#but bone app the teeth nonetheless

[fourdaysofrain]

Tests of Strength

Summary: Tony helps Peter test his powers.

(This is my Irondad Fic Exchange fic for @clickbearr! The prompt I chose was, "Tony doing tests on Peter's powers (how much weight can he lift? can he stick to a non-stick pan? etc.)” I hope you like it!)

Read on AO3

“Kid, do a backflip.”

Peter looked up from his AP Chem worksheet. He was in the lab with Tony, and up until now, they had been working quietly at their own separate desks. 

“Um, sorry?” he said, a nervous laugh bubbling out of his mouth before he could stop it. 

“I’m pretty sure those spidery little ears of yours heard me the first time.” Tony walked over from his desk and leaned on a counter facing Peter. He raised a nonchalant eyebrow. “Do a backflip.”

Peter looked over to Tony and then down at the chair he was sitting in.

Tony sighed. “Obviously, stand up first.”

Duh, Peter thought as he stood up. Of course, you need to stand up before doing a backflip in Iron Man’s lab. What else would you do?

He stood up, pushed in his chair, and shuffled a few feet away from the desk. He looked at Tony again, and upon receiving a set of raised eyebrows, he jumped and did a succinct backflip, his feet landing only a few inches from where they started. He looked for a reaction from Tony, but he remained unaffected. 

“Was there a reason for that?” Peter asked. 

“Suprise single-blind study, no questions.” Tony took off his tinted glasses and set them neatly on the counter behind him. ”Close your eyes.” 

“Um, okay.” Peter scrunched his eyebrows together as he shut his eyes. “Will this hurt?”

Peter felt Tony gently put a hand on his shoulder. “Course not, I’m not a maniac.” The hand on his shoulder started to tug him away. “Come here.”

Peter let himself be led blindly around the lab. After a minute or so, they came to a stop.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Tony warned. Peter heard him step back. “Do another backflip.”

Peter moved a few steps to the right and then did another backflip. “Can I open my eyes yet?”

“Go ahead.”

He opened his eyes and looked around. Tony had led him to the workshop portion of the lab, where they were currently taking apart the engine of one of his cars in their spare time. He frowned at the oil spill he caused last week. He’d have to clean that up soon. He looked up and shrugged at Tony. 

“Had a theory. It panned out,” Tony cooly stated.

“What was your theory?”

Tony picked up a screwdriver and tossed it up in the air a few times. Peter tracked it with his eyes, watching it go up and down, the handle spinning over and under the head. 

“Close your eyes again.”

“Um, I’m not sure I like where this is going, Mr. Stark.”

Tony looked at the screwdriver and then back to Peter. Suddenly, as if just now realizing what he was about to do, he barked out a laugh and set the screwdriver down on the countertop next to him, his hand resting on top of it. 

“Right,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Right, I’m being eccentric. Ignore me, head back to your side of the lab.”

Peter muttered something indecipherable in response. He peered at Tony from the corner of his eye as he turned around to go back to his desk. 

After a few seconds of walking with his back turned, he jerked to the left, just to see a screwdriver fly by where his head was a moment before. He spun around and gaped at Tony. 

“Holy shit, what was that for?” he sputtered. 

Tony had the decency to look sheepish. “Okay, I admit that was a little much. But check it!” He pointed at Peter. “How’d you know to move your head?” 

“I, uh--” Peter looked down at his hands, at a loss for words. “I just did.”

He couldn’t explain it. There hadn’t been any noticeable warning. It had felt like someone was pulling his head on a string to the left. He probably could have fought it, but he didn’t see any reason to. Besides, if he had fought against it, he’d probably be nursing a goose egg for the next couple of hours. 

“Enter my backflip test,” Tony started. “You moved to the right before doing your second backflip. Any reason why?”

Peter thought back to a few minutes prior. “I did,” he said. “Was that wrong?”

“No right or wrong answers in this place, kid.” Tony walked past him to pick up the screwdriver. “But you were right to move. I put you in the middle of a puddle of oil, you would have slipped if you tried to land a flip.” Peter’s eyes widened. Tony grinned sarcastically at him. “I would have caught you. Probably. Maybe not, actually. Don’t want to get any oil on my clothes.”

“No offense, Mr. Stark, but why did you do all this?” Peter decided to ignore the possible child-endangerment. He was almost 16, after all. He could handle himself. 

Tony tilted his head and gazed at Peter through relaxed eyes. For a moment, he felt as if he was one of Tony’s projects, as if he was breaking down into ones and zeroes in front of his eyes. 

“As I said, I had a theory.” Tony spun on his heel and went back to his workspace.

Peter followed him. “Hey, man,” he pestered, only feeling a little like a bothersome insect. “Can you tell me the theory?”

“Patience is a virtue, young spider,” Tony cajoled as he motioned his hands to wake up FRIDAY. 

Tony’s workspace blew up in an explosion of holograms. Once Peter’s eyes adjusted to the blue light, he could see quite a few pages about spiders open from various sources online. He skimmed a few, making out a few keywords. After a moment, he looked at Tony, waiting for an explanation. 

“You got your powers from a spider bite, obviously. So I did some research on spiders.” Tony waved through the holograms and expanded one so Peter could easily read it. “Did you know that there’s a species of spider that knows when it’ll be in danger?”

Peter’s eyes widened. “What, really?”

“Yeah, really. Some science-y combination of hormones and feeling vibration through their leg hair.” Tony paused to let Peter process. ”Given you’re wearing pants, it’s probably not the latter. But, you are filled to the brim with a hormone soup right now, so…”

Peter scrunched his nose. “Ew.”

Tony leaned back in his chair. “It’s your weird spider powers. Anyways, turns out you have it too.”

Peter sat down in a nearby chair to think about it. In his previous fights, he had avoided almost all of the hits anyone throws at him. He had always assumed that he had better instincts than the attackers. 

“That sucks, man.”

“It--” Tony looked over at him. ”It sucks?”

“Well, I mean,” Peter said, rubbing his neck. “I just thought I was really good at fighting.”

Tony barked out a laugh. “At least now we know how you were able to stay in the ring with Happy for so long.”

Peter huffed and looked away. Since May found out about Spider-Man, she had wanted him to spend more time with Tony as a sort of job shadow so he can learn how to be safer in the field. So far, he’d trained with Rhodey and Happy. Tony typically stayed out of the physical training, keeping himself in the lab most of the time. Peter got it, he did, but it’d be cool to train with Iron Man for once. 

“Which brings me to my next point,” Tony continued, closing down the holograms. “We’ve got some tests to do.”

“Tests?” he asked, voice involuntarily jumping up an octave. When he was first bit, he was worried about government scientists poking and prodding him with needles and keeping him away from his family.

Tony seemed to notice his discomfort and waved a hand noncommittally. “Nothing your weirdly-hot aunt wouldn’t approve of. Just some standard measurements. Lift a few weights, leap over a few tall buildings in a single bound, the usual.”

“Okay.” Peter snorted. “Yeah, sure. I mean, it’d be cool to know all that anyway, so…” He trailed off and looked up at Tony. “Did you wanna do it now?”

“Yeah.” Tony grabbed his tinted glasses and put them back on in one smooth move. “Unless you’ve got something better to do?”

Peter gave his AP Chemistry homework a forlorn glance. “Nah, I’m-- I’m pretty free. Nothing going on right now.”

“Great,” Tony said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s head downstairs.”

Peter followed Tony out of the lab and into the nearby elevator. He’d been to the gym a few times before, mainly to train with Happy. When he trained with Rhodey, they’d normally stay outside. He was excited to finally visit the gym with Tony, some childish part of him still wanting to show off. He tried to get his nerves under control as the elevator slowly lowered. 

Finally, the elevator doors opened to the gym. There were machines lining the walls. Some of them looked familiar to Peter: there was a line of treadmills to his left, and some of those benchpress things lining the wall across from him. Most of the machines just seemed like weird chairs or benches that were slightly warped. 

“Don’t worry about the machines,” Tony said, waving his hand at the various machinery. “They’d all be too easy for you.”

“Oh, yeah.” Peter ran his hand along one of the nearby weights. It was labeled 40 pounds. “This is easy. I lift weights all the time.” 

He shook his fingers off the weight when they stuck nervously to the side of it. He smiled sheepishly at Tony, who was looking at him with a quirked brow. 

“Cap’s old stuff is over here.” He motioned for Peter to follow him to the back corner. “We renovated recently, so he’s in the corner of shame for the moment. Figure it’s a good enough place to start.” He patted one of the punching bags that looked like it belonged in an arcade. “This one will give us a readout of how strong your punches are. Go ahead and hit it.”

Tony stepped back, giving Peter ample space to hit the punching bag. He shifted his weight from side to side and shook his right hand. He punched it casually. The bag didn’t even move.

Tony looked at the side of the machine and clicked his tongue. “113 pounds of force. Forget to eat your spinach?”

Peter glared at him half-heartedly out of the corner of his eye. He punched it again with a bit more force. 

“780. Now we’re getting into enhanced range, kid. Give it another shot, come on!”

Peter gritted his teeth and punched the bag with all his force. The bag split around his knuckles and he ended up with his arm halfway submerged in sand and fabric. He looked over at Tony and raised his eyebrows. Tony rubbed his forehead and checked the side of the machine. 

“Error.” Tony sucked air through his teeth sharply. “Guess that settles that.” He looked away and scratched his temple. “Can’t even remember what the max was.”

Peter pulled his arm out of the bag and tried not to grimace as a few grains of sand fell to the ground. 

“Sorry, Mr. Stark. I didn’t mean to, uh…” He trailed off as he looked at the gaping hole in the punching bag. He cleared his throat. “Do that. That’s… my bad.”

“Y’know what, kid?” Tony chuckled. “It was about time that thing kicked it. Don’t worry about it.”

Peter felt his cheeks flush as he smiled awkwardly back. “Alright. Okay, uh-- What else did you want to test?”

“What do you want to find out?”

Peter thought back to when he tried to test his powers on his own, the extent of which was done secretly in the bathroom. He knew he was strong enough to break the sink and sticky enough to stick to the medicine cabinet, but that was about it. He was enhanced enough to survive all of his fights up till now, at least. 

“Um,” he said after thinking for a moment. “I kinda want to know what I can stick to?”

Tony smirked. “What a coincidence, kid. So do I.”

“Should I just start testing things?” Peter asked, hand halfway to the nearby wall. 

“Why not?” he replied. “But let’s do stuff you haven’t tried yet. Walls are old hat.”

Tony patted his pockets and pulled out his phone from his pants, holding it out towards Peter with his head tilted slightly. 

Peter’s eyes widened. “You want me to stick to your phone?”

“No, I want you to take a selfie,” Tony quipped. 

When Peter didn’t make a move to grab the phone, Tony grabbed his hand and slapped the phone in his palm, screen down. 

“Okay, now turn your hand upside down without letting the phone fall.”

Peter clutched the phone with his fingers. “Do you not have a phone case?”

“Look who you’re talking to,” Tony said. “If I crack my phone screen, I can just buy a new Apple store.”

“Oh, okay. Cool.” 

Peter’s grip slightly loosened as he tried not to think about his own phone screen that looked more like a spider-web than a piece of glass. He flipped the phone over in his hand subconsciously, which caused the phone to turn on. The lock screen background made him smile. It was a picture of Pepper, taken in Tony’s workshop. Pepper was holding one of the nanotech units in front of her chest with one hand with her other arm stuck towards the camera with the palm out. She looked like she was in the middle of laughing. 

It was kind of weird to think about what Tony and Pepper did while they were alone, but apparently it involved Pepper making fun of him while he was working on his suits. It was sweet, Peter thought. He knew that Tony and Pepper weren’t together during the trip to Germany, but they announced their engagement just a few weeks ago. It was good to see they had fun together. Or maybe he was reading too much into a phone lock screen. But Tony seemed much happier now than when they first met, at least from his see-for-a-few-hours-every-week-or-so perspective. 

“Have you met Pep yet?” Tony asked, following Peter’s line of sight. 

“Uh, no. No, not yet.”

Tony smiled. “I can introduce you next time you’re both in the same building. Should happen eventually.” His focus went back to the task at hand. “Don’t be embarrassed if it slides around. Happens to the best of us.”

Peter screwed up his face and focused on sticking. It makes his head hurt if he thinks about it too much; the sticking is much easier when it’s done instinctually, when it’s either stick or die. In this case, it’s either stick or maybe break Iron Man’s personal phone, which has almost the same effect. He slowly turned his hand upside down and splayed out his fingers, leaving the phone remaining flush with his palm against all odds. 

Tony poked the phone. It stuck. 

“Alright, kid, keep sticking. I’m going to mess with it.”

Peter snorted as Tony kept trying to wiggle the phone. “This is glass. Glass is sheer. It should be sliding around.”

“I don’t know, man.” Peter flipped his hand back over and held the phone out to Tony. “I’m just sticky.”

Tony took the phone with a quick snap of his wrist and slid it back in his pocket. “That’s the fun part: you’re not sticky. It must be some…” He wiggled his fingers off to the side. “Electrostatic… Something.”

“I have it on my feet too,” Peter added helpfully. 

Tony sighed and motioned to the window behind him. “Do your thing.”

Peter walked past Tony to reach the window. He looked over his shoulder once, and then crawled up the window. He stood up straight, effectively parallel with Tony’s line of sight. Tony walked up and pushed his shoulder. He didn’t move. 

“I give up,” he said. “You’re even wearing shoes! This is worse than Thor’s hammer.”

Peter snorted and turned his neck to make eye contact with Tony. He said in a deep, gravelly voice, “Whosoever pushes this spider, if they be worthy, shall possess the power of Spider-Man.”

Tony sighed again. His lungs would probably fall out by the end of this day. “Alright. Day one results: super strong, super sticky. Anything else?”

“Um…” Peter cringed as his stomach growled. “Can we test my metabolism?”

Tony checked his watch and huffed. “Time flies. Sure, kid. What do you eat these days, pizza? Dead flies?”

“Chinese?” Peter countered, lowering himself down to the ground and wiping his hands on his jeans. 

“Here, I’ll show you where we keep the takeout menus.”

Tony led Peter back to the elevators. They made their way to the kitchen area and ordered some dinner without any trouble. After a bit of chatting, Tony went down to the entrance to the compound to pick up the take-out. He returned promptly, and they started to chow down. 

After a few minutes of silence, Peter got hit in the head by a chopstick. He gasped and looked up to Tony, who was shamelessly acting as if nothing happened. 

“Again?”

“Just testing your…” Tony snapped his fingers as he tried to come up with a name. “Spider hormones. Turns out you’re vulnerable while you’re eating.”

Peter picked up the chopstick. “I was in the middle of chewing, man!”

He put the chopstick in the middle of his palm and flipped his hand upside down, showing off a little. Tony tried to nonchalantly tug it off, but it was stuck. 

“Very funny. This place is filled with forks, I don’t need that.” Nonetheless, he was still trying to get his chopstick back. “Alright, please?” 

At the magic word, Peter unstuck from the chopstick. Tony jolted back slightly at the sudden change of resistance. 

“Mess with the spider, you get the webs,” Peter retorted. 

Tony laughed. “Remind me to not get on your bad side.”

When Peter left the table to throw away his empty box, he eyed the pans hanging on the kitchen wall. 

“Are these pans non-stick?” he called over his shoulder. 

“Pretty sure. No one uses them anymore, so they might be a bit dusty.” Tony trailed behind him and leaned on the wall. “Why, still hungry? I can cook up a mean omelet.”

Peter stuck his hand to the center of one of the pans and pulled it off the rack. He looked at Tony, the pan flush with his hand. 

“Not very non-stick after all.” 

Tony quirked an eyebrow. “You better not get spider-fingerprints on everything now.” He warily watched as Peter eyed the ceiling. “Or spider-footprints on anything you can’t clean up.”

Peter sighed and mumbled something that almost sounded like arachnophobe. Tony threw his other chopstick at him, which he caught with his free hand without looking. He threw it back at Tony, who fumbled with it before getting a solid grasp. 

“Elder abuse, I’m telling your aunt,” Tony threatened. 

Peter laughed. “She’d be on my side.”

“You Parkers.” Tony sniffed theatrically. “Always ganging up on me.”

Peter smirked and put the pan back on the rack. 

It was a fun day, he thought. And then he stuck his hand to his phone, just because he could. 

Tag List: @ironfamjam @addi-is-amazing @mysterio-is-a-little-bitch @wellplacedbanana @night0seven @unfathomable-universe​ @bibbidi-bobbity-booyah @spideynamu 

#this was a day late thats my b! #but bone app the teeth nonetheless #art writes #spiderman #spider-man #iron man #irondad #iron dad #mcu #marvel #wooo #not super confident about this one fellas #irondadficexchange

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Little Bones 3

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series); harassment, general creepiness.

This is dark! (biker) Thor x chubby!reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: You’re a city girl stuck in a small town, but Birch isn’t as sleepy as it seems.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown and When the Weight Comes Down

Note: Another random update of a series for y’all as I toil away at drabbles in between!

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Masterlist

Your skin crawled as you walked to work the next morning. The memories of the night before made you cringe and tuck your chin down as you kept your eyes ahead of you. You feared if you looked around, you might summon the incessant biker from his hole.

The library was as empty as any other day and you claimed your seat at the curved desk. You booted up and sipped from your thermos, the coffee bitter on your tongue as you watched Melissa appear from the non-fiction section. She sat in her own chair and yawned as she signed on.

The monotony of Birch was sobering after the night in the dank bar. The bikers and their own little world, a microcosm of the worst types all in one place. You went about your usual tasks, there were a few returns on the cart to put back on the shelves and you walked the shelves and checked for out of order codes.

