"

        And he did nothing but widen the frightening smile that would permanently etch itself into her retinas, haunting her every time she closed her eyes.

        So Marisol did the only logical thing her frantic brain could come up with — with a heart-wrenching scream, pained by having to inflict pain on a friend who was once very dear to her, she drove the blade of the knife into his abdomen. Much to her increasing horror, he did not so much as flinch at the pain, only tightened the hold around her throbbing wrist. He merely growled like a feral animal, burning holes into her with his enraged gaze. "Wrong move."

        Dan tackled her effortlessly to the floor, straddling her hips and forcing her into a cage that she would never break out of in her wildest dreams. He smashed her head against the rough surface underneath her, darkening her fading vision. "We all have to go back, remember?"

        "LEAVE ME ALONE! GET — OFF — ME!" She thrashed in his hold, no longer attempting to swallow the sobs. Finally, after agonizing attempts to kick and thrash and flail, she was able to free one of her hands and in result scraped her previously perfectly manicured fingernails down the skin of his face.

         A cry of disgust and disbelief bounced off the walls of the room when it peeled right off, revealing putrid flesh under it. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, leaving her to stare into milky whiteness while the stink of stale dirt burned the  insides of her nostrils. His long, skinny fingers curled around her neck, pressing, closing with a lack of mercy or remorse, feeling like tendrils wound around her oxygen supply. Despite her lungs blazing with agony, Marisol continued to fight fruitlessly until her energy started to dissipate like water going down a drain. Her hands fell to her side and her body grew limp, using her last breath to scream for help that, somewhere in the back of her min, she knew would never come. The last thing she saw before she embraced the coming blackness of unconsciousness was the ghastly monster that rendered her powerless and savagely tore open her old wounds.

[odderancyart]

Hogwarts AU Part II

AO3

The Hufflepuff bedrooms were comfy enough, with their high stone walls and pillars, and poster beds with yellow and black blankets, Rus thought as he unpacked his things, putting them in the right order, but he didn’t at all look forward to having roommates. They could get into his stuff, and first and foremost, he’d have to spend so much time with them. What if they didn’t like him? In fact, he was pretty sure Edge didn’t. His stomach ached at the thought and his hands trembled as he sorted his books into the right order. The house elves had already unpacked, of course, but they couldn’t do it right, they didn’t know how he wanted his things. So he had do to it again.

Raindrops hit the windows, which were small and just beneath the ceiling, and three cups of steaming cocoa had been waiting for them when they entered their dormitory. He shared the room with two other skeletons. Slim was just sitting on his bed with something in his ears, some muggle invention, Rus believed, and sipping on his cocoa. And Edge… Rus regarded him with trepidation. It was late, and time to go to bed soon, and he was doing push-ups. His weird jacket, which he’d worn over his school robes, which he was pretty sure was very much against the rules.

School was already weird. Of course he’d known he’d have to share bedrooms for the first time in his life, but knowing it and doing it was different things. And honestly, he had not been prepared to be separated from Blue immediately. Even though he knew he was nothing like his loud, energic, brash older brother, he simply hadn’t been able to imagine ending up in another house. And now Blue was with his friends in Gryffindor Tower, and he was here, alone, in Hufflepuff Basement.

Well. He glanced at Edge, who had counted forty push-ups by now and didn’t look particularly tired. Not alone, but he wished he was. He noticed Rus’ stare, glaring at him. “What are you looking at?”

Placing his cocky smile on his face was difficult, but he managed, leaning back against one of the posters of his bed. “Just wondering how many of those you’re going to do. It’s getting late.”

“Mind your own business,” Edge grunted, though he did stand up, stretching his arms over his head. Without another word, he grabbed the pyjamas on his bed and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Rus stared after him.

“Rude,” he commented, throwing a glance at Slim. Slim immediately averted his eyes back down into his book.

Sighing deep, Rus put away the last of his things before sliding into bed. It felt as though this was going to be a long year.

He already couldn’t wait until he got to go home for Christmas. He missed his parents. And Blue. Hiding his face in his pillow, he bit down on his tongue to keep himself from whimpering. Stars, why couldn’t he have been home-schooled instead?

…

He woke up early the next morning. There was an uneasy feeling in his bones as he sat up, and his stomach felt uncomfortable. He’d been tossing and turning the entire night. In all honesty, he didn’t know what he had expected. It wasn’t like he’d had an easy time sleeping even at home, and now he wasn’t in his own bedroom anymore. His mouth was dry, but Rus didn’t bother reaching out for the water bottle on his bedtable. Instead he curled up in his bed, hiding his face in his knees.

God. Why had he gone here? If he’d been home, he would’ve just gone over to his dad’s bedroom hours ago. Would’ve curled up against dad’s chest and dad would’ve held him and he might’ve actually gotten some real sleep, or at least felt safe enough to rest.

