#between work and getting sidetracked with *festivities* and hanging out with friends it didn't happen

[anticidic]

Trick or treat!

Thunder crackles above you and you hear a tapping on the window. Tap, tap, tap. Then a screech. It reminds you of nails raking down a chalkboard, but much more high-pitched and you swear it's making your ears split. You crouch down behind a couch and light a candle. It is scentless, but the wax drips to the floor. There is only your face illuminated by the low glow, and you strain to hear over the storm above you. Rain strikes the roof. The front door creaks open and reveals...👻

A sneak-peek at a WIP.

ask box trick-or-treat (fic writer edition)

Warmth tickled his neck. His skin prickled. Too warm to be from the air itself. It felt like someone’s breath on him from behind.

But as he turned around, something cold pressed against his neck. Sharp. There was no mistaking it and he didn’t need the light of day to know it was a knife’s blade. His eyes widened slightly before a soft chuckle left his lips. If he moved, it would slice a papercut-thin line across his throat. It tempted him like a siren call of doom: to lean forward and test their resolve to go through with it. Do it, he wanted to say, the dare lingering on his lips.

“If you’re threatening me for being out instead of sleeping, I could think of better ways of going about it than threatening me with a knife, Kunikida-kun.”

Silence. The air stirred. Leather brushed along the length of his neck—a finger, in an almost tender caress. As if sizing him up like a pig to be butchered, and all that was left was to deal the killing blow. But it never came. The pressure against his neck did not lift, instead it pressed down a little harder, making Dazai gasp and his pulse flutter.

From the corner of his eye, he could only make out the silhouette of a form hovering over him from behind, cloaked in darkness. No eyes, but he felt their gaze burning into him with a white-hot intensity. Unwavering. He couldn’t even make out any facial features and wondered if he reached out for a touch, if he’d feel the fabric of some kind of mask. Not skin.

An assassin? The thought crossed his mind in an instant, interrupted by a gravelly voice:

“Five...Four...Three...”

Waves crashed against the concrete. The voice grew quieter.

"Two...”

He breathed in.

"One...”

And ran.