The hours slaked by like the peaks of a mountain against ancient gales. The stale lights made the days stretch to tedium and the grey without added to the sense of listlessness. Colin’s low snores escaped the back room and Melissa sorted through bent paperbacks in a far aisle to put out for the Sunday penny sale.

As the windows darkened, Colin gave his usual grumbled farewell and further mussed his wavy hair as he tried to smooth it out. It didn’t matter much as he covered it with the old faded Leafs toque and left through the automatic doors. His shadow was soon followed by Melissa as she looked forward to seeing her daughter and watching some new program on the local channel.

You were the last as you walked the aisles before final lock-up. The automatic doors were off as you checked for unlikely stragglers. You came back to the round desk and flipped off the lights for all but the entry way and the back office. You pushed open the door and locked the outside ones with a jangle of keys. As you turned back, you gripped the big key to the back door and shook your head.

You stepped through the space between the inner doors and stared at the man behind your desk. He sat in your chair, your purse sat before him on the counter as he shoved a large hand inside. You crossed your arms and watched Thor as he pulled out your coral coloured wallet and unsnapped it.

“What are you doing?” You asked harshly. “How did you get in here?”

He snickered and pulled out a card and lifted it up to look at it closely. He leaned back and flicked it with his thumb. “I knew you were a city girl.” He said.

“Get out. We’re closed.”

“Sorry, I’m late. I’m a busy man.” He slid the card back in place and searched the rest, uninterested by the few bills inside the fold and your various reward cards and outdated alumni ID.

“Late? You don’t seem the reading type. We don’t have that many audiobooks.” You neared and grabbed the other handle of your purse. “There’s an app for that now.”

Again, he laughed and dropped your wallet into the depths of your purse. He released it and pushed his shoulders back as you dragged the bag off the desk. He tilted his head and held up your phone in its shiny lavender case. He smirked as the screen lit up and he swiped it open. You never should have added the library as a trusted location.

“Hmm,” he turned it to face him and scrolled with his thumb, “I think you’re missing a number in here.”

“Give it.” You reached for the phone and he held it away from you like some annoying teenager. “Hey… Thor! Give me it. It’s mine!”

His blonde lashes flashed and he looked at you with delight. “Oooh, I love it when you say my name.”

“Stop. You can’t be in here and you certainly can’t--” 

You swiped for the phone again and he caught your arm. He yanked you so hard you almost left the floor and you dropped your purse and keys. He held you over the counter as he twisted your wrist just a little.

“And who exactly is going to make me leave?”

He kept his thick fingers locked around your wrist as he searched your phone. You struggled with him but it only sent a violent jolt up to your elbow.

“I can do whatever I want and you can’t do anything to stop me. In fact, there’s no one in this town who can.” His jaw clenched and he locked your phone. “Well, kitten, I’m going to hold onto this.” He let go of you and stood as you retracted your arm and rubbed your sore wrist. “And when you want to be a good girl for me, you can come find me and ask for it nicely.”

“Ask? You’re crazy. It’s mine. You’re--” you sputtered.

You swallowed as his hand balled to a fist and his brow twitched. It was the first hint of anything but amusement. It was much more troubling, a slight tell. He was angry.

“I’ve been nice, kitten. I like you and your claws but don’t scratch too deep.” He warned as he backed away. “I’ll see my way out unless of course… you would take me up on my offer from last night.”

“Go. Keep the fucking phone.” You snarled and reached for your purse and the keys. 

You stood and watched as he ran his tongue just below his teeth and turned away. He snaked his way through the back office and you heard the heavy metal door whine in his stead. You locked the inner doors and grabbed your jacket from the rack.

You went to the same door and hit the lights. You activated the security system and stepped out with a cautious look around the vacant parking lot. You locked the door and headed around the side of the brick building and out into the glow of the streetlights.

You could get a new phone, that was nothing, just a chunk out of your check. He could search your contacts, your apps, your phones, he’d find nothing but the pathetic life of a thirtysomething wash out. That wasn’t what worried you. 

He was watching you. He had to be. He knew when you were alone and he knew how to get in. You might not see him but you were certain he could see you. You shivered and pulled your hate over your head and puffed out a cloud. 

💀

You went home angry but slightly addled from the encounter. You watched over your shoulder the entire way home and locked your door with the tarnished chain. You found it hard to settle as you debated marching over to the bar and demanding your phone back and opening the wine you hadn’t touched since your impulsive purchase. You really hated Thor but you knew you could push him much further before he did something much worse.

You ignored your wrath and ate your dinner in front of the television before hiding under your covers and watching the snowfall until you fell asleep. Every night was as dull as the one before and the morning always came too quickly.

You woke and readied for your day with a cup of home-brewed Colombian roast and packed your lunch. You searched for your phone for two seconds before you remembered where it was. Your neck prickled as you thought of Thor with access to all your information and the barren social media accounts. 

The snow was even deeper that day and you fought through the thick carpet. The library felt twice as far by the time you reached it and you were panting as you entered and shook off the powder. You took your usual spot at the usual time with your usual thermos and usual disillusion.

You whiled away the hours without the distraction of your phone. You realised how easily this man could torture you and not even be in the same place as you. You went searching in the aisles for something to do and scraped the gum off the bottom of the tables. A disgusting task but work nonetheless.

When the end of the day came, you were all too happy to go home and hide under your duvet with a tea and a sitcom. You hated this. You would go to the city and get a new phone if you had too. God, how much would that cost?

💀

The days slogged by and on your first free day, you were too tired to make the drive out of town. You resigned to your procrastination, instead taking a short walk down the main street to Babs’. Your usual order, but cinnamon instead of caramel in your latte, and a scone to enjoy at home.

The snow remained as thick as days before. You looked out the bakery window in dread as you awaited your order at the end of the counter. You still caught yourself reaching for your phone. If you waited too long, you might not even be able to make it into the city. Well, you could always order something online. 

The door chimed as Steve’s girl came to the other side of the counter and placed your latte out for you. She smiled and you thanked her but her eyes rounded as you heard boots come close. You turned, barely surprised by the man who was better described as your shadow those days. 

Since his visit to the library, Thor had made himself known in several instances, every day as you walked home he was outside the asp, watching. Other times, he’d be waiting by the steps of the library, mocking you silent as he pulled out your phone. You had too much pride to ask for it back and you knew that it would take more than asking.

You tried to sidestep him and he blocked your path. The foam pushed out through the hole in the plastic lid and you sighed.

“What do you want?” you hissed.

“I should ask you. I don’t know many girls these days can go days without their lifeline,” he taunted, “You know, it’s dangerous how much of ourselves we keep on these little things.”

He patted his jacket where he no doubt had your phone hidden. You looked down at your latte and thought of popping the lid off and tossing it at him. That wouldn’t be any good. You shrugged and looked past him.

“I gotta go--”

“Is there anything I can get you, Thor?” Steve’s girl eked out as if her voice could barely fit through her windpipe.

“I’ve come for something sweet but I think I found it,” he smirked, his eyes stuck to you.

“Give it up,” you scoffed and elbowed past him. He chuckled and followed you to the door as you sped up, your treads squeaking on the salt-stained floor.

“On you? Never,” he purred as you pulled the door open and he caught it behind you.

“You can break the phone for all I care,” you snarled, “just leave me alone.”

He kept up with you as flakes gathered on your scarf and you peered down the street and ran across. His boots crunched in time with yours as he lingered in your peripheral. You spun as you came to a stop on the other side and scowled.

“Jesus, I thought dogs were supposed to be obedient,” you snapped.

“I can be,” he winked and reached to brush the snow from the hair poking out from under your cap, “I’ll gladly get to my knees for you, kitten.”

You snapped at his hand and he pulled away with a surprised laugh. You gritted your teeth and took a step back.

“I won’t tell you again and I’m getting real tired of this.”

“You keep forgetting who you’re meowing at, kitten,” he stepped closer and you backed away again.

You turned and flitted away from him. You had not planned for him in your day off and you weren’t going to let him ruin it. You wanted to go home and enjoy your coffee, alone. However, that meant leading him to your front door. You stopped again.

“Go,” you pointed across the street at the Asp, the town’s marquee.

“Oh, kitten, you’re so cute,” he tugged on your scarf and you swatted him away.

“Alright, that’s it!” you smashed your cup against his chest and the hot liquid steamed as it splashed across his front and dripped down his leather jacket. 

He held out his arms as he looked down at himself and slowly back to you. His blue eyes dilated as the ends of his golden hair sopped with caffeine. It was too late to apologize, too futile. You sputtered and quickly turned away.

You were thankful when you didn’t hear him behind you. You stopped and peaked back at the corner of the next side street. He watched you still and even at a distance you could see his rage.

If you hoped he’d lose interest, that optimism was dead.

💀

A snow storm stagnated the already stale town and you could guess that the highway was even worse. You could replace your sim online but that would take at least a week to arrive and with the weather, likely longer. It might be quicker to wait out the blizzard. You stayed in limbo, reluctant to pull the trigger.

You kept to your apartment for the rest of the weekend, with no reason or want to leave. On your way, you didn’t see him. You sighted a few figures through the falling powder but they were faces familiar to the streets. You kept an eye over your shoulder, glancing around every few steps.

You avoided the cafe. He might look for you there, he might even be waiting for you. You sat down at your desk but felt out of place. He could walk through those doors like he had only days before. He could taunt you and tease you. What made you so antsy was that he could do worse than that. You knew it but you’d let your temper get the best of you. A wasted latte might have cost you everything.

By the end of your shift, it was decided. You were leaving Birch. No one could know until you were gone. Not Melissa, not Colin, no one. You old all-weathers would have to get you down the highway, just to the city so you could lose yourself there until you had a real plan. Even as the snow piled higher and higher, there could be no delay. You’d waited long enough.

Paranoid, you were certain you’d be met again on your path home. The town was dead as the soft blanket covered the ground. The flakes turned to mounds and the tops of your boots let in errant clumps of snow. The store may as well been closed for the day, the library had been little different but its lethargy was expected. Even The Asp seemed to have dulled with the pale gusts.

You packed a bag. One. The apartment came furnished and you never cared much for miscellany. Anything you left behind was replaceable. You went down the back stairs and cleaned off your small Focus. Used but reliable. You were out of breath as you climbed into the driver’s seat and threw the brush in the back.

You drove carefully down the side streets, snaking around as you knew the main fair would give away your escape. You stopped at the sign that pointed to the highway ramp and wondered. 

What if he had got the clue? What if you were running from nothing?

You remember the look in his eye and shivered. No, that glimmer assured you that return to your mother’s was as wise as it would be torturous. You followed the arrow and took the curve steadily with your foot planted on the gas. The traffic was slow and cautious as headlights were barely visible through the snowfall.

You gripped the wheel tightly and let out a breath. You would be gone before he knew. You’d get a new phone, a new job, a new life. Even if it was just pay-as-go, a McDonald’s visor, and your mother’s couch for a while. What good was a job in a place like Birch anyway? Just as good as your irrelevant degree.

You were startled and nearly lost control as a set of lights appeared behind you in the next lane. They were dangerously close to dinging your rear bumper as the reckless driver took a u-turn right before the upcoming barriers. You wrinkled your brow as you glared at them through the white haze. What kind of maniac was pulling shit like that in this weather?

And then, they did hit you. A nudge but enough to send you veering in the thick lines of snow. You clutched the wheel and tried to steer into it, tried to right yourself as you were knocked again. Your heart was in your throat as the engine revved and you hit your brakes, not knowing what else to do as a third collision came.

You spun out and hit the cement wall along the far lane, narrowly missing another car as it pulled ahead. You stilled, your seatbelt saving your face from a smack against the wheel, and stared down the highway as you stared at oncoming traffic. You were completely turned around on the arm.

You caught your breath and reached for your purse. Fuck, you had no phone. What was that asshole thinking? It didn’t seem like an accident.

The car that had bullied you into a crash pulled up along the barrier. You watched in the rear view as the barely visible tail lights glowed and a dark figure appeared between the car and the concrete. You squinted as the man neared, a long coat flapped around his tall figure as he held his hand to his face.

He came up beside your car as you heard his voice muffled through the glass and tapped on your window. He bent and knocked again as you shot him the finger. You were ready to give him a piece of your mind. You rolled down the window with the manual crank and growled, “what the fuck!?”

“Can I have your name, darling?” he asked in a sinisterly familiar accent.

“Screw you! You almost killed me!”

He turned his phone out as you screeched at him and quickly put it back to his ear, “that sound like her?”

A deep voice rumbled in the speaker and the dark-hair man nodded as he shielded his face from the blowing snow, “you owe me, brother.”

“Who the fuck are you?” you spat and reached to your glovebox. You grabbed the heavy flashlight and swung it at him, “get away--”

He caught with a leather-gloved hand and glared back at you. He tucked away the phone in his jacket. His nostrils flared and his green irises caught fire. 

“Let’s not do this, darling,” he warned, “my brother has given me clearance to use whatever force necessary…” he pushed the button and pulled open your door as he wrenched away the metal flashlight, “and while he seems the bigger brute, I assure you his cruelty cannot match mine.”

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #marvel #mcu #tw:dark fic #dark fic #dark!fic #fic #series #little bones #biker AU #biker!thor #biker thor #avengers #threequel #sequel #chubby!reader #au #biker!au

[vampiricsheep]

Profile - Keith

Name: Keith

Pronouns: he/him

Age: 27, stopped aging at 22

Orientation: bi

Species: vampire (lamprey strain)

Profession: gas stop night clerk and freelance IT assistant

Appearance

physical traits: literally, "skin and bones." His body is essentially skeleton and cartilage wrapped snugly in his skin with a concave abdomen. Despite this, he is able to walk and move as he did in life.

His face is gaunt, with his upturned nose more dramatic due to the loss of adipose tissue throughout his body.

While his hair and eyes are naturally a light brown, he dyes his hair bright red and often wears cosmetic contacts. His hair is messy and often styled with some hairspray for the authentic early emo look.

His upper canines are lengthened visibly but not to an extreme. The rest of his teeth are straight and perfectly human.

accessories: a black ribbon with no visible tie is always wound around his neck. He has snakebite piercings he typically wears black rings in, but will sometimes elect to use studs. He has stud piercings in his earlobes but they're often hidden by his hair.

apparel: Keith dresses dramatically in a look that is best described alternately as either "emo" or "mall goth." He often wears doc martens or platform boots. Additionally, he heavily layers white foundation and typically sports a dramatic degree of eye-shadow and eyeliner.

Abilities and Physiology

His saliva contains a small amount of venom that acts as a stimulant (and, to some, a mild aphrodisiac). For this reason, he's very careful about selecting people to feed from in order to keep it as not-weird as possible.

His strain of vampirism resulted in the loss of most of his internal organs, including the majority of his digestive tract. As a result, eating solids results in later hacking up a dehydrated pellet. (For this reason, he chooses not to eat).

The severe alteration of his vascular system results in him being mostly ectothermic, but he absorbs significant warmth from fresh blood. While being chilled does not harm him, he does not like it.

Going too long without feeding on either blood or a blood-surrogate results in a profound lethargy that can become near-catatonic if starvation progresses, but it will not kill him.

The ribbon around his neck covers and protects a lingering bite-mark from when he was turned. Blocking it from the sun halts a necrotic blight from spreading along his skin.

He is capable of a half-conscious sleep and often elects to do so during the day, as sunlight exposure causes panic attacks.

He has a dry, sharp voice reminiscent of paprika.

Personality

If vinegar were a person, Keith might be the one. He can be sharp and sour when annoyed, and is quite sarcastic and unafraid to be scathing in criticism or complaint. Nonetheless, he has a kind heart, and his intentions are often good.

With friends he's prone to joking around. He won't miss an opportunity to cuddle purely out of the desire to feel warm enough to pretend he's still living.

He enjoys watching old horror movies with friends (and ripping the myths and special effects apart with love) and plays FPS games if overly bored and alone. He can seem lazy, but it's more accurate to say he does most of his activities sitting or slouching down.

He doesn't openly share it, but he's still crushed by losing what was supposed to be a full-ride education at a reputable local school due to the actions he took - and still doesn't remember - during his metamorphosis. He turns that energy into nagging Jaspen and Gwer if he catches them slipping up on their own coursework, and tries to avoid sulking by staying busy, even if "busy" just means focusing on a pointless game.

He's the developer of a private dating/hookup app meant for the supernatural community; it's invite-only to ensure only supernaturals and those they trust have even the smallest access to their identities.

Most of the "blood" he drinks is a (somewhat pricey) canned surrogate that he slaps fake Monster Energy labels on, but to limit expenditure he will sometimes feed on trusted companions or willing people met through his app.

#keith the vampire #urban fantasy verse #do NOT @ me about fat tissues in skin itself I am aware. I know. I took a 200-level anatomy/physiology course #the idea is that there is very little left. thin skinned. #and nothing underneath

[cecilspeaks]

168 - Secret Blotter

Life is 10 per cent what happens to you And 90 per cent false memories of what you think happened to you. Welcome to Night Vale.

In an effort to bring more transparency to the Sheriff’s Secret Police, a chronicle of one night’s dispatches will be released to the public. This action comes at the behest of the City Council, who voted unanimously on a resolution to ban plastic bags.

Now, OK, while those two things may not seem related, Sheriff Sam misunderstood the vote as a rallying cry against tyrannical surveillance and a personal threat, involving being thrown to the pit of vipers behind the bowling alley. Sheriff Sam, who has a paralyzing fear of vipers, proposed a compromise in which Secret Police dispatches would be temporarily divulged, so the public can get a better idea of what agency does and how tax dollars are being spent. A plan which was readily accepted by the Council, though they continued to roll their eyes and gnash their teeth and chant softly: [creepy voice] “Viper pit! Viper pit! Blessed be the viper pit!” Which is just how they express a “yay” vote on procedural issues.