A quiet whimper escaped him, and he hugged his legs tighter. He didn’t want to be here. Blue had been so excited for him starting Hogwarts, and his brother’s excitement had been contagious, but at least he’d been able to believe he’d been in his brother’s house back then. But here he was. In Hufflepuff dormitories. All by himself. With a roommate who already seemed to hate him, for reasons he didn’t know.

His soul ached.

“Are you okay?” a soft voice came from his left side, and he jerked, looking up. On one bed, Slim lied, heaved up on his elbow. Faint concern lit up his eyes.

Rus grinned despite the hole in his chest, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. Straightening up from his vulnerable position. “Of course! Why do you ask?” The lie tasted like ash.

“You looked sad,” Slim mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his other arm. “Nightmares?”

Blinking, he considered it for a fraction of a second. Then he nodded. “Yeah. It was real weird, I dreamt there was an acromantula here in the dorm. I hate giant spiders, and my brother told me there’s a couple in the Forbidden Forest.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” Slim’s voice was quiet as he smiled carefully, sitting up as well. He sat cross-legged, putting his palms on his legs. “My brother’s on Hogwarts too. A third-year Slytherin. Yours?”

“Third-year Gryffindor,” Rus replied, and his grin turned a little bit more genuine. “Think they know each other?”

“Maybe.” Slim shrugged, head drooping a little before he yawned. His head jerked up again, amusement shining in his eyes. “Actually. He’s mentioned a skeleton in Gryffindor who keeps pulling ‘stupid, idiotic stunts’ and yet is competition for him to be best in their year.”

Rus laughed out loud, though he slapped a hand before his mouth as Edge grunted in his sleep. Nodding, he tried to supress his giggles. “Sounds like Blue. Dad says he’s an adrenaline junkie.”

Raising an eyebrow, Slim nodded. “Oh that’s exactly the kind of person Razz dislikes the most.”

“The hell are you laughing about?” a drowsy voice came from behind.

Rus stiffened before forcing his shoulders down, and he turned around, grinning at their other roommate. Edge was sitting up, glaring at them through half-lidded eyes. It was an oddly Hufflepuff-ly picture, with how his black pyjamas matched the sunshine yellow and black blankets.

“We think our older brothers are rivals.” His voice was carefree, even as he wanted to flinch away from the other’s burning red eyes. What the heck did he have against him?

Grunting, Edge finally looked away, glaring at the clock instead. “Time to get to breakfast, I guess.”

It took effort not to sigh.

[tk-duveraun]

Title: Gin And Black Coffee Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Rating:  T  Genre: Tragedy & Romance Summary: Missing scene from The Fox and the Hound. After Carina confronts Fox about his lies, everything seemed to be resolved. So why is he so insistent on a trip to Kaas?

Tell me, do you kiss away the nightmares? As they burn in your mind, like the love you left behind.

Notes: This will eventually (tm) become chapter 8 in the fic on Ao3 and by eventually I mean in a few days. Gin And Black Coffee - The Gospel Youth, it’s a repeat artist; I don’t care. 

“Carina… I need you to come with me,” is all Fox says before pulling her onto his ship and setting off for Dromund Kaas.

But there’s no mistaking this trip for a honeymoon. Carina sees so much pain and grief in Fox’s expression that she doesn’t bother asking for details. She even sits silently when Fox changes into full Sith regalia, leaving off only the mask.

For the entire flight, Fox stares at his gloved right hand and worries at the black, cursed spot on the back of his neck. Carina’s never asked where it came from. At first, she’d assumed it was connected to how he was dying, but now she’s not so sure. It had sounded like everything was in Fox’s blood, determined before even his birth. It didn’t need a cursed scar, did it?

Fox dons his mask as they leave the ship. He breaks the silence with only, “I’m sorry,” before leading her to the speeder bay.

Eventually, they arrive at what can only be one of the Sa’alle properties. The gates wear the sharp insignia Fox doesn’t and the grounds look immaculately tended. The courtyard is unnaturally still and Carina thinks she sees the tell-tale shimmer of Force wards everywhere she looks. But why? Surely Sybil isn’t here and Fox lives with me or on Olkin II or on his ship. Why waste this much power on an empty house?

Just inside, Fox removes his mask and it hangs, invisibly suspended in the air. He leaves it hovering in the foyer and leads Carina down a narrow staircase heading to the underground levels. The climate control whirs to life in her armor, but does nothing for the chill down her spine and in her heart.

The stairs lead to a stone-walled hallway which leads to… nowhere. At least, not anymore. Where there should have been a door is solid stone unnaturally cut through with durasteel. Durasteel bands and bolts that should have reinforced a door are instead twisted into the shape of an ornate, if broken, crown. The picture would take her breath away if it wasn’t already frozen in her chest.

“Look at me, Carina,” Fox says. Though the words are whispered, they seem unbearably loud in this awful place.

Slowly, Carina turns away from the scene and meets Fox’s gaze.

He says, “You should leave this place. Go back to Meshurok and tell them my death caught up with me sooner than we expected.” Fox’s image flickers before her eyes. For just a moment he has long hair, braided down his back and bright yellow eyes that glow in the dim light. “Leave now and pretend this was the end.”

“What? Are you out of your- Fox, what’s going on?”

“Please. I can’t bear the thought of you being glad I’m to die soon, but I can’t hide this anymore. Not when you call me riduur. Please, please, go.” Fox’s voice and posture drip desperation. Again, his image flickers to a version with longer hair and fewer creases on his skin. It lingers the second time, his yellow eyes piercing without compassion.

Carina shakes her head. She gestures at the where the door should have been. “This, whatever this is, it’s worse than lying to me about who you are? Than manipulating me and coming to my bed under false pretenses for months? This is supposed to make me throw everything away and go to bed cursing your name long after you’re dead?”

“Yes,” Fox says and the sincerity, the conviction is enough to make Carina hesitate.

Fox had underestimated her love for him before, but whatever erased the door here is enough to make Fox hate himself. Carina can hardly believe she never realized before that the sadness bleeding out of his heart wasn’t about his upcoming death, it was about… This. Not only this. He grieves for my loss, for my heart before it’s even broken.

Carina takes a breath to steel herself and then says, “Tell me, Fox. You owe me this much.”

Fox nods and then a ripple seems to travel over his skin. His worry lines are deeper and the shadows change around his eyes in a way that makes them look haunted. But those could have always been there, simply illuminated now. No, what the dropped illusion reveals is tattoos on his cheek in a pattern unmistakable to a seasoned warrior. Blood spatter. He removes his gloves and shows her his right hand, painted over in ink: more blood.

“I loved only once before you, Carina. And then I disavowed him, cursed his name, rejected everything he ever gave me… And then left him to die alone in the dark. Just for power. His despair, his anger, his heart broken by betrayal… I took it all and I used it. And for what? A few more years of hiding from my sister?”

“Five years. That’s what you did. That’s how you stopped her from killing you, then.” Carina feels almost possessed by the spirit of his dead lover, with the way she feels as if she knows everything. The feelings nearly crush her. “He loved you. He would have given you anything you asked.”

“When she struck him down, he begged me to use his Life Force for myself.”

“But instead you… Why Fox? Why destroy-” Carina gasps, unable to finish the question because she knows. She can’t count the number of times she considered meeting with ‘Faximil’ and offering him up slavers to sacrifice, if only it would keep Fox alive a little longer. She takes Fox’s right hand, forever marked with his lover’s blood and pulls it to her chest. “It wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t. He would have died for nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter, Carina. You don’t understand. My betrayal was so complete, his agony was so- I can still feel it. I can’t even beg forgiveness because I don’t regret living.”

Carina drops his hand and with both of her own pulls his face forward until it’s tucked into her shoulder. She puts one arm around him and runs her hand over his hair, his significantly short hair.

“Love isn’t a ledger you borrow against. Life would be so much easier if you could just break it and be free of all its parts. He wanted you to live and live you did. He’ll forgive the pain of his last moments if you made your life worth living. Don’t throw away the gift he gave you just because for a time he didn’t want to give it.”

“Carina-”

“I won’t give my life for yours. I have too many people that need me. You won’t have to suffer like this again.”

“I- I won’t have to suffer?”

“His pain ended when he died. You’ve carried it and your own ever since.”

[starlingstories-blog1]

The White Rabbit

I wrote this story in 2016, when I was living alone and became fixated on Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.                                    

                                                         I.

         The girl with the rabbit head – or the rabbit with the girl body – pours pretend tea from a real china teapot.  She has impressed on me, again and again, that it’s real china.  I can’t be sure because I’ve never turned my teacup over to check for any labels stuck there.  She always takes the tea set with her when she goes, and always leaves me behind.

I’m inclined to distrust her; maybe that’s why I question such an irrelevant statement.  I’ve mauled it to death - over and over - in my head, convinced that if I strip away its flesh I’ll find some something important hidden in its bones.  I don’t really give a damn what material the tea set is made of, but it’s the only thing she’s ever said to me - the only other voice I’ve heard in countless days.

      I don’t know how long I’ve been in The Attic because there are no windows.  When I first woke up here, it seemed like I waited hours before I saw her.  When she came up through the door in the floorboards I’d expected to see some horrible old man.  Instead, I saw a girl pretending she was a rabbit – or a rabbit pretending she was a girl.

                                                          II.

      I don’t tell the police everything; I don’t tell my parents anything.  I’m not even sure I know the truth of it all - the truth has slipped between the cracks in the lies.  It keeps me awake at night, staring me down from the dark places in my bedroom and threatening to split me open.