As a result, Night Vale has its first ever police blotter. Let’s dig in. 9 o’clock PM. Missing person reported inside the Ralphs. Night manager on duty says employee went to stock some cases of Lime-A-Ritas in the new walk-in beer cave and never came out. Reporting officer thoroughly checked beer cave and confirmed it was deserted. Three cases of the beverage were left haphazardly in the middle of the floor, and a loading dolly had tipped over onto its side. Manager states employee originally brought in four cases. Manager added one missing case of Lime-A-Ritas to the report. When asked if this kind of thing has happened before, manager changed subject and asked if officer would like to look at some of the children’s drawing contest submissions. Officer was amenable to this request.

9:16 PM. Noise complaint. Dog barking in an unknown language annoying residents. Dirty white fur, human face. Gone when officer arrived on scene.

9:25 PM. Two underage residents attempted to sneak into an R-rated movie by pretending to be one tall person in a trench coat. When confronted by officer, they turned into a swarm of flies and dispersed.

10:01 PM. Noise complaint. A sound resembling television static was being emitted from a shower drain out in the Hefty Sycamore trailer park. When recorded and played backwards, it turned out to be a broadcast from a 1952 episode of the game show “Beat the Clock”, where contestants competed to see how many pieces they could smash a clock into. A plumber was called.

10:15 PM. A resident of Desert Creek searched for “easy tortellini recipes”, but none of them were easy enough. It was so late already, and they needed to get to bed soon, but they were also very hungry and needed to eat dinner first. They wanted something quick, but they also wanted a real dinner, not a false dinner like… cereal? They became hyperaware that the more they deliberated on what to make, the longer it was all taking. And factoring in the decision-making time on top of the meal prep time was becoming additionally stressful in relation to the desire to get to bed soon.

11:30 PM. A Coyote Corner’s swimming pool filled with blood and began swirling furiously in a counter-clockwise direction. Home owner appeared distressed. Officer advised home owner to drain pool.

11:31 PM. Multiple residents awoke in a cold sweat from the same dream. It wasn’t necessarily a nightmare, but it was definitely not pleasant. The only thing they could recall afterwards was that it was showing, and that there was a tree with seven limbs.

12:00 AM. Witches.

2:00 AM. That time of night when everything starts getting hazy. Were you headed to a crime? Checking a surveillance station? Listening to a wiretap? Going home? Returning to headquarters? Signalling an invisible helicopter? Sometimes you lose track. An old local legend comes into your mind, and you try to recall the details. It’s been so long since you heard it. You watch the headlights bounce along the dirt road ahead, and your eyes begin to play tricks on you, sensing movement in the dark margins where the light doesn’t penetrate. You turn off the lights and slow the vehicle. They weren’t tricks after all. There is movement here, a dark writhing mass entering the roadway. You are forced to stop the car. Eyes flesh open in the dark. Many sets of eyes. This isn’t part of a half-remembered legend. This is something very, very real.

More of the blotter soon. But first, let’s have a look at traffic. You’re hunting in a pack near the Old Highway. The smell of blood is in the air. Headlights bounce over the rise and your stomachs rumble. The moon flees behind the clouds and you fan out, along both sides of the road, moving parallel to it like a lazy river. The car approaches and slows. It shuts off its headlights, as you knew it would. Some of you push ahead to the car, blocking its path. Others move to the rear and others remain at the sides boxing it in. You converge, surrounding it more tightly the door opens, then closes again, the fleshy creature inside cursing softly. You hear a crackle of radio static, but you know it is inconsequential to you. You consume the metal shell first. There are explosions of air and the hiss of leaking fluids. Then the glass, crunchy and cool in your collective gullet. And finally, the screaming delicacy in the center, the cloth-wrapped package of meat and bone. There are other things afterward, less enjoyable, but consumable nonetheless. Papers and electronics, and the pleather, and cold French fries in the back. Nothing must remain. By the time the moon emerges from the clouds, the old highway will be deserted once more. This has been traffic.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s show is brought to you by TickTock. The only app that tells you exactly how long you have left to live. The sleek countdown display synchs easily with all of your devices, so that you can check your mortality at a glance. The premium edition provides additional details, such as manner and location of death, and updates to the minute, as you make different choices throughout your day. You’ll find yourself asking questions like, why did returning a library book just subtract 4 years from my life? How did leaving late for work change my final outcome from drowning in gulch to birds of prey? Why does it say “tomorrow” all of a sudden? [panicking] It must be some kind of glitch, right? OK, OK, I’ve updated the app but it still hasn’t changed. It still says “tomorrow”. I just got checked out by a doctor and they said I’m in great shape, I’m staying home from work, I’m not answering the door, I’ve closed the blinds and I’m sitting on the couch, surrounded by pillows, not moving, not even blinking, I’ve done everything dammit, EVERYTHING!!! WHY DOES IT STILL SAY “TOMORROW”???!! Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. This has been a word from our sponsors.

Back to the Sheriff’s Secret Police blotter. 2:30 AM. Responded to an officer distress call on the Old Highway. No sign of officer or vehicle found. Must have been a false alarm.

3:15 AM. Nude man ranting in middle of old highway, carrying a case of alcoholic beverages. Identified as the night shift stocker at the Ralphs. Claims he entered the walk-in refrigerator at work, reached up to place the case of beverages on the shelf, and abruptly found himself in a network of ice caves. He eventually climbed up a snowy mountain where he met a robed figure he refers to as “The Oracle”. “The Oracle” foretold of a hungry darkness with a thousand eyes and urged that the portal must be cloooosed. The Ralphs employee also reported that “The Oracle” had slurred speech and seemed unsteady on its feet, and may have been inebriated. After this exchange, he then found himself standing in the Sand Wastes nude. He does not know where his clothes are. Officer escorted man back to the Ralphs to finish out his shift.

3:35 AM. Domestic disturbance. “He won’t stop practicing the flute!” a Cactus Bloom resident reported, indicating his dopplegänger who stood in the corner of the bedroom, staring unblinkingly at the wall and playing the same halting scale on a wooden flute. Officer advised resident to take a melatonin and try to get some sleep. “If he doesn’t stop, I can’t be held responsible!” the sleep-deprived resident threatened. “Sounds fair,” the officer agreed and left the premises.

4:00 AM. An alarm clock went off in Old Town. A woman attempted to get out of bed, but her cat walked sleepily onto her person and began purring, preventing her from rising. Her cat is elderly and the woman knows its number of purrs are finite and must be honored. Eventually, she put on coffee and took a shower. She used Herbal Solution shampoo for a lifelong dandruff condition, though she has not seen any improvement after years of using the products. She continues using it, because she likes the way it smells. It smells medicinal, like it’s helping, and it does tingle, like the label promises. The tingle means it’s working, the label says. So it must be working.

And now a break form the police blotter for some sports news. Night Vale High School – go Scorpions! – has added a concession stand to be used during sporting events. The parent-teacher association proudly unveiled the new stand at last week’s baseball game, dedicating the plywood structure to the memory of favorite AP auto shop teacher, Nick Teller. Teller reacted with confusion at this news, as he is still alive. “Oh, of co-, no, of course you are,” the PTA responded awkwardly, “but we just wanted to honor – your memory, as in what a great memory you have. You-you know how you’re really good at remembering stuff? We just wanted to, yeah uh, honor that,” the PTA went on, seemingly unable to stop explaining themselves, whilst standing in front of the dedication plaque, which featured several doves, a Celtic cross, and an image of clasped hands. Teller admitted he does have an excellent memory and is very honored. The following concessions are available at the Teller memorial stand: Special allowances, the granting of rights, the acceptance of certain things as truth, the yielding of certain other things as untruth. Also, RC Cola and popcorn.

Oh, which reminds me, we actually have another word from our sponsor, Royal Crown Cola. Invented by Ferdinand the 1st, king of Naples, who built a museum of mummies inside his palace to house the bodies of his slain enemies. “I am parched from building this museum of mummies,” he famously said, and the rest is history. RC Cola – the drink of ruthless monarchs.

In local news, I have the results of the Ralphs drawing contest. Local school children were encouraged to submit a drawing to the store this week, depicting their favorite Ralphs product. I’ll start with the runners up. The third place drawing comes to us from Ella Snider, a student from Night Vale Elementary, and it shows a large black scribbled mass with a lot of eyes on it, with the Ralphs building on fire in the background. Very creative, Ella!

The second place drawing comes from Jace McCoy, also from Night Vale Elementary, and this one also shows a black mass with many eyes and a big bright red splatter of blood across the page. Nice use of color, Jace!

And the grand price winner comes to us from Heather (Fathusam) [0:16:52] of Daggers Plunge Charter School. Her drawing features a beautiful black mass with lots of lovely eyes, and it’s holding a box of store brand frozen pizza rolls. Congratulations, Heather!

Back to the blotter. 4:01 AM. Distress call from the Ralphs. Upon arrival, officer was pulled into the manager’s office. The employee from the earlier incident was also present, huddled under a desk. Manager frantically indicated the surveillance window that looks out into the store, which he normally uses to spy on shoppers and report on what they are wearing for his Customer Fashion newsletter. Shelves of products were being knocked over and consumed by a vast dark nothingness. The back of the store then burst into flames. The manager implored the officer to quote, “Do something, please, or we’ll all be killed!” Officer used the intercom system to tell the nothingness to vacate the store immediately, and advised it of trespass and vandalism laws. The nothingness took the form of many dark shapes with many eyes. A tank of fresh seafood exploded and numerous shellfish were damaged. Officer advised the shapes that they were all under arrest. “Stop talking to it!” the manager cried and knocked the intercom mic out of the officer’s hand. Approximately 1000 eyes turned to look at the office window. Interesting. Well.

Let’s have a look at that weather.

[“Best Friends” by Curtains: https://curtains.bandcamp.com/]

4:35 AM. Situation escalated at the Ralphs. Officer, manager and employee embraced one another under the office desk amid the shattered glass of the surveillance window. The building trembled around them, products flew through the air, half the inventory was sucked into oblivion, and a great fire blazed, spreading to the bakery section. After doing an estimated 200,000 dollars worth of damage, the darkness and its many eyes entered the beer cave and did not come back out. Officer investigated the beer cave and found it to be empty. “You have to shut down the cave!” the Ralphs employee implored the manager. “That’s its doorway to our world!” The manager hedged and responded that a big heat wave was coming and if they hoped to recoup any of their losses, keeping the beer cave open was going to be instrumental to the store’s survival. “People will spend big on frosty cold beverages,” the manager responded. “Not to mention they’re gonna like standing around in there for a nice cool-down.” The employee wrapped his robe tightly around himself. Oh, the manager had lent him the robe, one of the many fashion items the manager kept in his collection, since the employee still didn’t know where his clothes had gone. “OK,” the employee said. He picked up a Lime-A-Rita and guzzled it down in one continuous gulp. Then he said, his voice already a little slurred: “I’ll have to try to shhhhtop it myself.” He ran into the beer cave and promptly vanished.

5:40 AM. Tree with seven limbs seen growing out of a hole in the vacant lot out back of the Ralphs. Snow observed on the branches, which melted off quickly as the sun rose.

5:45 AM. Real pretty sunrise.

Well, that concludes our Secret Police blotter. I dunno about the rest of you, but I personally feel a lot more safe and secure getting a closer look at what our Secret Police do. On behalf of Night Vale Community Radio, thank you for your service. I’m sure we will all rest a lot easier knowing that our fate is in your hands. Our sleeping bodies are under your watchful eye, and our every thought and action is being monitored for the greater good. As Secret Police mascot Barks Ennui always says: Stay tuned, stay, vigilant, report your neighbors. Woof. Woof.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Six out of seven dentists have no idea where that seventh one disappeared to. Honest, they all have rock solid alibis and that blood could have belonged to anyone.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #wtnv transcripts #episode 168 #secret blotter

[heartsofminds]

Blood Stained Guilt

Description: The one where Shawn’s a serial killer. 

Warning: Contains blood, violence, mentions of murder, and some sexual situations. 

A/N: This piece of writing is not meant to glorify serial killers or anything pertaining to violent or manipulative people. Please read at your own digression. Enjoy 9.4k of serial killer Shawn. 

i.

He swears to God the first time is an accident. He had no bad intentions. There was no bloodlust or plan or even genuine interest in doing what he did.

This semester in university is truly kicking his ass, and he’s under so much pressure. He feels hopeless. He imagines that the backflow of metaphorical water is constantly running from his nose to his lungs; making it hard to breathe or to think or to even exist.

He’s constantly at war with himself; fighting to stay awake and fighting to figure his life out before graduation in June.

He’s always been mild mannered. He doesn’t like drawing attention to himself and he especially doesn’t like being mean. Shawn is the kind of guy to apologize for existing if he felt someone was bothered by his quiddity.

He thinks too much. He feels too much. But he doesn’t speak up for himself enough.

His newfound confidence streak started in a bar, with too much alcohol rushing through his veins. Some dick (a really drunk guy, but Shawn’s too enraged to care) purposely spilled his beer on Shawn’s jacket and he doesn’t know what made his subconscious flip.

He catches the guy defenseless in the alley behind the shitty building honing pretty girls and drunk men. Shawn can taste the lime slice from his tequila shot in his mouth still, and he focuses on the flavor as he punches and kicks and berates the poor, helpless, nonetheless drunk man.

He’s never been good at knowing just exactly how far is too far, and he ignores the splitting pain in his knuckles and legs. His brain sends him signals to stop himself; to keep himself out of trouble and from bad karma, but he can’t. His arms move to their own avail and his feet follow suit.

He wishes he cared enough to make himself stop, but he can’t. He can’t be damned enough to give a fuck. He can’t be damned enough to think about what he’s doing or how the outcome will prevail.

When Shawn’s exhausted and his body gives the sensation of three thousand pounds of concrete holding him down, he looks at the damage he had done.

The man doesn’t move. He doesn’t groan or gasp for air. He lies motionless on the ground with his body twisted in a more than unnatural way. His blonde hair has magenta streaks from what Shawn can only piece together as blood and his face is so swollen he can’t tell the difference between the man’s mouth and his nose. The teenage boy sees a pinkish gray substance on the pavement and crouches closer to investigate.

He knows what he’s seeing is brain matter when he sees the intricate ridges, and he knows he fucked up bad when he turns the man over to see a gaping gash on his head with his skull busted and showing.

Shawn beat the poor bastard’s brains out - literally.

He wants to puke and he can’t tell if it’s from his guilt or the alcohol he consumed that night. He figures he can’t leave evidence behind and cups his hand over his mouth. He runs through the alleyway back to his car and pukes on the pleather seats.

When he pours rubbing alcohol over the clothes he was wearing and sets fire to them in his bathtub, he puts together the events of the night.

He puts his hand in the flames of the pile of burning clothes he’s created, and when he doesn’t feel anything, he wonders how horrible he truly is.

Shawn killed a man tonight, and he doesn’t even feel bad.

ii.

The second time, he’s convinced that it was just a coincidence.

He tried walking instead of driving or taking the bus to "preserve energy" or some kind of bullshit his ecology professor was always talking about, and to be totally truthful, he thinks that he would’ve been better off driving instead. At least then he wouldn’t feel so shitty about the night afterwards.  

He curses himself for taking a shortcut instead of using the crosswalks downtown like he was su-fucking-pposed to. Yet here he is, in the middle of a fucking park at 11 PM with the Toronto wind making him freeze to death.

He contemplates calling an Uber, even pulling his phone out of his back pocket and opening the app, but the sound of high heels tapping the cobblestone covered ground catch his attention.

Shawn whips his head up to take a peek.

Her boobs and ass are glorious, he thinks, even if they’re both potentially fake and she would actually be pretty to him if it wasn’t for the poor circumstances she worked under. She looks unsettlingly familiar, and it shakes Shawn’s bones to the core.

"Hey, babe. Lookin’ for a good time?” she asks him from where she’s standing.

Shawn starts to walk faster, speeding up so he doesn’t feel obligated to reply.

"C’mon, pretty boy. Loosen up. Have some fun with me,” she says with more thirst in her tone.

She gets closer and he wishes she would leave him the fuck alone. He starts to walk faster and takes a shortcut through the empty park.

He thinks he lost her, but he’s proven wrong when he hears her heels click on the cobblestone sidewalks. He knows that he’s not gonna get rid of her ass or boobs or obnoxiously tall heels anytime soon.

Shawn stops in his tracks. He doesn’t have time to deny her. He doesn’t care to, anyway.

She’s only offering a good time and he figures getting his dick sucked wouldn’t be so horrible. He hasn’t gotten much of anything lately, and he’s tired of his friend’s pushing him towards any every girl that shows a sliver of interest in him.

He smirks and shrugs while moving to stand in front of her. Even with six inch heels, Shawn towers over the blonde girl. He notes that she doesn’t look a day over nineteen years old.

His fingers lightly stroke her collarbones. “Don’t tempt me, baby.”

She bites her lip, red lipstick making her lips stand out and the blue of her eyes cloudy. “I mean it,” she whispers.

Shawn pulls her in for a sloppy kiss; one with no emotion or thinking behind it. It’s all an angry flash of tongue and lips and teeth. He bites down on her bottom lip as he tries to pull away from her. The action causes her lips to bleed a little, and Shawn kisses her again; tongue licking up the blood he drew.

She giggles and moves with him towards the park bench. No one in their right mind would be out at this time, and the dark night sky that surrounds them makes them look like shadows. If it wasn’t for the soft glow of the park street lights, Shawn’s sure he wouldn’t be able to tell what color dress she had on.

The blonde drops to her knees, unbuckling his belt and hungrily pulling his boxers down with his jeans. Shawn’s as hard as a fucking rock and in the back of his mind, he feels like a creep.

He tries to ignore the wet kisses she gives to his thighs and his lower stomach. He prides himself on being able to block things out as they happen.

His fingers start to twitch. His leg starts to bounce up and down and the girl giggles against his leg.

“Don’t be nervous. I’ll take good care of you.”

She puts him in her mouth and Shawn grips her hair to keep his active mind and nerves in check. She’s quite good at what she’s doing, and he can’t deny that he is feeling some sort of satisfaction from it.

He thinks about the last time he was close to even kissing anyone and he’s taken back to his first year in college. He’s disappointed in himself for how long its been.

She chokes on him and the gurgled sound she makes has Shawn’s head spinning in circles. His vision goes blurry and he starts to sweat. His hands shake uncontrollably and he hears what sounds like half a million voices talking at once. He can’t decipher what any of them are saying and his head starts to pound.

He’s about to bust in the blonde’s mouth, but something in him snaps.

He pulls her plump lips off of his cock and she smile weakly; mouth messy and hair tangled from her previous actions.  

“Aww, we were getting to my favorite part, “ she whines, voice filled with flirtation. She opens her mouth again, trying to find the phallus object filling it before he interrupted.

Shawn yanks her hair and she’s pulled away from his lap. She giggles again and her laugh runs circles in his eardrums, echoing louder than a crowd at a Coldplay concert.

His fingers run across the back of her neck, thumbs gently massaging it.

“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t,” he mumbles to himself.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and Shawn’s mind flips.

His vision goes black. His brain screams frenzied thoughts at him. His lips are bitten so hard he thinks that he might rip them off his own damn face with his teeth.

Shawn’s large hands wrap around the unaware blonde’s neck and his fingers meet in the middle to squeeze. He feels the striated marks of her windpipe through her skin. He can feel it crack as he pushes down as hard as he can.

The blonde gasps for air and puts her small, manicured hand on top of his; fighting for control and for her life. It only motivates Shawn to press harder.

Her eyes start to turn red and he only lets go briefly because the image shocks him.

"Shawn, it’s me,” she says with such rasp anyone would think she was a man.

Shawn ignores her and keeps pressing down. Her pulse starts to weaken and he feels the groove where her windpipe and esophagus are intertwined. It isn’t until she slides down onto the cobblestones when Shawn realizes who exactly he killed.

He had killed Madeline Krebs; the girl down the block his mom used to babysit. No wonder she knew his name.

As Shawn drags her body to the creek a mile away from the park and throws her in, he vaguely remembers drawing competitions hosted by his mother in their kitchen as they waited for Maddie’s parents. He remembers playing house with her as the mom and him as the dad. His little sister was always the extra asset like the baby or the dog.

He was only a few years older than her, and it’s crazy how they crossed paths again in their adult lives.

Shawn figures it’s even crazier to think that he’s the cause of her demise.

When he finally arrives to his apartment, he puts his keys on his coffee table; a place where he’s sure he will never forget them.

He determines he shouldn’t walk anymore.

iii.

The fifth time, Shawn knows he has a problem.

It’s uncommon for people to black out like he does. It’s not normal for people to have permanently purple knuckles and a shadow of guilt lurking behind them at all times. It’s not pragmatic to think that he won’t get caught soon and he knows that he’s running out of time.  

Time is a bizarre concept, he thinks, because he can’t remember what his life was like before he started having these “accidents” and “coincidences”.

He traces it back to his childhood and blames it on his peculiar fascination with death.

He always wondered what his funeral would be like. He always watched in awe during crime documentaries and was especially useful in Scholastic Bowl for naming off famous crime lords and serial killers. He knows every word of every Forensic Files episode by heart and it’s so fucking strange.

He doesn’t really know what makes him snap the way he does. He would love to have some reason, some explanation for why he’s so fucked up and some excuse to point the finger at something else, but he can’t.

It makes him sick just thinking about it.

He doesn’t see people anymore. He doesn’t see a husband or a wife or a son or a daughter. He doesn’t care that the people he kills are friends and nieces and nephews.

He doesn’t give a fuck and sometimes, Shawn really does try to feel bad.

He constantly fiddles with his phone, debating on whether or not to turn himself in.

He knows that it would be one easy call. He knows that he’d have a quick trial and rot in a jail cell or get beaten to death by some violent inmates, but he decides that it’s what he deserves. He’s a fucking monster, and he knows it.

He’s a disappointment, he thinks. How would his parents feel if they knew how fucked their son was?

What would his little sister tell her friends when they came over and saw pictures of him on the wall? What would his other relatives think when his family shows up at family reunions without him? What would his friends say when their group diminishes by one person?

“Shawn? Do you want hot chocolate?” his mother asks, and it brings him out of his internalized battle with himself.

He shakes his head to dislodge the ideas of motives and killing and blame out of his brain before he answers.

"Uhh, yeah. Sure. Thanks,” he says and shifts his weight around in his seat.

He fiddles with his hands and bounces his leg as he hears the sound of a ceramic mug scrape the cabinet it was pulled from. He grows more and more anxious as his father turns the pages of the newspaper he was reading.

Shawn knows one of the articles is about him. His crimes have been on the news and he’s almost been discovered.

“The fucking bastard killed another one? Jesus Christ,” his dad comments, putting the paper down and rubbing his temples. “That poor family.”

His mother shakes her head, putting the mug in front of her son and moving to put her hands on her husband’s shoulders.

It’s ironic, he thinks, how the “fucking bastard” the city of Toronto hates so much is right in front of them, and they don’t even know it.

He likes to think that it’s funny, but the prickly feeling of culpability eats away at his heart and it sets flames to all his other organs and when it hits his skin, he’s in absolute shambles. Sometimes he gets so hot he feels as if he’s right outside of hell’s door.  

Shawn’s parents converse about the weather and their plans for the weekend. They don’t notice as their son starts to fall apart. His resolve is uneasy. His heart starts racing and his knuckles start rapping on the table. His leg bounces up and down so fast, that anyone looking at him would think he had drank an entire case of Red Bull.

He lets out a cough and he wheezes. It feels like a ton of bricks are on his chest and his throat starts to close. It reminds him of the time he ate a walnut in second grade and found out he was allergic.

“Shawn, baby? Are you alright?” his mom asks with a face full of concern.

She walks around the kitchen table and takes his hands in hers. They shake so violently it looks as if he’s attempting to wave. Shawn’s face heats up in panic and he feels like he doesn’t have control of his body.

"Hey, hey! Breathe. Deep breath in, deep breath out. C’mon. You can do it,” his mother says in an attempt to calm him, but he truly can’t redirect his breathing at all.

He’s so freaked out, that he doesn’t realize that he’s in an ambulance until he feels the prick of an IV needle on the top of his hand. The puncture site feels tight as his veins are flooded with chlordiazepoxide.

He’s able to breathe again and the words of, "stress induced anxiety attack" describe the horrific chain of events that had just taken place.

Shawn can’t hear anything anyone is saying to him. He can see their mouths moving, but no sound comes out to accompany his eardrums.

He sits in the emergency room with his sweat soaked t-shirt. He can see the bottom of scrubs and tennis shoes from underneath the thin curtain. He decides that it’s a weak attempt at closing him off to the hustle and bustle of the ER.

The mint green curtain slides back to reveal a tall man wearing royal blue scrubs and a stark white lab coat.

“Hello, Mr. Mendes. I’m Doctor Ameren. I introduced myself earlier, but I don���t think you remember meeting me”, the burly middle aged man with a lab coat speaks. He has a graying beard and some crows feet near his eyes. His appearance makes Shawn calm in a weird way.

He figures it’s because he looks like his Uncle James.

“Hi,” Shawn chokes out, vocal chords tight and dry due to his panic.

The doctor lets out a slight chuckle. “Scared your folks a whole bunch. They told the nurse you’ve never had any problems with anxiety before today, so I’m gonna order an EKG to monitor your heart and make sure your anxiety was just anxiety,” he takes a pause to write some things down, “And some blood work to be absolutely positive.”

Shawn gulps, his head shaking in term with the words exiting the older man’s mouth.

Dr. Ameren leaves the makeshift room and closes the curtains behind him. Nurses flood the room soon after and some interns help with his EKG and blood work.

He doesn’t say much during the whole thing, just sits and stares absently at the tiles in the floor. His knuckles ball themselves up in an attempt to hide the cuts and bruises. His biggest fear right now is getting outed and he figures it’s the last thing he needs after having a panic attack to that magnitude.

His mother and father sit with him as they wait for his test results. She goes on and on about his panic attack and is insistent that it had something to do with his heart.

She starts to blame her side of the family for having bad heart health until she’s interrupted by Dr. Ameren making his way back into the area with lab results in hand.

“Alrighty, Mendes. Looks like you’re okay. It’s just- Hey!” he stops as he looks to Shawn’s father. “Manny? Is that you?” he asks, coming closer to pat the elder Mendes man on the back.

“Ian? You’re a doctor now?” his father questions, returning the action and giving an amused laugh.

Shawn and his mother lock eyes.

“What the hell just happened?” Shawn says and his mom swats at his arm to reprimand him for his use of language. If only she knew what else her son does that needs a punishment.

Dr. Ameren rushes over to shake her hand. “Oh, you must be Karen! Manny talked about you when we were in college. Said you went to a different school so that’s why I didn’t believe he had a lady. I’m Ian, by the way.”

Manny laughs. “Yeah, she’s real. She’s amazing, too. Gave me two beautiful kids although I’d say they definitely get their good qualities from their mother.”

The two men laugh and go on and on and on about things they’ve missed during lost time.

Shawn’s dad tells about his business that he’s started from the ground up with his uncle and his extended family living in Portugal. Dr. Ameren tells him of the international work clinic he partakes in every year and how he goes to see the New York Yankees every year and that Manny should , “Hit me up if you ever want to go! New York is amazing and baseball is phenomenal even if it isn’t your thing.”

Shawn gets lost in the minutia of it all. He feels as if he’s floating outside of his body; unaware of everything occurring directly to him, but aware of his surroundings. His sense of hearing comes back in full swing and although his mind is eons away, he can hear every word his parents and Dr. Ameren say to each other.

He can hear the squeak of gurneys and the sound of the metal hooks attached to the curtains scraping the rod holding onto them. He can hear the scribble of pens on prescription pads and the beep of pagers. He hears the click of some woman’s heels and he’s taken back to that god awful night in the park.

He starts to fall into panic again, but he regulates his breathing better this time. Shawn’s able to maneuver himself out of his thoughts and settles for scratching the scabs on his knuckles. Blood starts to drip onto the light wash denim of his jeans.

“Shawn’s in school to be a doctor! Isn’t that amazing?” his mother says and he jumps at the sudden mention of his name.

Dr. Ameren turns to look at the brunette boy. “Oh really? That’s amazing, kid! You have the demeanor for it.”

Shawn gives his mom the stink eye. She knows how he hates when she brags on him.

“Yeah. I’m gonna be graduating in June and I’ll be headed to med school in the fall,” he replies. He figures if the attention is on him, he might as well make himself seem like the poster child of parent bred success.

The fakeness of the persona he puts on starts to burn holes through his consciousness.

"Ah, you seem like a smart boy. The medical world will be lucky to have you.”

Shawn gives a tight lipped smile. Dr. Ameren scribbles down instructions on a doctor’s note and rips it out of the pad of paper.

“Here’s my address, phone number, and email if you have any questions. Feel free to stop by anytime. Any family of Manny’s is family of mine.”

Ian Ameren gives off such a radiant smile, Shawn doesn’t know how or if anyone could ever dislike him.  

His parents chat with the dark haired doctor some more about meeting for dinner soon and taking a trip to New York some time in the summer. He hears Dr. Ameren suggest seeing a therapist to sort out his feelings and to prevent anxiety attacks like this one, but Shawn doesn’t take him seriously. He just politely smiles and pretends to acknowledge the help that’s being offered.

He sits up as Dr. Ameren signs his discharge papers. The man shakes his hand and clasps his father’s shoulder one last time before giving his mother a friendly side hug. Shawn slides off the examination table and makes a beeline for the hospital exit.

Upon closing the door to the backseat of his father’s door shut, Shawn’s mom turns around with concern etched on her face. He’s too exhausted to face the thousand questions roaming around in her mind.

Before she can speak, he gives her the simple, "I’m fine. It’s just stress."

His mother opens her mouth to bombard him with more thoughts and concerns, but his father holds up his hand to hault her voice from ever projecting.

She settles for an, "Okay. Let’s get you home," and rolls her eyes at her husband's dominance.

His father puts the car and reverse to back out of his parking space before putting it in drive; blurs of snow covered streets and chimney smoke making Shawn’s eyes hurt from the view.  

He leans his head against the glass and closes his eyes. Something in his stomach twists and slithers up a horrible idea to his brain that ultimately decides for him that this is what he was born to do.

So that’s how Shawn finds himself in his Jeep across the street from Doctor Ameren’s house that same night. It’s fucking freezing, he thinks, and he almost feels guilty for having this impulse.

Shawn knows that Ian Ameren has no family. He knows that he has no partner or pets from the two and a half hours he’s spent parked outside of the man’s house.

Shawn feels his conscience picking him apart for wanting to rid this man of his heartbeat.

"You’re so fucking pathetic. You can’t control yourself at all,” his brain says to his heart, but his heart’s primal desire to kill and demolish and destroy remains prominent in his plan for the night.

"Fuck this," he speaks to himself and punches his steering wheel as hard as he can. Punching things has become a habit of his in the past couple of months. It gets him into more trouble than what he likes to admit.

He unlocks his doors and makes his way up to the house. The snow crunches underneath his boots and while he should feel sick to his stomach for what he is about to do, all Shawn can think about is how much he fucking hates the sound of crunchy snow.

He rings the doorbell and nervously pushes his hands in his coat pockets after he does so. Shawn rocks on his heels in anticipation. Seriously, why was he doing this and why was he decently okay with it? Doctor Ameren approaches the door in his night clothes, Shawn presumes, and his eyes twinkle with joy seeing the young boy on his doorstep.

“Ah, Shawn Mendes! I wasn’t expecting you at all. Come in before you freeze, kiddo!” he says, and moves out of the way, allowing Shawn entrance into his home.

He nods his head timidly before entering and closing the front door behind him.

Shawn drinks in his surroundings and wonders if this is what all doctors’ houses look like.

Everything is spick and span. It doesn’t look like anyone resides here, let alone even steps foot inside. All the furniture is sleek and looks as if it had come straight out of an IKEA store display. Books cover almost every surface and there are multiple diplomas on the wall closest to the TV in the living room.

The older man takes a seat on the couch and directs his hand towards a matching chair directly across from where he’s sitting.

"Sit,” he instructs and Shawn complies.

Shawn looks down to avoid eye contact. While doing so, he takes notice of the stack of books on the coffee table.

Gray’s Anatomy, Practical Management of Pain, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks - the guy was a total medicine junkie.

Shawn’s there for three hours, eighteen minutes, and thirty seven seconds before his legs start to shake and his lungs start to give out. It’s another panic attack, and this time, he knows that it’ll end in blood and chaos.

Dr. Ameren continues to talk about his days as a college athlete. He tells him about playing soccer with his father and how they were the dream team on the field. Shawn pulls at his shirt collar. He runs his hands up and down his thighs and his palms are so sweaty that the blue fibers of his jeans stick to them.

“Even though I had good ball control, they moved me from forward to winger because your dad had so much speed and goddamn. That man could fly. He scored seven goals in the championship game one year,” he pauses to take a sip of the kombucha in his hand.

Shawn starts to hyperventilate. Dr. Ameren puts his drink down on the coffee table.

“Whoa, kid. Are you okay? Can you breathe?”

He shakes his head in a negative manner and falls to his knees on the floor.

“Hey, buddy. Take it easy!” the older man encourages, but the words do nothing but make Shawn’s face even hotter and his knuckles clench tighter.

"No, no, no," Shawn mumbles to himself to numb his urge to kill this man.

Ian Ameren is a good guy, really. He donates twenty percent of his yearly earnings to medical associations overseas, he FaceTimes his mother regularly, and he always makes sure to bring back his nieces and nephews cool memorabilia from the places he visits.

Shawn doesn’t want to kill him, but the carnal desire of his nature is to eliminate him. It’s simply a challenge through bloodshed.

It’s too deep within himself to resist.

The doctor assists him up to his feet and helps him sit down on his couch. When he goes to his kitchen to get a glass of water for the young boy, he doesn’t realize that this will be the last thing he ever does.

The last thing Ian Ameren will ever do is help someone which is ironic, because helping people is his job.

“God, fuck! I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” Shawn says and Dr. Ameren raises his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

His eyes widen at the site of Shawn’s fist and the look in his eyes portray the fear of the unknown of his fate. Shawn’s not sure what happens but the man is on the floor and bleeding.

Shawn picks up the baseball bat that leans against the wall with a New York Yankees poster on it. Blood splatters everywhere in a plethora of reds and pinks and deep purples. Shawn can’t focus and he has to sit down to take a breath. The bat hangs in his left hand and the drops of blood dripping their way to the floor look horrific.

The fifth time turns into the sixth, and Shawn has another cold body to add to his memories.  

He scrubs his hands so raw that he can’t tell if the blood on them is his or Ian Ameren’s.

iv.