      Maine in December is almost always encased in sparkling, sugar crystals of ice. This is the first time in my short life that Christmas won’t be white. My mother has started saying we’ll have a gray Christmas, even though it’s only raining half the time and isn’t at all foggy.  At least there’s that – the cold and the wet.  I prefer it to the stifling, dry heat of The Attic.  There is also the added benefit of being spared the moaning of lifetime Maine dwellers who feign shock and outrage when every year, like clockwork, their plans are fucked up by a few layers of black ice on the decaying roads.

      When I jump off the front steps, the rain boots (borrowed without permission from my mother) make a satisfying splat sound on the wet dirt of the driveway.  They are two sizes too large and already rubbing spots on my heels that will turn into calluses, but it’s preferable to ruining the only pair of sneakers I own with mud.

      There is a pile of job applications in the stuffy kitchen I’m exchanging for the damp air.  That’s what I should be doing instead of giving into this newfound sense of wanderlust: filling out applications for places like The Pinewood Inn, The Catch Restaurant, and Bar, and - horror of horrors - Walmart.  I haven’t worked since before The Attic, and although I’m not thrilled at the prospect of becoming a maid, waitress, or cashier, I never finished twelfth grade.  I’ve had plenty of experience, just not the kind you can sum up in a cute little sentence with “full-time” checked off beside it.

                                                        III.

      The only other life form I have contact with – aside from the souls the Rabbit seems to imagine inhabit the china doll and teddy bear we have tea with – is a fat, brown spider I name Absalom.  I’ve been here a while before he begins to speak, and perhaps by this point I’m as delusional as my captor.  Abs runs across the wall above the mattress upon which I spend most of my time.  I’ve never been afraid of spiders but it never, until then, occurred to me to talk to one.

      “Is the tea set made of real china?”  I ask, and it pauses halfway to the corner where it keeps its web.

      “I am not, human girl, in the habit of examining china, real or otherwise,” Absolom says. “However, I’ve always suspected it to be a cheap trick, myself.”  I should feel shocked that an arachnid is telling me its opinions on tricks and china, but I don’t.  I feel much of anything, these days.

      “Has she brought others here?”  I ask.  

      “The Rabbit or the girl?”

      “Both,” I say.  “Whichever.” I tilt my head back to examine his intricate web, and one of a dozen pink-and-white pillows fall from my mattress to the floor.  I don’t pick it up.  I know that later it will make her angry, but I can’t bring myself to move my arms.  The heat in the room is stifling; I blink sweat out of my eyes; I’m thirsty.

      The spider finishes its ascent to the web and sits staring at a fly caught there. “Sometimes – a few.  I think it’s disgusting, myself.  However, we have an agreement, the Rabbit and I.  We overlook each other’s respective vices so as to cohabitate.”

      “You’re cohabitating with a monster,” I murmur.

The spider doesn’t answer me and I turn away as it approaches the fly.

                                                       IV.

      The library is about a mile’s walk from my parent’s house.  It’s small, but they have a decent selection of fiction and the librarians don’t usually bother me.  It takes all of what little strength I have to open one of the double doors of the library; I almost trip as it closes fast behind me.  I inhale the safe, familiar scent of paper and must as I make a beeline for the literature section.  I don’t make eye contact with the librarian who smiles at me, but I give her a slight wave.

Since The Attic, I find Young Adult too flippant and Thrillers too poignant. Classics, however, provide a gateway to a time almost completely foreign from my own.  I avoid titles like Dracula and Kidnapped, but I find relief in The Picture of Dorian Grey and To Kill a Mockingbird.  I never take the books home, even though I have a library card.  I prefer to sit in one of the old armchairs, undisturbed, for as long as I please, alternating between reading the pages before me and watching the weather change out a dirty window.

There had been books in The Attic, too, and sometimes I’d read them on the long nights when the woman was away.  It wasn’t that I missed her, although I was trying to pass the time until her inevitable return.   It was like waiting for a dentist appointment - the waiting was worse than the drill.  This was months into my stay, after I’d given up pounding on the door until my fists were bruised and my skin split, leaving dark splotches like spilt wine on the oak wood, which might as well have been iron.

I scan the shelves.  Lolita.  I’ve heard the title before but I don’t remember what it’s about, only that my mother read it during Banned Books Week.  There’s a little blonde girl holding a shiny red apple on the cover - “Vladimir Nabokov” printed above her delicate nose.  I flip to a page near the back of the book - I always look at endings first - and begin reading.

      “… one day she proposed playing Russian roulette with my sacred automatic; I said you couldn’t, it was not a revolver, and we struggled for it, until at last it went off, touching off a very thin and very comical spurt of hot water from the hole it made in the wall of the cabin room; I remember her shrieks of laughter.”

      Maybe I’ll just watch the sky today.  I put the book back on the shelf and settle into an armchair, pulling my feet out of my boots and folding up my legs.  I pick at the blue piece of duct tape keeping the stuffing in the right arm of the chair and watch as it begins to rain.

                                                          V.