By his thirteenth “accident”, the police are close to busting him.

Shawn can’t take the heat and he certainly can’t face the music. Even though there’s tons of mystery behind his identity, there’s no fucking exhilaration behind getting called ‘The Letal Liquidator’. His friends joke about how accurately Shawn fits the description of the killer.

He figures he has no choice and he’d rather die than be caught. He would hate all the publicity and the hatred. He certainly deserves it, but he doesn’t necessarily want it.  

Shawn broke the lease on his apartment and went off the grid. He’s disconnected his phone and burned all his credit cards. He’s transferred his money to numerous banks across the country and even changed the license plates on his Jeep.

Shawn can’t handle the pressure. It’s a chore, he thinks, to walk around his own fucking country covered up with his head down low to keep anyone from recognizing him. He needs to get away, and he simply doesn’t know how.

He’s careful about leaving behind evidence. He burns all his clothes and always purchases new ones afterwards. He always wears shoes a size too big whenever he goes out because he watched a CSI: Miami episode where they busted a guy because of his footprints, so he’s careful to never make that mistake.

He doesn’t spit or scratch or have sex with any of his victims. He doesn’t leave fingerprints behind and he always covers his face and his license plates late at night when he knows his mind gets a little fuzzy. He’s become accustomed to always being five steps ahead.

Shawn even keeps a gun in his glove compartment in case things ever go too far South but they never do and sometimes, he’s tempted to put it to even better use.

On those days, he drives to a special cliff and parks his car to look out over the forest and he thinks how great it is to find beauty in something other than cold corpses.

Sometimes the thought crosses his mind of just being done. It would just be so easy and he genuinely and quite honestly believes that the world would be better off that way.

The women of Toronto wouldn’t shake when they walk home during the night; fearful of a predator lurking in the shadows.

Parents would let their teenagers out past city curfew and not get nervous when one of their texts goes unanswered for more than thirty minutes.

Police officers wouldn’t have to hold their breath every time the radio came on and news reporters’ stomachs wouldn’t drop so easily at the thought of being in the same place as someone’s body; right where their soul up and left.

Shawn thinks dying is easy.

He determined that as a fact a long time ago. Dying is giving up, and it’s just so fucking easy to do.

It’s so easy to stop screaming. It’s so easy to stop running. It’s so easy to stop begging for your life because you know it’s over. It’s easy to die because you know that it’s the end and sometimes he thinks that killing is what makes dying so beautiful.

He likes feeling like he’s in control. He likes feeling like the master chess player toying with people’s lives. He likes to think that he can twist the knife because whatever he does, he’s in control. He gets to choose, and that’s what Shawn likes about killing.

He smiles as he grabs the small pistol from his glove compartment and puts the barrel in his mouth. His fingers softly tap the trigger.

Part of him hopes that it’ll be enough to make it go off and that it’ll be a close to instantaneous death. He’s determined a long time ago that instantaneous isn’t really instant, but it’s a hell of a lot better than drawn out agony.

The gun doesn’t go off from his feather light taps and he’s halfway disappointed and halfway relieved at the same time.

He isn’t done living yet.

Tears roll down his face because he feels like such a fucking coward. Here he is, all high and mighty, murdering people left and right, without a care in the world, while he can’t even fucking bite the bullet for himself.

"You bitch. You bitch. You bitch!" His brain is on fire.

He punches his steering wheel and the horn sounds. It startles him and takes the attention of his sore knuckles away from his mind.

He’s so fucking sad and angry and inhuman that he doesn’t give a single fuck about what happens. He stopped caring months ago. Shawn considers going out in public and getting caught.

He considers tipping off the police to his whereabouts, but the little voice in the back of his head isn’t ready for this game to be over. Shawn’s ready for it to be over, so he takes his passport with him and drives to Seattle from Toronto.

He pays for a month in a motel with cash and goes job hunting. Shawn is absolutely done, but his brain still flirts with the idea of resuming what he had left incomplete.

v.

Shawn’s been good. He’s been doing great. The seasons change. His hair grows a little longer and he stops picking at his torn up knuckles. Shallow scars replace the scabs that once lived on the junction between his nimble fingers and his palms.

He had finally told his parents where he was; even made up some bullshit lie about dropping out and how he didn’t want to disappoint them. He cringed when he heard his mother cry over the phone, but he assured her by saying he was taking classes at a community college.

She sounded a little relieved, but he doesn’t mention the fact that he’s a barista at a coffee shop or that he was on the run from the Toronto Police Department.

Shawn’s been good, though. He hasn’t had any more slip ups; hasn’t had any more accidents. He thinks it means that he’s finally learned self control.

At least, he knows thinking is worse than knowing and he knows he can’t control his neurotic brain and fiery instincts when he sees her.

She comes in every Tuesday and Friday, dressed in sweaters and boots and always carrying her laptop with her. She’s polite, always saying her “please” and “thank you’s” as if she’ll combust if she doesn’t. The girl orders a medium caramel latte without a straw because she’s “Trying to save the environment, of course. Climate change and waste are gonna take us out soon.”

Shawn tries to fight it. He tries to think of other things while she’s talking but he can never veer his brain towards happy, shallow thoughts.

She orders her drink and as he types it into the register, he thinks about the dark red of her blood on his pale hands. When she says “thank you” he thinks about the perfectly circular alveoli her lungs would have when they’re filleted open. As she sits in a booth and puts her headphones on to work on her papers, Shawn tries to imagine how white and strong her bones probably are.

Months go by and he gets closer to her. He learns that her favorite color is yellow and that she attends the University of Washington. He learns that her major is in chemical engineering. He learns that her favorite artists are John Mayer and Ed Sheeran and that COIN is her favorite band. He knows that she lives alone in a studio apartment on the second floor five minutes away from her school.

Shawn learns a lot about this girl, and the warm, gentle part of his heart feels horrible for even thinking about making her his fourteenth body.

He wanders to the hardware shop on a day when he doesn’t have to work. His legs take him to the alise that has the padlocks and rope and he constantly multiplies and adds numbers together in his head to get the lowest cost. He can’t use his debit card because then he’ll get traced, so he settles for things he can buy easily with cash.

The older man ringing him up eyes him up and down, drinking in his appearance to see if he should be worried about the young man’s purchases.

“What are ya? A serial killer?” the man jokes, putting the items into a plastic bag.

Shawn’s spit catches in his throat and he has to swallow insanely hard to keep from choking. He suspects choking at the man’s suggestion would make him seem more suspicious than what he already is.

“No, sir,” he dumbly gasps. “Just helping my dad move some stuff this weekend. Nothing crazy going on ‘round here. I promise.”

The man cracks a smile, gray mustache and beard making him less daunting. “You have a good day. Better not see your face on the news, son.”

He hands Shawn the bag and the younger boy smiles before thanking him. He runs out to his Jeep and starts it up as his thoughts eat away at his resolve.

He has no choice. He has to do it now.

Shawn can only vaguely remember seeing the cabin a few times as a kid, but he’s been told that he has an amazing memory so he somehow knows exactly where it’s located. He had spent a few of his summers as a young boy here with his parents and his friends and their parents. Washington was cool to them because it wasn’t in Canada, and any kind of travel outside of the country was super exciting back then.

It doesn’t take a whole lot to impress eight year olds.

Once they became preteens, they were too cool for trips with their moms and dads, so the tradition died and Shawn hadn’t been back ever since.

He puts his car in park outside one of the cabins. The wood is green from Washington’s heavy rainfall and years of neglect from being abandoned. The windows are boarded up and the parking lot that used to exist is covered in what seems like three tons of leaves. Ivy grows up the side of the door and the patio creaks with every step Shawn takes to reach the entrance.

As he opens the door, it creaks and wails. He would get oil to silence it if he actually cared enough.

There’s no cell reception and no cell phone towers. There’s no houses inhabited by people for miles and the road the campsite is on leads to a dead end.

It’s the perfect place for Shawn to plan his next kill, but where’s the fun in no spontaneity?

His brain sifts through the catalogue of easy targets. He sees tens of hundreds of faces and hair colors and tattoos and piercings. He wants to throw up when his brain stops on one in specific. His mind circles her in a red marker and highlights it in a million different colors.

“No, no, no. Absolutely not,” he speaks out loud, hoping his thoughts will diminish with his refusal.

He has an internal argument with himself and it’s something that hasn’t happened in close to a year.

His stomach turns. He feels hot and cold at the same time. His head spins and before he knows it, vomit conjures in his mouth and flows out onto a pile of leaves until he’s dry heaving and can barely breathe.

His mind won’t let him concentrate on anything else. He drives to his motel room and takes a shower, scrubbing at his skin in hopes of rubbing off the dirty thoughts he posses. All it leaves him with is pink water flowing down the drain and raw skin that stings every time he moves.

His wounds starts to scab and they crack and bleed whenever he makes a sudden movement. Shawn likes to think it’s punishment for doing what he’s done and thinking the way he does.

Sometimes he thinks of it as a game to make himself feel better.

So when he finds himself outside of her apartment building at 2 AM, he thinks of it in the most simple way.  He thinks of it as hide and seek or cat and mouse and the innocence behind her eyes when she spots him breaks his heart.

“Shawn? Is something wrong? Are you okay?” she asks, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

She’s clad in some plaid pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Shawn doesn’t answer. He forces her inside and tells her to put some shoes on.

“What the fuck, dude? It’s the middle of the night and I have a 9 AM tomorrow,” she stops to yawn, “Go home.”

He puts the pocket knife he has with him to her throat.

“Put some fucking shoes on and don’t make a sound,” he instructs, voice a different kind of deep that terrifies her.

She’s grown up on TV shows like Forensic Files and Law & Order and Criminal Minds. She’s been one of the viewers that screamed at the television when the soon to be victim stood helpless. She always called them dumb and stupid and idiotic, but now that it’s her - now that she’s the one standing in her living room with a knife to her throat and a seemingly nice boy behind it - she’s at a loss of movement.

She can feel her heartbeat pick up and travel from her chest to her stomach. Her eyes feel as if they’re going to bulge out of her skull. Her mouth is dry and her joints are locked.

She figures that this is how she’s going to die. This is who she’s going to spend her last hours with and this is who’s to blame for her slaying.

In this moment, Shawn realizes that he’s the predator and she’s the prey. She can’t run away. She can’t escape. She can’t call for help. She’s a sitting duck waiting for her demise.

He’s surprised she does what he says. He’s even more surprised at how complacent she is and how fucking easy it was to lure her in.

He keeps the knife to her throat as they walk down the stairs to the parking lot. He pushes her into his Jeep and blindfolds her. As he steps on the gas to get to the cabin, he realizes that he’s created his own personal hell.

At least now he’ll have some company.

vi.

He’s kept her there for a week so far.

Every morning when she wakes up, her brain hopes for a change of scenery. It hopes that she’s waking from a terrible dream and it hopes that she wakes up in her own bed or in the bed of someone else, but not here. Certainly not in the dusty room with no windows or doors.

It’s so dark in the room, she’s not even sure if her body’s sleeping schedule is on track. She could be falling asleep at any time during the day and she wouldn’t even know. She can never hear the sound of cicadas or birds or even people, and she’s thankful that she can’t.

She knows she would drive herself fucking crazy if she could. She’s tied up on the floor with rope digging into her wrists and ankles. She can’t walk around. She can’t scream for help. She can’t even scratch her fucking face.

She’s never hated anyone before, but she hates Shawn. She hates how he slithered in. She hates how clever and cunning and deranged he is. He had been getting information on her for months and she didn’t even know it. Most of all, she hates how he had taken her away; absolutely shredding the metaphorical paper of everything she is and was.

She knows that she will never be the same.

Shawn hasn’t done much of anything since she’s been his captive. He only speaks in short sentences. He comes in the room twice a day and the door he comes in is barricaded and locked.

She couldn’t even escape if she tried.

He stares at her a lot, she noticed. His eyes look at her with a million different thoughts and when they do, she thinks about her grandmother. Her grandmother had told her that people whose eyes dart around and zero in on things are often very intelligent, and her grandma wasn’t wrong at all.

She figures Shawn is intelligent because he had created this whole scheme. He had taken her here. He had locked her up. He had distanced himself so she would be easier to kill. She knows Shawn’s intelligent but she also knows that intelligence has nothing to do with a person’s heart. Judging by the way his hands shake and his leg bounces up and down; judging by the way he never looks her in the eyes or touches her, she knows that his heart is long gone.

It’s almost calculated and cold; like he had done it many times before.

She’s always been a smart girl, he noticed. She’s compliant and doesn’t fuss. She hadn’t tried to run away because she knows that she won’t get far. She’s far from clueless, and that’s what he hates about her.

While he hasn’t spoken to her in a conversing manner, she hasn’t spoken to him at all and her eyes look deep into his empty soul; questioning him without actually talking and it makes him die a little more inside.

He wonders how many heartbreaking looks he can take before his heart shatters completely.

She knows that this wasn’t always him; that he wasn’t always like this. Before he had taken her and before the hatred started to set in, she would have considered them friends. They had spent nine months getting to know each other. She knows that he’s from Toronto. She knows that he had dreams of being a doctor, but dropped out because he couldn’t afford the tuition anymore. She knows that he played soccer for his college and she knows that he loves John Mayer.

Shawn is not what he seems at all, and she wonders how true any of the things he told her were. Certainly, they weren’t because kidnappers aren’t relatable people. They aren’t kind hearted and they don’t have souls as deep as the ocean.

He wasn’t always a kidnapper (or murderer, she’s pretty sure he’s killed some people, too) and she wasn’t always a victim.

But it’s too late to get heartfelt and emotional. It’s too late to have sympathy for him.

Despite all those things, she thinks he’s strange and evil and down right horrible; no matter how good of a person he was before this.

She often has vivid dreams of her killing him or him killing her. She figures either or wouldn’t be bad considering she would get to escape this hellhole.

During the day when she’s haunted by the ideas of captivity and isolation, she distracts herself by wondering if her succulents are still alive.

She knows she won’t be for long.

vii.

He says a compound sentence for the first time in three weeks and his voice cracks. If it were concrete, he’s sure a car would have hit it and the driver would have screamed some obscenity to themselves.

But it isn’t a car. It isn’t a crack in the sidewalk. It isn’t his imagination. This is real life. This is reality.

He clears his throat and her absent eyes look at him. “I’ve killed thirteen people,” he says.

She furrows her eyebrows. “Am I supposed to be surprised?”

Shawn’s taken aback at her words. He wasn’t expecting her to speak. He wasn’t expecting her to respond of have thoughts or emotions. 

His other victims sure didn’t. Then again, he either crushed their windpipes or bashed their brains. Of course dead people can’t have conversations.

“Didn’t think you had it in you to speak to me still,” he admits, pulling a chair from the corner of the room to sit down in front of her. 

She’s sat on her knees with her wrists behind her back. He ankles are locked and it’s quite absurd how the positions of power a depicted by the imagery Shawn’s created by sitting down.

“Didn’t think you had it in you to do this,” she responds.

Shawn shakes his head. “Watch that mouth of yours. Wouldn’t wanna carve it out.”

He gives her a weak smile and she frowns back to show her disdain with him.

“I’d rather you kill me than tell shitty jokes.” Her heart beats faster at her statement. She isn’t ready to die and part of her is terrified at what he might do.

“I won’t yet. There’s a game I still wanna play with you.” Shawn scoots the chair closer to her. He puts his face directly in her line of vision. She can’t look elsewhere and she’s forced to stare into his hazel eyes.

They’re the same hazel eyes that took her order every Tuesday and Friday for the past nine months. They’re the same hazel eyes that told her goodnight when he walked her home to her apartment after a late night cram session at the coffee shop. They’re the same hazel eyes that told her dumb knock-knock jokes and complimented her on her brilliance.

They’re also the same hazel eyes that appeared more greedy than usual on that fateful night. They’re the eyes that are busy and stagnant all in the same and there’s nothing that terrifies her more. She never knows what he’s thinking.

Shawn doesn’t want to kill her. He doesn’t want to rip her limb from limb. He doesn’t want the responsibility of cleaning up her blood or disposing of her body.

In all reality, he wishes he had never done it. He wishes he would have walked away when she told him to go home. He wishes he would have developed better self restraint.

“Fuck you,” she spits, eyes never leaving his boot clad feet. She’s scared that if she looks up his hazel eyes will burn holes through her before his hands inevitably rip real ones in her body.

She half expects him to shout and half expects him to take action. But instead, he whispers. His lips move and it’s almost as if the words aren’t coming out.  

She has to stop breathing to hear what he says.

He looks up at her to see her response and his stomach sinks when he doesn’t see her thinking of one.

He gives off a sadistic chuckle. “Fucking kill me then.”

She swallows hard. She doesn’t respond. It’s not like she can find the words to anyway.

“Say something! Say something, scream at me - fucking try to kill me!” he yells, pure anger dripping off his words.

She simply shakes her head and laughs with pity deep in her chest. Tears start to cascade down her face and she doesn’t know why.

"Kill me! Just kill me, please!" he screams, nimble fingers pulling at the roots of his hair.

She starts to choke on her tears and sobs break their way through her chest. She figures that she’s crying because she’s being tempted. She’s fucking ridiculous, she thinks, because she’s having a meltdown like a fucking toddler.

"I want to! I want to, but I can’t," she screeches, pulling at the rope that binds her hands and feet together.

Tears run down both their faces and he reaches down into his boot and grabs a small knife.

Shawn takes two steps towards her.

Her breath catches in her throat.

He grabs her wrists and she expects him to plunge the blade deep; ripping every single vein and artery she has.

But he doesn’t.