      When I awake the girl with the rabbit head is already in the room, crouched on the floor by a bookcase full of nothing but fairy tales.  She has spread out the red-and-white checked tablecloth, as if we are having a picnic, and is setting tea cups out before a china doll with a smashed-in face and a teddy bear missing one of its button eyes.  She wears a sleeveless sundress with yellow flowers.  I never see her wear anything but dresses.  On my first conscious day in The Attic, I found my jeans and t-shirt missing and a red dress sitting folded at the foot of the bed.  That’s all I’ve worn since – nothing but red dresses.

      I sit halfway up on the bed and she turns the two gashes of black - where her eyes should be - in my direction.  Sometimes she brings only water in the teapot, sometimes actual tea, and sometimes nothing but air.  The latter usually happens when I’ve done or not done something I was or wasn’t meant to.  Sometimes there is food – sandwiches, fruit, or sickeningly sweet cakes and cookies.  Today, there is only tea and empty plates.

      On days when she brings food I almost manage to convince myself that the china is real, that she doesn’t know I can’t consume imaginary food, and that she really is only a girl and not a rabbit at all.   On days where she brings nothing, I spend my endless, lonely hours imagining her as the devil of my Catholic childhood nightmares - tormenting me with full knowledge of the repercussions.

      She doesn’t have to gesture, miming commands, the way she did when I first arrived - when I cried and begged her to just speak - I know what to do.  I wait until she has set everything out and sits crossed-legged with her china doll and teddy bear beside her.

I call the doll Samantha because it vaguely resembles my best friend, although the real Samantha has a nose.  I call the teddy bear Allen because something in its vacant expression reminds me of my father.  They either  resemble people I love, or I treat their faces like clouds, convincing myself I see familiar shapes in them.

Once she is settled, her skirt arranged modestly, I get up from the bed – my legs shaking from fear and hunger – and cross the room to join the tea party.  Her black eye-holes seem to expand as her head swivels to follow my movements.  I sit in my place, beside the bear, glad to have something between me and her.

      I cross my legs, smooth out my dress, and smile my best smile at her; I’m unable to meet the two abysses on her face and instead focus on her dirty pink nose.  I can smell the tea, and my throat clenches on cotton-dry skin.  I wait for her to be satisfied by my lie of a smile and pour the tea – Samantha first, then Allen, and at last me.

I hear my cup and saucer clatter against each other as I raised them to my lips.  I burn my tongue in my haste for hydration.

      “This is real china, you know,” she says, as if she hasn’t said it a thousand times before.  Her voice is muffled by white fur, emanating from lips I can’t see.  I hear a splash as she politely fills her own cup last.

      I pause a moment and pretend to study the blue flowers on the teapot’s front.  “It’s beautiful,” I say, like I always say.

      Seemingly satisfied, she turns her head towards Allen’s button eyes and nods slowly at the silent story he must be telling her.  Relief floods my chest when her eyes leave me.  I try not to drink my tea too quickly; I know that when I set the cup and saucer down again, she will look at me for a terrifyingly long, mechanical-processing moment before she fills it again.

She never drinks the tea, and I imagine that - if she really is only a girl under a rabbit’s face - she can’t get it to her lips.  She pretends, just as I pretend to smile.  That, or she poisoning me.

      My thirst eventually outweighs my fear of her gaze.  When I set down my cup, balanced on my saucer, I keep my eyes on Allen’s vacant face.  I smile and I nod at his silence, but I can still feel her eyes on me, see white fur and pink flesh in the corner of my eye.

                                                         VI.

      I remain in the library for around an hour, watching the rain fall into the lake across the street the lake in the park with a bench dedicated to a mayor who died before I was born.  Time moved so slowly in The Attic; out here it speeds by and I always feel like I’m running out of it.

The rain slows to no more than a mist, and I decide I want to watch the water more closely.  When I get up, I notice a little brown spider in the upper right-hand corner of the window.  I don’t wave at the librarian on my way out.

                                                         VII.

      Later, once we’ve – or I’ve – had all the tea, and once she’s passed around air-flavored cookies, and once she’s cleaned it all away, she comes back up through the floor and sits at the foot of my bed.

      I don’t cry like I used to.  I know what to do.  I make myself look at her, smile once, and then fix my eyes on a bit of nothing somewhere between us, or I look up at Absalom’s web, and wait.  Sometimes, she just studies me from her black hole eyes.  Sometimes, she tugs at the strap of my dress and I take it off for her to look.  Sometimes, she just stares and leaves - mostly, though, she doesn’t.  I suppose I should be grateful she’s never made me touch her.  It’s only ever been the other way round.

      She smells of death; her mask – too large to be a real rabbit’s head, too detailed to be only rubber and faux fur – smells of death; when she climbs off of me, she leaves me smelling of death, too.  I miss showering and I hate the big, plastic tub she brings me, full of scalding water and bubbles.  Even after I’ve scrubbed every inch of skin raw, I can still detect the stench that clings to everything.