He saws away at the dirty rope stained with blood and dirt and tears. Her arms are numb because she hasn’t moved them properly in close to forty days.

Shawn drops to his knees and cuts away at the bondage of her ankles. She’s free and the disbelief her mind gives off sends her into a fit of rage.

There’s so much anger and emotion and pity and disgust that she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

"I hate you! Fuck, I fucking hate you!” she screams at the top of her lungs, “Fuck you! I hate you!”

She feels extremely stupid because there aren’t any words that can define how she feels and how utterly angry she is.

Shawn sits back down in the chair, eyes still gazing at the floor.

"Kill me," he repeats.

He pulls at her arms and yanks her up. He sits back down in the chair and he’s glad his calculations were correct. She’s short enough that her arms reach his face.  

Shawn holds out the pistol from his Jeep and tells her everything. He tells her where she’s at and where the keys to the cabin and his car are. He tells her that the choice is up to her, and that she gets to choose.

"No. No, no, no. I - I can’t," she stutters.

"Kill me or we both die," he speaks chillingly. He forces the gun into her small hands, making sure the chamber is facing him and not her.

Her hands shake violently. As much as she’s thought about it, she can’t actually go through with it.

Shawn puts the chamber in his mouth, hand still holding her’s firmly on the pistol.

"No, Shawn. Stop! Please!" she begs.

He gives her hand a gentle squeeze before pulling her finger up to the trigger. Before she can move it away, he pushes her finger down.

She hears a loud pop and she’s sure that she’s never seen so much blood before. She throws the gun across the room and can’t bring herself look down at the floor.

The maroon leaking from his skull seeps its way to her feet.

She hears voices outside the room and her name being called. The door is kicked in and a swarm of police officers crowd the area.

They tell her that she’s safe and that he tipped off the police an hour earlier. They tell her he had this planned. They tell her that she did the right thing and they tell her that her parents are waiting for her at the hospital.

As she exits the room with the officers, she looks back to see the dark red splattered across the floor. She wonders how her killing him is any different than him killing other people.

A female officer notices her staring at the scene and pats her shoulder. “Self defense, honey.” she says.

She nods. She understands entirely.

The color maroon makes her feel guilty whenever she sees it.

#sm #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes imagines #shawn mendes oneshot #shawn mendes oneshots #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes blurbs #shawn blurb #shawn blurbs #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes angst #shawn mendes horror #shawn mendes au #shawn mendes x reader #shawn mendes x oc #shawn mendes the album #shawn mendes the tour #smtt #handwritten #illuminate

[hes-writer]

A Cheat III

Summary: Harry and Y/N are drifting, Y/N catches him

Warnings: angst, really mild mentions of sex

Word Count: 4.8k

Part 4

—–

“I’m sleeping in the guest room. I think I need a change of scenery.”

He was about to turn in his heels, suddenly annoyed by her pestering.

“Wait! I think we need to talk,” Y/N stands swiftly, putting her palm against his shoulder to which Harry curves immediately. He retracts with great speed, almost as if her hand was poison. His eyes catch hers with loaded surprise.

Nonetheless, he sighs, saying, “Look, I’m tired. We’ll talk tomorrow,”

“But Harry, I th-,” She gets cut off by Harry’s booming voice.

“I said we’ll talk tomorrow, Y/N” He said sternly, Harry’s mind flashes to a memory of his actions and makes a decision quickly, “I have someone I want you to meet at work anyway.”

Harry woke up from his deep sleep, yawning and rubbing his left eye with a balled fist.  His chest was exposed from the lack of clothing and from the soft glow of the morning light, he could see faded marks littering his skin. The bruises didn’t come from Y/N’s lips, and frankly, he didn’t even think of her once when he was receiving them from somebody else. He has put himself in an ultimatum because he knows that he should feel some form of guilt, regret, remorse or just something that shows that Y/N still owns his heart. But truthfully, he doesn’t and he’s absolutely confused of what he should do. Like Y/N, he’s asking himself questions; should he tell her? Should he admit that his feelings were not like they used to be? Should he casually mention that his heart no longer belongs to her, but instead another person has cradled it as theirs?

As detached as he is from Y/N, he still cares for her regardless if it’s in a different way now. Platonic, you can say. It just wasn’t the same anymore. He once saw a future with her, maybe a kid or two, identical to either of them hobbling around in the shared home they currently lived in. Now, it’s all gone. Something in him stopped producing feelings of love for her, can you really blame him? I mean, if he’s not happy, shouldn’t he leave? Harry stretches his limbs, bones cracking in relief while he groans, rolling over to the side of the bed, trying to sit up as best as he could in his tired state.  He cranes his neck, looking around for his basic white shirt that he must’ve strewn off from his body during the night. He maneuvers the thick duvet up and down, but to no such luck. He bends down, maybe it fell on the floor, he thought.

He finds his shirt, grabbing it quickly before goosebumps start to adorn his skin. Harry gasps as a realization makes it way in his foggy brain. What the fuck was that? His eyes widen briefly before he snaps his back again, searching for the mauve panties he swore he just saw.  It wasn’t a figment of his imagination because there it is; left untouched and only a remnant of the night he had with her. He chuckles to himself, it has been such a long time since he felt that good. Speaking of her, he fumbles with the items on his nightstand before taking his sleek phone in his hands. He opens the “Messages” app, but before he could type a letter on the bar, a quiet knock sounds through the wood of the door. Harry’s head jolts towards it; fearing he got caught even though he wasn’t really doing anything wrong. Right now, at least. He tosses the underwear under the sheets before clearing his throat and answering the person behind the door, presumably Y/N.

“What?”

Y/N opens the door slightly, peeking her head in through the gap. She gasps at the sight, “Sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t know you weren’t ready yet,” Y/N thinks to herself, why the heck is she apologizing for seeing him bare with boxers on? After all, they’ve seen each other butt naked countless times, it shouldn’t even be a surprise anymore.

“Why would I be ready? I told you I don’t have time for whatever the fuck it is that you planned for us,” Hary grits his teeth, annoyed since he already made plans in his head–5 minutes ago– but still.

Something clicks in Y/N, anger surging through her so suddenly it made her dizzy. She raises her voice a tad, “ I planned something? I recall me saying that we had to talk last night, did you even hear me?” Y/N shakes her head, chuckling sarcastically, “Of course not! When have you ever last listened to me anyway?”

Harry rolls his eyes. He listened, yes. He just didn’t care enough to take it into consideration to maybe comfort her when she needed it.

“Whatever. Just get ready. We’re going to the studio remember, you wanted me to meet someone,” Y/N bites her lip as soon as she spoke the last part of the sentence, growing nervous at who it will be.

—–

Y/N and Harry are in the Range Rover about to be on their way. However, Harry’s too preoccupied with his phone to notice Y/N huffing on the passenger’s side, arms crossed across her chest, feeling a little bit antsy since they’ve been sat down for about five minutes now. And, no matter what position she sat in, the sun somehow still blinded her directly, even with the shade flipped over. She looks over to Harry just in time to see him bite his lip, smiling down at the device he continued to tap on. She reaches over the console, meaning to turn the volume up on the radio because if they’re going to be here for a while, she might as well try to calm her sense. However, Harry must’ve seen her arm from his peripherals, deciding that she’s out to pry his phone from his hands, he jerks back swiftly to prevent her from doing so. She stares up at him alarmed at the sudden action, Khalid caressing her ears with his voice.  Y/N stares down at his phone, trying to figure out if it caused him to do such thing to which Harry briskly tries to hide from her sight.  Turning it over, he clicks on the lock button, clearing his throat uncomfortably while he shifts in his seat preparing to actually drive.

“Who was it?”

Harry turns his head to do a shoulder check as he pulls the gear shift into drive before stepping on the accelerator to get the car moving. He tries to get his thoughts in order before saying anything. He didn’t want to say spill something accidentally.

“Someone from work, don’t worry about it,”

She nods as if to say that she understands. She doesn’t though because still, her mind started doubting his words. Even after his reassurance,  she wasn’t sure what to believe in anymore. Anything that is coming out of his mouth could be lies and she wouldn’t even know if he was telling the truth or not. Y/N doesn’t know him anymore, she concludes. And it hurts her deeply because he’s the man whom she gave everything to, trusted him with her whole heart even when she was fragile because the love she felt was too strong to ignore. Everything she was was all influenced by his constant presence in her life for the past years they were together, and now that he’s slipping away, it was like she was losing a part of herself with him. Every milestone she hit, he was there to support her; he made her feel loved, wanted and adored–something she barely felt especially with her broken family. He made life feel so warm, she didn’t know that a person could be your home. Harry was home.

A tear slips down her chin to her hand limply laying on her lap, catching her attention and realizing that she was getting awfully emotional all of a sudden. She swipes the tears away to her temples, hoping that Harry didn’t notice. Of course, he didn’t.

His eyes were focused on the road, hands gripping the black leather wheel tightly, gnawing on his pink bottom lip. He couldn’t wait to see her today. He knows he shouldn’t be thinking about another woman especially because his girlfriend was currently sitting next to him looking awfully sad, but before he could question it, she turns her face to glance at the window the same time the stop light flashes green. For a brief moment, he lets his mind wander.

Imagine how broken she’ll look when you tell her the truth, he thought to himself. So he decides that he won’t. Yes, she definitely deserves to know the truth but, she doesn’t need it right now. Harry also decides that if ever, he’ll let her find out herself.

Except she already did.

And maybe Harry’s too much of a coward to admit the truth to her, but he really couldn’t bring himself to spew the words from his mouth. What was he supposed to say? Truth is, their relationship got to the point where it was so dead– as in nothing was happening to them. Nothing interesting, to say the least. Since Harry’s second album was a top priority for him at the moment, it was absolutely relevant for him to gather inspiration from everything he can to make it more personal and vulnerable like his first one. He used to write songs about his previous relationships where his girlfriends and boyfriends mostly all turned out to be using him for their benefit. It hurt Harry and made him more guarded with who he let in inside his walls.

When he met Y/N, he was extra wary of her intentions just as she was of his. Harry’s heart fluttered whenever he saw her, but something inside him held him back from fully pursuing a relationship with her right off the bat, as he usually would.  That was the first burst of inspiration Harry got from her, he wrote songs about feelings of happiness and possibly finding the one; Woman. Then came his courage and he asked her out after months of playing cat and mouse with the woman he so desperately wanted to be his. When she said ‘yes’, he was elated and he wrote more songs about it. The usual.

He’s not blaming her for his lack of inspiration, he’s scowling at the relationship they have. It was going well, too well—very fairy-tale like that he’s sure he has squeezed the last bits of romanticized words and gestures of compassion from his brain and he can’t write about it anymore. His artistic side wanted his album to have something for everybody and an album full of love songs isn’t gonna make the cut in his opinion. He needed that extra spice, the drama, the twinge of rebellion and uniqueness that he couldn’t quite grasp because he hasn’t experienced it lately, and Harry writes from experience. So when the opportunity showcased itself, he immediately took a leap of faith, not thinking about the consequences it’d come with.

—–

It was about four months ago when Harry started being disloyal to Y/N. He’s a bit ashamed to say that the first time wasn’t even an accident, maybe it could be passed off as such, but really, it wasn’t. Harry and Y/N fought about something earlier that afternoon. He was suggesting a week off from their usual responsibilities and driving away to one of the lakeside homes that he had connections to rent. Unfortunately, Y/N’s midterm exams were coming up in about three weeks and she couldn’t waste any time not studying. She paid good money for an education that she’d have to teach herself and she was not going to waste her hard-work now that she’s almost finished.

“Harry, I understand that we need time together, but I have exams coming up soon and I can’t just not study for a whole entire week,” Y/N pleaded, she was trying to make him see things from her pupil perspective.

Harry scoffed, “All you do is study and read. Am I even important to you anymore?”

“You know you are. I’m just saying maybe we can spend time over the weekend instead,”

“I feel like I’m always your second choice. You have time to go on your study sessions with Alan, but you can’t spend any time with me?” Harry asked incredulously, gritting his teeth in boiling anger.

“What? We’re only studying, and I need to study. My education is just as important to me as your music is to you! Do you even hear yourself  right now?”

Maybe if he wasn’t blinded by anger he would’ve realized that his words suggested that he didn’t trust her. But not right now, no, he was jealous and desperate to spend time with her that words flew out of his mouth without a second filter.

“You guys are spending an awful lot of time together recently..” His tone changes to one of mockery as if he really didn’t believe that Y/N could never do such a thing to Harry.

“I’m not cheating on you if that’s what you’re implying.” Y/N said dully. Honestly, how could she? She gave her her own heart for a reason.

“Maybe if you prioritized me first, I wouldn’t!”

“I can’t believe you’re acting like this. When you went away to shoot your movie, I was always in the back burner of your mind. I was lucky to even get a text from you because of how busy you were; this continued for months, Harry! Freaking months, and I supported you the whole time because I knew just how important it was to you,” Y/N ranted on about the emotions that she bottled up inside her, she rarely let her own needs become first because to her, Harry was more significant.

Harry’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, not knowing what to say after being hit by straight facts from his girlfriend. Things that he had no idea she felt. When he realized that he wasn’t going to speak, she continued on.

“When you were working on your album day and night, I was there for you! I brought lunch cause I knew that you’d forget to eat sometimes, and even dinner cause you’d stay up late overworking yourself,” She paused, “And when you had moments where you doubted yourself, saying shit like how you weren’t good enough or whatever you did wasn’t enough, I was by your side comforting when I could’ve been studying abroad for a month,”

“I didn’t ask you to stay,” Harry mumbled.

She blinked at him twice before shaking her head, “I wanted to. You are my number one. It doesn’t matter what happens, I’ll always put you first.”

Normally, Harry would hug her to smithereens and declare his love multiple times in her ear. But Angry Harry would rather debunk and defend himself more.

“I. Didn’t. Ask. You. To. Stay,” His tone punctuated with each word. “I could’ve been fine without you. You could’ve gone through your stupid exchange,”

“N-no you wouldn’t,” Y/N stuttered out, trying to believe her thoughts instead of Harry’s words. “If I wasn’t there, you wouldn’t have the courage to release your album. If I wasn’t there for you, you wouldn’t have been as confident as you are now,”

“And my ‘stupid exchange’? I worked my ass off for that,”

“Probably kissed arse too many times,” Harry whispered condescendingly to himself.

“Of course I worked hard for that. Opportunities like this just don’t get handed down to you,”

“It could be if you were—”

“If I was what? Finish that sentence, I dare you.”

They stared down each other. His eyes begging her not to make him say it while hers watered over. Harry’s eyes hardened, his mouth opening,

“If you were better”

“Better? If you want something better then why are you even with me?”

“You know wha’? You’re right. I could have any girl in the world, but I chose you.”

Y/N screams in frustration, hammering Harry with light punches to his chest, pushing him with as much force as she could, and he only took a step back.

“Leave. Get out! Find someone else to comfort you when you need it.”

She crashes on her knees, sobbing hard that she could feel the burn in her throat. She only looks up when the door slams shut. Harry left.

—–

Harry was inspired by the possibility of a broken heart. The crashing remnants of a relationship and the absurdity of loneliness, he wrote all that his head spilled out, thinking faster than his hand could write. Eventually, when the argument sunk deep in his bones, he stopped and leaned against the studio couch. Harry rubbed a palm across his face, wondering how he was gonna fix this. He basically suggested that she was a cheater and then belittled her education and abilities to achieve something; it can’t be any worse than that. Well, apparently it can.

As he was brainstorming ideas on how to plead for Y/N’s forgiveness, one of the soundboard technicians walks in. Her name is Irene. It wasn’t that hard to remember her since she was trying to butter up to him countless times. He always said no, though.

“Hey Mr. Styles, rough day?” Her hips swiveling exaggeratedly, obviously trying to catch his eyes. She sits down next to him, so close he could feel the heat of her body radiating off of her.

His phone buzzes in his hand, a message from ‘Y/N.’ He swipes to read the message,

“hey, im gonna go head out to the library for a while. I’ll be home late. Text me if you want me to buy you dinner. Sorry, H”

He smiles lightly, but it eventually fades. Even after he just insulted her, she was still willing to care for him and prioritize his needs instead of coming home earlier.

“Hi, it’s fine, be safe. Im sorry too,” He texts back swiftly.

Irene looks at him expectantly, as if demanding his attention.

“How are you, Mr. Styles,” She questions, leaning in closer.

“I’m grea--,”

*buzz buzz*

“Im going with alan btw”

Harry’s brows furrow in sudden anger. Alan? Him again? His fists clenched, his heart aching, but his body was burning with jealousy. He decides to leave her on ‘read’, locking his phone right away.

He clears his throat, “Yeah, pretty rough actually. What about you?”

“Better now that you’re here,” Irene’s eye drop down in a hefty wink. Her manicured hand now glossing over his outer thigh. He shifts.

“That’s uh-that’s great,”

“Problems with the missus, Mr. Styles?”

“I guess you could say that. But erm,  Harry’s fine,”

She looks at him oddly, “Why are you talking about yourself in the third person,”

What the fuck? He thinks to himself.

“No, I meant you can call him Harry,”

She nods, “What seems to be the problem here? I can make you forget about her, you know,”

His head clouded and his eyes focused in on her lips, then her exposed cleavage, then to her eyes. The same piercing  Y/E/C eyes that Y/N has.

Before he knew it, their lips were molding together. Smacking sounds filled the otherwise empty room. Their tongues lingered together while their hands roamed against the expanse of each others’ bodies. Was he allowed to do this? Of course not. So why was he doing it?

Soon enough she was sliding down his body, unto her knees between his legs. His jeans were pulled off and then he was naked. Her lips surrounding his thick shaft as he groaned in pleasure.