I used to deliberately upset her – cry, break a teacup, yell – so that she’d leave me alone for a few days as punishment, but once I realized her presence was tied to food and water, I stopped.  Or, it once I realized being alone with myself was more terrifying than being together with her.  Either way, I don’t throw temper tantrums anymore.

                                                        VIII.

I sit on the dead mayor’s memorial bench, ignoring the rainwater that seeps into my jeans.  The water rushing through the dam and down the short waterfall fills my ears; I try to let it drown out my thoughts.  I inhale the wet air and shakily exhale it again.  

I glance at the edge of the forest and blink several times as a blur of white comes into focus - little red eyes blink and a pink nose twitches.  I stand up and the white rabbit hops away into the ferns.  If I was Lewis Carroll’s Alice, I might follow it - but I’m not that dumb.  Not anymore.

I’m standing on the dam, and the water is passing in icy bubbles below me.  I kick off my mother’s rain boots and stare at my chipped, red toenail polish against the stone.  Samantha painted them the week I got back, which was the last time I saw to her.  I put my back to the waterfall.

      When the police dragged the Rabbit out of The Attic and unmasked her like a Scooby-Doo villain,  she was just a girl.  She was young, maybe even younger than me, with blonde hair and eyes as empty as the holes in her mask.

The fall will be short - it won’t be the fall that kills me.

When they went through her things they found a stuffed white rabbit that was mine as a child.  My mother tried to give it back to me.  I told her I didn’t remember it, even though I did.  I told her I wanted her to burn it, but I think she kept it.  I’m constantly afraid that I’ll open a cupboard or a closet and it will be there, staring at me with knowing plastic eyes.

I jump and when I hit the water, I gasp.  I inhale the lake and I struggle.  I cling to the edge of the dam and take a few breaths to calm myself.  It’s colder – so much colder – than I thought it would be.  Once I have become numb everywhere except at my neck and forearms, I let go, close my eyes, exhale, and let myself sink.

      I cut her picture out of the local newspaper and saved it.  I look at it, sometimes, when I can’t sleep.  I still can’t convince myself she isn’t a rabbit.

When I open my eyes again, everything is hazy and  moss colored.  Every part of me is numb.  There are rusty things down here, and things people have thrown in – mostly pennies.  I  wonder what wishes people have made on them.  I make a wish on myself, and then I inhale.

                                                         IX.

      When the Rabbit climbs off of me, she gets a book from the shelf and opens it to a seemingly random fairytale.  She hands it to me and, always with a shaking hand, points to where she wishes me to begin.  I read aloud to her until the end of the story, or until she takes the book away.  She puts it back on the shelf and leaves me alone again.

      And being alone was always the worst part.

                                                   The End.

#shortstory

#original short story

#horrorfiction

#horror lewiscarroll aliceinwonderland whiterabbit art horrorwriter

[arcanakrp-blog]

NAM YEONWOO – TEMPERANCE. AGENT 14.

                                                   [   FILE TYPE: CLASSIFIED   ]

//: LOADING PROFILE: NAM YEONWOO ...

international age: 21 birthplace: seoul, south korea arcana: temperance team number: eleven

//: LOADING MUTATION: TELEKINESIS ...

application one: object manipulation  — while unable to manifest an object from nothing currently, he is able to manipulate already existing objects (both animate and inanimate) by moving them around the room in all directions without any physical contact. he can control the speed of the object too, moving them quickly or slowly. this allows him to do things such as throw projectiles but it also allows him to simply unlock doors.

application two: telekinetic combat — mostly a source of invisible tactile pressure he uses it for long distant combat so that his body can’t be damaged or to strengthen his own attacks if he is in close combat. sometimes, he can also use it to soften his opponents physical blows. may also use it for brief flight or for speeding himself up for a stronger impact

application three: spatial sense — an enhanced awareness he can pick up the slightest vibrations from anything physical around him and he can then map out the situation as if he’s actually viewing it. this would be helpful of course in a situation where he has to enter an unknown room and needs to figure out what’s going on inside. or he can find the weak point of a small building.

overall strengths and weaknesses: — generally, it takes a lot of concentration and a calm mind to manoeuvre himself so he has to meditate. during actual missions, he cannot be stressed or too distracted or he will lose focus and fail. he can also only be able to move physical objects so fire and electricity, for example, would be useless. he is also unable to move a building or anything large, at the moment his limit is around the size of a car but even that would take a lot of time. fatigue too would weaken him. he also has to be able to see the object he’s moving so if he has his eyes closed or is blindfolded he can’t do anything. but that is only if he’s in any state but anger or fear. when he is angry or fearful his power actually amplifies but this also leads to it losing control and going on a rampage and causing major destruction. otherwise, as long as he is laid back his ability is pretty useful outside of combat and infiltration uses too when he’s feeling lazy, for example grabbing food from where he is sitting, or for practical uses. as stated previously as long as the object is physical he is able to move it and this can include living things so he is widely adaptable to different circumstances

//: LOADING HISTORY ..