He returned the favour. That was when he wrote ‘Medicine’.

—–

As soon as Y/N and Harry entered the studio room on the sixteenth floor, the hustle and bustle stopped. Sarah stopped drumming her pen against her journal, Adam and Clare paused their conversation, Jeff was fixing something in the booth so he hadn’t noticed them enter. Mitch was just quiet, as usual.

“Y/N!” The band collectively shouted. It has been a while since she’s visited, they missed her very much.

Sarah invited her to sit down on the couch, pushing off her boyfriend to make space for Y/N. Clare and Sarah conversed with her, catching up on things they’d miss. All three girls were to busy with everything going on in their lives to properly talk and gossip with each other. Harry talks business with the guys, assuming since his laptop was opened and their faces looked far too serious to be banter.

A man walks into the room and Harry immediately shuffles to his feet. His head snaps towards Y/N, nodding her to stand up.

“Mr. Smith, this is Y/N. Y/N, Mr. Smith,” He introduces them to each other. Y/N’s heart calms a bit. So this is who he wanted me to meet.

It turns out, Mr. Smith wanted to meet the muse Harry had to write his banging songs recently. Although still in the process of being fine-tuned, he was impressed with Harry’s newfound ability to write seemingly hit after hit. After all, is said and done, Harry was ushered into the sound booth by Jeff to record some potential tracks. Mr. Smith had to leave to pick up his son. One by one, each member of the band took turns playing their instruments while Harry’s voice guided them. During Mitch’s turn, Harry blessed everyone with his angel-like voice.

“How are you and Harry doing?” Clare asks, curiosity laced in her tone.

“I second that question! Haven’t seen you guys together in a while, is everything okay?” Sarah raises her brow as if to say ‘you can tell us anything’

Just as Y/N was about to answer, the door opens again to reveal a woman. Y/N wouldn’t have paid mind to her like everyone else, except that he could hear Harry’s voice strain a little. In concern, she looks up to her boyfriend, finding his eyes focused on the woman who entered recently, captivated as it seems. Her eyes follow his and land on said woman. She does a double-take at her, trying to figure out where she had seen her face before.

“It’s going okay. We’re fine,”

Clare and Sarah share a look with each other, “Y/N, if something’s bothering you, you can tell us.” Y/N smiles at her friends appreciatively.

“H? Can you come with me for a bit? Need you to check in on something at the office,” Irene’s serene voice echoes through the microphone as she leans over to press a button on the control panel to transmit her voice through Harry’s headphones.

He nods instantaneously, disrupting the recording.

“Wha- Harry you can’t just leave in the middle of a recording!” Jeff dictates.

Harry shrugs, “She needs me,” He makes eye contact with her again, a suggestive look in his eyes. Irene bites her lips slowly.

Jeff sighs, waving him off. Instructing him to ‘come back quickly’. Mitch sets his guitar down on the stand. As if remembering that his girlfriend was here, Harry gives a smile to Y/N, which even she finds odd. He’s a lot stern with her these days; doesn’t smile very much.

Harry follows Irene out the door.

Fifteen minutes passed and Harry has still not returned yet. By now conversation has died down and Y/N scrolls through her phone. She receives a message from ‘UNKNOWN’.

“Aren’t you wondering where he is?”

“Attachment 1: Image”

Y/N waits for the photo to load and when it does, a sense of deja vu rushes through her body. A picture of a door was shown. Confused, she shows the picture to Clare and Sarah.

“Do you know where this is?”

They tell her that it’s the bathroom down the hall. Y/N has never walked this fast.

She hastily walks in the corridor, scared of what she’ll find. The door comes to view, her arms reach out to push the door open. And when it did, she swore that her heart dropped to her stomach.

Harry was thrusting into Irene swiftly, groaning at the pleasure he was receiving, both hands gripping her hips while his head buries itself on her neck. Both of their eyes were closed enjoying the intimacy in a public place.

Wait, Y/N thinks. She scrolls through the previous messages, holding up the phone to eye level before finding similarities in the woman on the screen and the woman currently being fucked by her boyfriend. They were the same person.

“Holy fuck,” Y/N says out loud. Apparently, Harry thinks that it was Irene since he replies with, “Yes baby, feels so good,”

“Okay, retry. What the fuck, Harry?”

The couple halts their actions, gasping and screeching once they see Y/N standing by the door holding it open. Y/N realize that the lack of barricade could expose Harry and potentially harm his reputation, so she closes it and immerses herself for what’s yet to come.

Even now, she cared for him.

Harry retrieves his pants up from his ankles, using his flannel to cover Irene’s exposed chest from Y/N’s view. The mirror was still foggy from their actions and her sweaty back.

“Y/N, it’s–”

“Not what it looks like? You have to be more original than that if you’re gonna cheat on me,” Y/N scoffs. Irene distressingly puts her clothes back on, shooting a glare at Y/N for probably ruining her orgasm. Y/N steps aside to let the ‘bitch’ go through, but not before seething at the girl, “Find someone single next,”

Once the door is shut again, Harry tries defending himself.

“She came onto me! I swear it was an accident, it didn’t–”

“Mean anything? Are you stupid? Did you slip and ‘accidentally’ land in her vagina? What the fuck,”

“S-she…”

“You know what? I’m done with you. I’m done being ignored by somebody who never once thought to put me first. After all this time, I thought you were slaughtering yourself with work, overworking yourself when really, you were busy fucking another woman!” Y/N’s eyes gloss over, but she did not dare let a tear slip past her waterline. He doesn’t deserve your tears.

“We were over a long time ago, you know that,” Harry said.

This twists the knife in Y/N’s chest. Over? They were never ‘over’.

“The fuck Styles? Are you high? We never broke up! We’re still, we’re still Y/N and Harry,” She really wishes they weren’t having this conversation in a bathroom, while Harry still had sex hair and no shirt.

He looks at her with intensity, “You should’ve known. We stopped being us a long time ago,”

Her breath hitches then and she quickly makes a decision to go against her values of never giving cheaters or liars a second chance.

“T-that’s not true. We can make this work, I’m willing to forgive you just please…” Y/N pleads.

He looks at her sympathetically, the only emotion he’s currently feeling right now–not guilt, shame or remorse.

“I love her, Y/N. She has my heart now. Not you,”  He whispers the last part, almost not believing his words himself. Through years, he’d always thought that he’d spent the rest of his life with Y/N. Nevertheless, he should learn to change his vision of the future–with Irene.

“I guess you really did find someone better, huh?” Y/N wipes a rogue tear but remains strong. She may have considered forgiving him, but now his chances are zero; not like he’d care anyway.

“Yeah, I did. I’m sorry. I don’t feel the same anymore,”

“Well good for you! Thanks for breaking my heart and not telling me that we broke up. Asshole, I swear. Hope you made the right choice cause I know I won’t make the mistake of trusting you again,”

Harry rolled his eyes, he just wanted this conversation to be over. Frankly, it was getting a little chilly in the bathroom. “Yeah, sorry,”

Y/N swallowed a lump in her throat, realizing that this was probably the last conversation she’d ever hold with him.

“About my stuff, I’ll be out of your way soon enough. Have fun with your new flavour,”

“That’s what I hoped and gee thanks, have fun with yours too if you ever get over me,”  Harry smirk at her menacingly.

She rolls her eyes, burning from the tears she held back. She remains strong.

“Don’t worry, I will.”

—–

Six months later, Y/N graduates university with her best friend and current boyfriend, Alan.

Irene gets a job as a music producer thanks to Harry’s fame, money, and connections.

Harry misses Y/N.

—–

well, that’s that

#harry styles #harrystyles #harry #styles #harry styles oneshot #harry styles oneshots #harry styles one shot #harry styles one shots #harry styles imagines #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #angst #writing #one direction #cheatin #harry styles cheating #a cheat

[coteriesrp]

– KAT HAS BEEN ACCEPTED WITH ANGEL! CONGRATULATIONS!

I am absolutely in love with how in depth you went on the character connections especially, you really nailed them so well. The rest of your app is gorgeous too, I love your vision for Angel and I’m excited to see how he plays out, but your vision of the connections were what made me the most unreasonably hype to see how he’d interact with everyone. Not only did you demonstrate a beautiful understanding of your own character, but everyone else’s too, and I can’t wait to see how that expands into some really fun dynamics.

         — KIT

Damn, well. You took this skeleton by the throat and really went, "this is mine now," huh? When I keep repeating that I love player creativity and interpretation, I mean that. I read your app and I see the potential of dynamics and situations and interpersonal shittery that can and will ensue, the dynamicism of interaction that make RPs exciting and come to life. I love your Angel. I love who you saw in him and the potential you embued in him.

        — GHOST

You’ll be sent a link to our Discord shortly and have 24 hours to accept the invite or your role will be reopened.

out of character info.

ALIAS › kat

PRONOUNS › she/her

AGE › 20+

TIMEZONE › GMT-4

in character info.

CHARACTER › angel maldonado

GENDER & PRONOUNS › cis man, he/him

APPARENT AGE › mid 30’s

DISCIPLINE › thaumaturgy, auspex, dominate

DEMEANOUR ›

A devil exists in the bones of a not-quite man, a not-quite specter, a near monster. His smile only appears as if ghostly, a turn of lips only caught in quick glances, double-takes, the perceiver unsure whether it were ever truly there at all. He’s built of feet caught slipping in blood, created of dark magic and the taste of humanity on starving lips. He’s a tempter, built of something unholy, something powerful flickering under a darkened gaze, hints of life – of unlife. He’s nothing, he’s everything. It’s so easy for him to play roles, to play parts, a stoic disposition, quiet and thoughtful. He always seems to know what’s lingering under the surface, either analyzing and understanding, breaking into minds and thoughts or just straight bullshitting, lying through the black mystique of his pupils, the permanent circles of his iris’. He’s as sharp as the blade that cuts a clean line between earth and space, heaven and hell, a patron saint of switchblade fights, so very dangerous, so very powerful and gluttonous because of it.

He’s so carefully collected, so permanently unbothered, unreachable, untouchable. He makes himself something invincible on the surface, drags it deep enough into his very being that you cannot break the glamour of it but beneath such structures lay chaos. He laid the bricks of his being with long, painful drags of stone and masonry, worked and worked and worked until you could not see the newborn behind such towers of brick. His humanity bubbled and steamed underneath it, made his fingernails look like claws, his teeth look like daggers, made his image monstrous, even to himself. This was not going to read on his face, not going to come out in his words or actions, but only perceived in the sometimes blankness of his stare, the occasional pauses in his movements. It comes out in small portions, a far away look in his eyes that shows the gore and bloodshed he’s created, that of which he himself birthed.

Do not look too closely, for you may fear what you find.

JOINING THE COTERIE ›

He sees a hierarchy, sees a chair fit for sitting, sees a staircase and glass ceilings capable of being shattered. He feigns loyalty, pretends to be a sorcerer with nothing but the Camarilla in mind but there’s something so very beautiful about a thing of history, a coterie built over so much time, so well known, well structured at least in the intentions of it. There’s something even more beautiful about reaching for the very top, about stealing something that is not rightfully yours but yours nonetheless. He doesn’t think he needs to be a piece of a larger conglomerate, doesn’t need others to ‘scratch his back’ so to speak but he knows what glory he can claim, what life he can revive in the pieces of Camarilla. He sees it the same way he sees all things, all beings, all existences – a chess piece on his board, and, oh, the things he will do to achieve greater power.

(UN)LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY ›

Victory, success. He was chosen for a reason, the Tremere’s not known for careless Embrace, the vitae flowing through him given as a gift, as a curse, to hold the power seen in him by a kindred, by his sire. From the beginning he had taken the idea of unlife in stride, had accepted his new powers and channeled everything in his being into becoming skilled, into becoming the best. He was a glutton for power, greedy for perfection and he sought it in every slice of his blade, every fiber of being. He was born first to be talented, to grow and stain the face of humanity as much as a vermin could, as much as something so delicate, designed of blood and veins, could manage. He was then reborn to overpower them, all of them, to play God in all the ways he was allowed. This was his battlefield, his warzone, his empire in the making. He thinks highly of himself because he was designed to be so, things come easy to him, skills, knowledge, people – he never has to look far, and when he does, when existing simply isn’t enough, he reaches his hungry grasp into battered rib cages and forces out what he must with palms of mess and gore.

THOUGHTS ON HUMANITY ›

Humanity was both the best and worst thing to ever happen to him. It haunted him, his own slipping mortality pooling between his fingers in bloody rivlets, pouring out of his ears at night, disappearing in his shadows when he passed by lampposts. He was blessed by the perspective it gave him, by the mind it cultivated and cursed by the weakness of it, the fleshiness that came with feelings like remorse and guilt and sympathy. These things only worked in the form manipulation, past that they ate him alive, made homes in his empty organs, his bloodless heart. There was nothing to be sought after in such emotions, in such helplessness, and yet he finds himself concerned about what will happen if he loses it, if it disappears from his frozen veins and leaves him with nothing more than hunger. Is ambition a human trait? Is winning a human sport? The very things he bases his unlife on are things he may lose with the slipping grasp of his most human parts, and that is a fate worse than death.

LIFE EVENTS ›

Angel had always had potential, had always been a smear on the existence of the world, talented in the most nefarious regards. He worked nights, worked in clubs and underground rings of torture and suffering, had never been free of sin, had never been a holy man despite how very often he had found himself in churches. The ringing of those bells woke him up each morning despite the hours of no sleep, the idea of a God knocking outside the windows of his home had sounded so much like sacrilege bleeding out from under his bed. He was designed to be killed, born to be dead, and the number of years he had survived as a human were only there to make him stronger. He hadn’t known it at the time but the meeting that ended his life made it very clear in the taste of inhuman blood; he was designed for this state of being, the power granted to him upon rebirth undeniable. It hurt like a bitch, but all good things do, all things worth time, worth effort come from open wounds and he had bled and bled until his veins ran dry.

Now his stomach remained full, now his hands cast spells and curses, made the world shift and crack to his will.

His life before all this was nothing. The family he was born into, the world he grew up in paled so easily in comparison; the people who abandoned him, the stench of human skin, of having to work twice as hard as everyone else. These things rang hollow, these things were so easily forgotten in the newness of his grip, in the permanence of his grandiose. Angel is no thing of heaven, no winged savior or child of God. He was stolen so easily by the darkness, the heavy and loud drip of wax pouring down his back from the lit wick of the burning sun – none of it could stop him. He sought greatness, sought a solar flare in the other frozen beings around, sought their sources, their energies, what made them tick, what made them burn under the skin as easily as over it. Their epidermis could not be touched by light, but he was a blazing creature.

The first life he had stolen was before the added touch of bloodlust, before precious liquids fed his abilities, and even then it was to protect himself. He had taken the soul from the body of a man who had seen too much, wrong place, wrong time in the matter of Angel’s business. It was quicker than it was now, it was the pull of a trigger in a basement in Seattle, Washington in the year 1993. He remembered it so well because the sky wouldn’t stop screaming, wouldn’t stop crying. It was as if the world was mourning the first flash of the Beast that survived within him, that lay dormant for just a year more.

Still, the church bells sound, still they ring even through the torrential downpour, the blood flooding down into the open drain of concrete.

Yes, an angel indeed.

EXPANDING CONNECTIONS › (Note: these are all written entirely from the characters perspective so comments on “being more powerful” or “more intelligent” than other canons is strictly in his POV and not a reflection on what I as a mun think because characters are generally created equal ect. ect.)

ZAKI › He can’t be read easily and that’s the first thing Angel notices about him, the first thing he sees in him. Zaki is unhinged, that much is prevalent, he contains a level of insanity, of impunity in his existence. He’s looking out for himself first and foremost, he’s a monster built of self-reliance but then again, aren’t they all? He bleeds aggression – his presence, his aura, colored so brightly despite his dark demeanor, similar to the way that poisonous beings spread rainbows in the wild to warn other creatures away. He was just that – a creature. He could rip the throats out of flies, could disembowel Gods and monsters with the nails of his fingers. He was desirable for this, was always in the corner of Angel’s eye, somewhere in his thoughts, someone he considers in every plan he makes, every move of his chess pieces on the board. In his eyes there are only two ways he sees Zaki’s future – either on his side or not at all.

DIZZY › They dance around each other like twin shadows, arms outstretched, spines bent ever-so-slightly in a constant readiness for battle, hands composed to reach towards demise, prepared to draw. They are built very different from one another, not alike in their understanding as much as their intelligence, their strategy. One wants the other to drown, the other waits for their opponent to sink. Angel wants dominance, he wants power, to invade into her pretty mind, her delicate craft of a bubbly disposition. He doesn’t buy it for a fucking minute, doesn’t indulge in the pattering of her ways, doesn’t believe the face she wears so openly – she’s a farce, she’s a liar, but so is he. He thinks manipulation is her greatest power but beyond that she’s weak. One sees into the other, built of wavering hands, unpulled triggers – they play nice because they have to, because it’s smart. Ask him how he feels about the girl and his expression remains unimpressed, almost baffled, because why the fuck would he care about her? What makes her special? The unspoken words like poison on his tongue, do not make it past sharpened teeth but if they could, if they had, they would be spit with venom and distaste, perhaps excitement if only in the demise of another, the superiority of his build he would says, “I’m capable of devouring her whole.”

GUERRA › He sees too much of himself in the other, sees too many similarities in their beings to count but one thing is stark between them – the line of selfishness, the matter of their end goals. Guerra is so very interested in his own entertainment, not nearly as ambitious as he is bored. Angel sees potential in him, sees something useful but can’t stand his presence long enough to seek it out. He hates something about him, something about his mannerisms, about his being. Perhaps it’s the challenge in him, the competition of their spirits, of their greatest talents as far as charm and manipulation, but Angel would just claim it’s because he’s fucking annoying.