PRE-MUTATION

he is a child born among the hurling red, yellow and orange comets that take flight from the trees through the gentle nudges of the gusts of wind. a signal of the departure of sunny days and the incoming of murky mists that teleport people into wonderland. an autumn child born under a golden hue, three minutes before another appears. the younger twin brother, also the louder one it soon turns out for while he spent his days silent and always observing the world with eyes that seemed to see not only the nearby and the far beyond, his brother would be crying and screaming in the back of the fading picture. fading because he will never remember the face of his younger brother or that of his parents before they are taken from him, their lives the price offered in a gamble with death.

the first thing he actually remembers is crusty walls that ooze of decay in their tarnished yellow and grey. there is a window speckled with dust untouched for many years and rusty frames. there are many children, some are like him some are not. it doesn’t matter if they are however for they are all unexpected kin, people who have each other’s back in this dusty rundown building they call an orphanage. it is his home, for in all the dullness, the constant repetition that comes with his life he thinks that this is as blissful as it could ever get. a place to sleep, three meals and time to see the outside world. that world that he will never truly be able to be a part of, or so his little mind thought back then. for it was so bright, so beautiful in all its metamorphosis between the seasons while he stagnated, a child with no place to go.

eventually, a car drives up to the building meant for him. eventually, he comes to meet his new family. his new mother is the daughter of humble restaurant owners, she aggressively studies her way up the ladder grabbing scholarships after scholarships without any reliance upon her parents. starting from the bottom she is now a sublime prosecutor - well-spoken, polite and calm but also so dangerous in how strong she was when it came to her strong sense of justice. fierce, calculating she knew how to manipulate evidence to enhance her theories. his new father is the son of an insurance company, but chimerical as he is, he only dips his hands into its stocks and leaves the rest to his little brother, the newly labelled heir, as reluctant as the other may be. looking for something more exciting instead, he becomes a lawyer, more interested in joining a debacle than to float in the world of business. they say opposites attract - the two meet as enemies upon the court as each plays their own games. off the court, they form a unique friendship in their strive for the truth, friendship turns into a rendezvous that ends with family meeting family and finally an elaborate ceremony that binds the two of them together for eternity.

he also happens to have an older brother now. patriarchy is an ironic thing that crafts the two of them in the society of their falsely glistening world, there is none which exists in the little boy’s new household. instead, it is a world of predator after predator, his brother and he are both raised to be feral, to be like the wolves and the lynxes which roam the country which they call home. striving, living becoming words in their dictionary only once they reach the top of their class. but his parents never say the word ‘proud’. no, only a war zone exists since as far as his memories can trickle back. his parents tell him he must trust nobody, not even his family, that he must live upon lies. they make sure he doesn’t fool himself into trusting them by tricking the child since young. he must manipulate until his entire persona is a well-crafted mask. become independent.

it is almost laughable that the child who had come to embrace falsely open arms in search for agape, for storge finds himself a pawn of a master plan without any love to his being. it is almost sympathetic how easily he is able to go along with the plans and toss away any resonant emotion that still lurks within. he was chosen as a potential heir to a legacy and he will fight to become one. carnage in the classroom, savagery in the school, he refuses to walk in the shadow of his older sibling. he doesn’t even allow the possibility to slip in, choosing to rise. small steps, big steps he becomes almost too perfect in his parents’ eyes as he climbs the ranks. valedictorian of high school he unsurprisingly has an open invitation to the SKY universities. his path is all planned out, all he needs to do is proceed. he was given the chance and he should have.

should have but didn’t. all that changed when he saw the meteor shower that fateful night

POST-MUTATION

he had never been one for fantasies and imagination, never been one to believe in the supernatural or any sort of magical abilities but there had been no other explanation for what happened the month after he saw the fallen meteor. one day he wakes up from a nightmare with the objects in his room levitating, his bed upside down and he stuck to it as if the ceiling happened to be his floor. anger and frustration at an unyielding professor cause papers in a closed window room to scatter furiously. there’s broken glass, there’s broken ceramic when things go wrong and they don’t simply shatter on the ground - it would be easier if they did but no they choose to fly instead with unreadable directions, velocities until they smash into the wall, the window or even people. art, it is a form of crazy art he wants to evict himself from. he has no choice but to take a break from school when another student is harmed. they don’t know it’s him, but for once he feels a thing called guilt and instead of him being the one who is all voracious in his appetite, it is his feelings which eat him.

he hides in his room in fear, wondering if insanity has gripped him. he has his brother borrow books for him, a madman who spends all day and night reading. eventually, he grasps something. not everything, but he understands he must be tranquil. sometimes too with tingly eyes, he can move something as long as he stares at it, concentrates until his mind is a devotion of lines, curves, colours and shapes which form the object. sometimes he can move for a few seconds, feet floating off the ground. it doesn’t progress much further than that. at first.

they find him. these people who probably heard of his not so pleasant disruptions at his university, at home that has led to emergency dispatch. he expects to be treated like a monster, he expects the worst. experiments. torture. but he is oddly brought salvation, given a new meaning and a chance to harness the thing within that otherwise confuses him. he takes it, he finds his old determination growling from within, a slinking tiger ready to pounce once more. ambition sings a hymn in his veins and he trains, he pushes himself under guidance until he has now found a place where he belongs.

he’s never felt so powerful until now.

[zoshara-blog]

Wrong

"There's something wrong with me chemically, something wrong with me inherently: the wrong mix in the wrong genes. I reached the wrong ends by the wrong means. It was the wrong plan in the wrong hands, with the wrong theory for the wrong man. The wrong lies on the wrong vibes, the wrong questions with the wrong replies."

When Zasha finally tried to reopen her eyes, the familiar but overlooked twitching of her eyelids was nowhere to be found. Only darkness greeted her, and the occasional sound of rustling cloth or the padding of bare feet upon stone. She responded with an initial rush of fear and panic, and then came the nearly uncontrollable urge to laugh. At first, she swallowed it and stifled it into a whimper, thinking it was a newly discovered nervous tic. But as that urge continued and fought with her fear, another realization struck her.

Asmenys.

She growled, then turned her head toward the sound of footsteps that came closer to her bedside.

"Good. You're finally awake." In her mind, Zasha imagined a face. Male. The husky scratch in his tone formed the portrait of someone with broad shoulders and defined muscles. She imagined a square jawline. His nose was slightly wider than hers - rounder. There was no smile in his voice - only dry humor. He spoke in Thalassian, painting the picture of someone with skin like hers, and smaller, more lifted ears. She couldn't imagine his hair color or his height - but she wondered if he towered over her, or if he stood just a few inches taller. She wondered how he carried himself. Her mental image started to warp into the face of someone more familiar.

The ache in her heart at this thought caused her first response to him to be an instinctive snarl.

The source of the voice gave a slight pause before he spoke again. This time, his tone became lightly chastising, as if addressing a small child. "Use your words."

"I'd rather use my fist."

"Cute, but I have the advantage right now."

Zasha let out a sigh of concession and laid her head back to stare at what she assumed was the ceiling. Her mind painted the image of cracks and bumps, rough patches - anything to offer her more vivid details. As she did, she spoke again, this time quietly. "How long has it been?"

"That I couldn't know. I was only recently tasked with aiding you in your adjustment, seeing as you've yet to be destroyed by the demon you bonded with." A quick pause passed. When he spoke again, she imagined the hint of the teasing smirk that she heard in his voice. "Rebellious." But just as suddenly as it'd formed, it'd given way to sincerity once more. "Some are quite angry with both you and Alsara. Our superiors have made examples of both of you - particularly the Night Elf - in order to issue cautionary tales to other trainees. You both were rather stupid. However you, Zoshara, were immeasurably lucky."

She thought as he explained things, and her heart finally sank. She remembered the way her doubt and mistrust fueled her intervention - how Alsara's attention snapped from Asmenys to her as she noticed that flicker of movement and flash of blonde underneath a dark hood, and how that brief moment gave the Broodmother an upper hand. The memories came back in vivid detail. Her stomach began to twist into knots. Alsara would have survived if she hadn't jumped into the fray, right?

It was her fault.

With a crestfallen expression, Zasha turned over on her cot... and promptly misjudged her closeness to the edge. She hit the ground with a damp thump and a prolonged groan. This only further fueled her urge to cry. That burning sensation in her eyes didn't come, of course. Her nose reddened and a lump formed in her throat. Crying was replaced by the urge to laugh bubbling up; Asmenys' amusement only further fueled her frustration.

She didn't speak as the Source helped her back to her feet and back into bed.

The following days and weeks proved difficult for her. Gradually, she began to see glimpses of light: auras at first, and slowly, the shapes became more concrete. She could see the ground, and the more she practiced, she saw cracks in stone, blades of grass, ripples in liquid. Her hands were once more as dexterous as they'd been previously with her eyes to guide them.

Soon, colors began to come together. Walls. Sky. Red. Blue. Yellow. It was around this time that she learned the Source was nothing like what her mind had painted, but rather tall, lithe, and angular - not terribly unlike her. And on top of it all, he was blonde - not the mysterious dark-haired figure she'd imagined.

For every step forward, the Broodmother threatened to drag her back two. Nightmares claimed countless hours every week. Her sanity threatened to dwindle each time the demon tried to take a tighter hold; Zasha's stubbornness and pride fought her back each time.

Everything else had slipped out of her grasp. Everyone else had left her (either through death or voluntary departure) or locked themselves away from her. The only thing she truly had left was herself, and by no means would she allow a creepy, spider-winged demon-bitch to take that from her too.

Her mother would have told her she was destined for far more. Her father would have told her the Light gave her strength she didn't ask for.

Zasha simply told herself she wasn't finished yet.