HAREL › He’s going to break and destroy the city from the inside out, he’s going to let his ghosts catch him and then he’s going to unleash them like hellfire from the bases of his being, the very center of his chest. He’s not nearly as stable as he is powerful and that’s what’s going to consume him, his humanity too potent, his demons too strong for leashes or chains made of steel and gold. Angel is cautious of him, is interested in him, and wants so very badly to manipulate him to his will, to befriend him, to own him. He wants to be the wick that sets light to the molotov of his very being, wants the Beast hidden under those delicate emotions of his to be on his side, to be a part of his plans. To control the assassin, he first must understand him.

DIVYA › She thinks they’re friends, he considers it more of a partnership, more of a game as most things are. She’s entertaining, she’s promising – she’s not as strong as he is. There’s something almost endearing about her, about her youth, about her fire. She wants so badly to be taken seriously, he sees it in the straightness of her spine, the clenching of her jaw. She’s not ready for all the things she wants, she’s not seasoned enough to know how to get them, but he is. She’s not as powerful as she can be yet, but she will be. All these things can so easily fit together and become a bigger picture, a stronger bond, and so he helps with what he can, mirth hidden in advice and made examples of.

PEACH › Chaos in its purest form, uncontrollable and wild. He has no use for her, knows he couldn’t manipulate her, but still he finds her to be one of the more interesting creatures he’s laid eyes on in recent memory. He’s fascinated by her if nothing else, drawn to her for reasons he can’t quite explain considering she tended to embody all the things he should hate, all the things he can’t corrupt, can’t touch. It looks good on her, looks intoxicating, and while he isn’t one for mortal desires she brings out something unique in him, something worth pondering.

JAZIRI › There’s no denying how valuable the seer can be, how useful their abilities can become but even beyond that Angel finds something of interest in them. Jaziri is one of the few he delves further than the skin, deeper than the chess piece. He finds her calming, finds her interesting, ironically, behind the eyes. She’s much more than what’s on the surface, her thin-blood perhaps stirring something more intoxicating in her being. He wants to know more about her, wants to indulge her beyond the collected mask. He feels as if she knows something, as if she’s hiding, and he wants to know what it is. To gain trust you must give it, to learn secrets you must spill some of your own.

miscellaneous info.

EXTRAS ���

I made a sideblog here!

https://angelofcamarilla.tumblr.com/

#accepted. #angel.

[ncyua-blog]

dead in a ditch.

CHEM X — what really happened, part 1.

with @ncdoug​, @ncjaein​, and @ncyeonju​.

it's easier than she expected. maybe it has something to do with the drugs in her system, or the sudden rage that just took over her at the sight of his smug, sleazy smile. he lands with a loud thump and she's certain she heard a crack the moment his head makes contact with the bottom of the staircase. even in this state of mind, the reality of what she just did dawns on her.

"i swear i didn't mean to do that."

jaein — things happen in slow motion. yua pushes and junyoung falls. he falls backwards, head first and lands at the bottom of the landing like a broken marionette. all the while, jaein laughs. they're terrible people, but yua isn't. yua's a good girl who's maybe too naive for her good but she's not a killer, she's not like the rest of them. it all takes a second to process, the laughters still lilting off of her tongue but her hands are clinging to the hem the railing white knuckled in terror. "junyoung, get the fuck up." she heard the crack as well as anyone else, and jaein's no doctor but she knows enough about the human anatomy to know he's in a bad way. "seriously get up, people might think you're dead or something."

doug — he runs to the railing—it happens too fast for him to yell—but when he hears the sudden crack against concrete his mouth gives way to sound. it's enough of a fall to make him recoil and his hands fist into balls by his chest still cold from the metal banister. "whoa, whoa, whoa, what the fuck, yua?!" he cries out, eyes shot wide. jaein's laughter bounces off the walls in giant waves and doug's heart beats on overdrive. his feet don't budge, though. he can't lift them. "hyung?"

yeonju — she’s thoroughly inebriated, careless with the way she handles her vices. pop a pill, wash it down. many more to follow in once the high hits an hour in. she’s barely focused enough to notice (instead, cigarette in hand, her eyes are fixated on her phone) attention drawn only from the photo app at doug’s cries. “what?” a laugh, “wait what—what’d she do?” yeonju bites onto the butt, inhaling deeply while she steps forward, fingers curling around the rail support as she leans into doug, peeking from over his shoulder. “what the fuck?” it comes out as a laugh—disbelief perhaps—“this a joke?” yeonju presses her free hand into the boy’s back, “move, doug—go.”

yua — "i'm sorry — i didn't mean to." she takes a step back, followed by another, her gaze never leaving junyoung's body at the bottom of the staircase she rubs her eyes when she thinks she sees red. no. that's just the drugs making shit up. "he — he's fine. he has to be." funnily enough, she doesn't want him to be. deep down, she knows he deserved it. but it doesn't stop her voice from quivering and her hands from trembling. after all, she did just push a man to his death. a sorry excuse of a man, but someone nonetheless.

jaein — it's automatic, the need to run down the stairs and check on him— human instinct and nothing more.  she doesn't like junyoung, not really, but there's some overwhelming concern in her to check on him. jaein needs to abate her fears. he can't be dead, not really, who the fuck dies at twenty-five? who the fuck gets pushed by a girl half his age and dies? her feet beat hard against concrete stairs and the closer she gets the more she can see the aftermath of it all. his chest isn't moving, his eyes gaze into nothingness, she bets if she touched him there wouldn't be a hint of a pulse. "jesus christ," she kneels closer to him trying to shake the panic that rises in her voice. she looks to the top of the stairs and face mirroring something close to confusion or anger, she's not sure which anymore. "jesus fucking christ, he's not breathing!"

doug — the hand against his back sends shivers straight down his spine and to the ends of his toes and they curl in his sneakers. the ball of his foot lifts off when jaein runs down and he's suddenly two steps behind her. "hyung!" he yells again. not even dead static. with hands splayed out and legs twisted, junyoung's nothing but a dead wishbone. doug wishes he'd come the fuck back up for air. jaein's voice sounds like water in his ears and hands reach out for junyoung's jacket collar even though he's fucking terrified of the picture on the other side. hands shaking violently, he turns junyoung over. his nose is out, that much is for sure. red pools all around his nostrils and mouth, and there's a peculiar glinting lustre about his gray face. the kind of sheen that whispers to doug that they're all hellbound. 

“hyung. what the fuck. you’re just playin’ with us, right? that’s what this is. wake the fuck up man. you're just playin. stop fuckin' playin.”

yeonju — of the four she is frozen, heels glued to the floor and dilated pupils fixed on the broken body at bottom of the stairs. wisps of smoke slipping past parted lips. for a long moment, time is slowed, attention stolen by red spilled across skin, the glazed look in his eyes. then, unfreeze. “shit,” she curses, eyes flicking over the entrance of the alleyway, noting the occasional car in passing. “fuck,” yeonju hisses, discarding the cigarette to make her way down, hand gripping onto the railway tightly. “we need to get him inside, now!”

yua — doug turns him around and yua stills. so it wasn't the drugs fucking with her vision. finally, she looks away, gaze now on yeonju who tells them to get him inside. but her feet are planted on the concrete floor, unwilling to follow the older girl's instructions. instead, tears start welling up and she goes into panic mode. "no no no no, this was not supposed to happen." her back faces them now as she remains at the top of the staircase. "god, what the fuck?!"

jaein — there are things in life jaein's never considered— what it feels like to put her hand in a pool of blood, what it feels like to take a dead man in her arms, what it feels like to know she's damned for the rest of eternity. it's only the adrenaline that keeps her going, that convinces her it's a good idea to tug at a corpse and try her best to pull it up with her menial strength. they never tell you what to do in moments like these. schools never teach what should happen if you accidentally murder someone. but the feeling of a dead man's body leaning against hers throws her mind into over gear trying to figure out where to go next, what to do next, how to get out of this fucked up situation. "fucking get down here and help us, yua!" she can feel hot tears cascading down her face and she can hear the way her voice shakes with fear and anger, "it's your mess you should help clean it up."

yua — he deserved it, she tells herself in her head as she paces around, tears rolling down her face. christ, she isn't nearly as high enough for this as she should be. jaein's harsh words snap her out of it and she hastily wipes the tears away with the back of her hands, sniffling a little. "right — i'm sorry." this is her mess. she was the one that pushed him. she was the one that killed him. but that's all they know — aside from doug. and there's so much more behind it than just a mere push that stemmed from a simple argument. she jogs down the stairs, stumbling a little when she makes it down. for some reason, carrying the dead body doesn't bother her as much as it should. not when she already killed the guy. that takes the cake. she hardly feels any regret when she looks at his face. all she can see is that stupid, smug smile seconds before she pushed him.

doug — his head's lost in the gutter and it's sewage all around him. the body's not even a minute in and doug's already warding off thoughts of decomposition as his stomach pumps harder to quell any chance of upchuck. at least now that he's facing up the blood won't drag onto the concrete but having to look at junyoung's face like this isn't doing anyone any favors. after a moment's struggle they break the threshold and junyoung's halfway into the entryway. doug lets yua and jaein drag him the rest of the way in as he scampers towards the back and shuts—locks the door. their breathing is ragged in the quiet that follows. "w-." he starts, pathetically. "is." he tries again. "can." his mouth's parched and his brain's not letting him finish any sentences tonight. doug grits through the haze. "can someone check his pulse or something."

yeonju — she's seen bodies. death by overdose. by being at the wrong place at the wrong time. by  carrying the wrong drugs for the wrong people. this shouldn't be any different. yet it is, because she knows him. it is, because the killer, the guilty party—lies with yua. and by association, them. it is because they're involved now, hands covered in blood, hands chilled on a body of waning warmth. fuck. "he's dead, doug." yeonju wishes she could strive for a better way to put it. but as it is, things are already hard to navigate with bone, blood, skin thrumming on a high. but to better satisfy his nerves (not really), yeonju kneels beside the body, fingers pressing into the under of his jaw. nothing. "dead," she repeats, almost spatting while she reaches for the pack of smokes in her pocket. finding it unable to think with her mind on such a high. "why—" her eyes turn to them, brows furrowed. and perhaps it is fucked up, but yeonju is more so worried about the repercussions than the act itself. "why the fuck did you push him?"

doug — dead. the statement hits him like a boulder. two years in the gang and he's always found it funny that the word never crossed his path until this moment. when yeonju sinks her teeth into yua like that—it feels like the boulder's sunken to the bottom of the ocean floor. it's another thud that gets his pulse racing and that's when he remembers: the words leading up to the fall and everything before it. the way so many weeks ago junyoung pinned yua to a corner and pressed a thumb to her cheek like she was prey. why the fuck did you push him. doug's breath hitches. he looks up.

jaein — words sit at the tip of her tongue, a million things jaein's dying to say but no words come out. instead, she's squats looking at junyoung's lifeless body because morbid curiosity won't let her tear her eyes away. bloodied hands sit steeple an pressed against her face. it's all so surreal she can barely process anything that's going on, everything sounds like static and she only makes out select words, "pulse" and "dead" and the tail end of whatever yeonju's saying. only then does jaein look up, eyes focused on yua and her naïve looking face and then her gaze trails back down to junyoung, cold and dead on the floor. "it's not like she was aiming to shove him down a fucking staircase yeonju," jaein snaps, and she's not so sure why. she's just as curious as everyone else and yet there's an urge to defend yua's innocence, something still pure and stable to cling to. "i'm sure we all have our reasons for wanting to shove junyoung, he's a piece of shit."

yua — why the fuck did you push him? yua looks up at yeonju like a deer caught in headlights before immediately looking away. the vivid memory replays in her head again, as it did during the argument, as it did right before she pushed him. "i — i didn't mean to." she mumbles, hugging herself in the corner of junyoung's shitty living room as if that'll make her disappear. that doesn't answer yeonju's question and she's well aware of it. still, even in a moment like this, the truth — the reason sits on her tongue like the pills she had taken earlier, just sitting and waiting to be let out. "but he," sniffling, she looks over at his body. "he deserved it." she meets doug's eyes for a brief moment. "you know he did."

yeonju — take a breath. before you say something wrong. yeonju knows fully well what sits on her twitching tongue, threatening to slip out. her eyes flutter wildly, mouth dry, heart pounding a mile a minute. it is impossible to think like this, she knows, already pulling out a cigarette to replace her last one. in desperate need to for a depressant. "there is a difference," she starts, biting out the words as she lights the smoke, "between fucking up someone who deserves it," her eyes flick over to jaein, narrowing slight. "and completely screwing us over—you know that right?" who they'll report this to—who will handle it at yuripa, yeonju doesn't even want to think about. "i need a fucking drink." she mumbles, pushing herself up. "and we need to get rid of the body."

doug — doug's upper lip bubbles with sweat. the fan in junyoung's apartment winds above their heads and the sirens outside his window blare on like any other day in the life but the look in yua's eyes takes him back to one day in particular that sits heavy in his heart. he looks away. "junyoung's..." another sentence left unfinished but the silence says enough; doug's voice goes deeper, softer, like a scratch on the wall. "it was an accident." he says, to yeonju, to yua, to no one in particular, to junyoung. it sounds like an apology.

yua — yua covers her face with her hands, bloody fingers tightening around her hair. killer is the last thing someone would link back to her. it's the last thing she wants to call herself. yet, here she is. literal blood on her hands, and on her friends' as well. all of them are gonna get shit for this and it's all her fucking fault. she removes her hands from her face and she's back to staring at junyoung's dead body. "no — we shouldn't move the body. we... we need to put him back in the stairwell." her words are frantic as she fights the urge to wipe the blood on her hands onto the wall behind her. "'cos it was an accident."

yeonju — yeonju finds it hard to think, dragging her feet over to the kitchen counter, her hand reaches for the closest plastic cup and downs it in favor of relieving her cottonmouth, inhaling deeply to calm her nerves. vaguely, she hears doug speak, knowing fully well that it was their only option now. "we already moved the body," the frown on her lips deepens, bloodied fingers rubbing into her temple as she turns to face them, eyes flicking from yua to doug to jaein and to the dead body laying on the floor, "listen, everyone at joule saw us together. he," she points at the body for emphasis. "was nowhere near high enough to get into an "accident" — none of us can be tied to this, none."

doug — “—but he took an extra hit.” doug interrupts. “that’s how this whole thing started.”

yua — she's read enough books, seen enough news on this to somehow get an inkling of what they could do to save themselves from this mess. "can't we just... make it look like he was high enough?" in other words, pump his body with enough drugs to make it look like he overdosed. he was nearing that line anyway.

yeonju — "and what? you're going to do it?" shes snappish, rightfully so, lips downturned as she looks around. "fine, we'll shoot him up and throw him down the stairs—and then we'll go home and it'll be like none of this ever happened." she eyes her friends, lips pressed. "i'm serious, tell no one."

doug — "wait—before that." doug kneels down. as if in a trance he takes junyoung's right arm into his hands, guiding junyoung's hand into the pocket of his sweatpants to claw out his phone. it lands onto the floor but doug carefully guides it back up to junyoung's stomach with his deadweight hand. the deadweight hand unlocks the phone with its deadweight thumb. doug stands up with wobbly knees but he fights past the nausea. "you guys... do what you have to do. there's more [omitted] in my backpack if you need it. i'm gonna try somethin'."

yua — yua slowly nods, getting up with weak knees. the tears have stopped coming, because quite frankly, he didn't deserve them. right now, she needs to get her shit together and help the rest of them out. "i'll get some more..." she walks to the kitchen, opening the cabinet beneath the sink and reaching under for the stash she knows he keeps there. with shaky hands, she drops the wrapped bag filled with a variety of drugs beside his body. she averts her gaze when she spots something painfully familiar among the pills. he deserved it.

yeonju — yeonju watches absently, noting the way her fingers shake with mounting irritation as she inhales, lashes fluttering with the nicotine filling her lungs and chest. "try whatever you need to." if it'll actually help. though it's difficult to worry, instead her attention fixates on the lifeless body beside her, eyes flicking over the scattered drugs laid out before them (and resisting the urge to take some herself). "well we can't make him swallow any—" she curls her fingers around a needle, digging through the assortment for a vial, "yua, lift him up."

yua — yua bites her bottom lip, doing as yeonju says and lifting junyoung's body up with a bit more struggle than earlier, stretching out his left arm in the process. it seems that the numbness from the drugs is starting to wear off. instead, an overwhelming sense of dread sets in, more than earlier now that the high slowly leaves her body.

jaein — there's something funny about this. everyone assumes their roles so easily. yeonju leads the pack, doug grabs the drugs, yua preps junyoung. everyone has their equal part in damning them all to hell, and jaein sits by idly all the meanwhile. if it weren't so macabre she might laugh. she's a genius who can't manage to wrap her head around what's gone wrong. when did they all become so well versed in murder and how to get away with it? slowly, she steps forward and kneels down next to yua and junyoung. "well come on now, if we're going to cover up a murder let's at least make it look realistic, huh?" there's a sing-song tone to her voice, as if it's all a game. gone is the shrieking and the fearful undertone, she's calm and steady as she pulls off her belt and tightens it around his cold graying arm, "let's make him look like a real junkie lowlife, that way the cops won't even begin to bother to care."

doug — doug paws off the sweat running down his face with the back of one hand as the other sifts through endless pages of junyoung’s contacts. the characters blur into one another on the screen; the sigh doug lets out is harsh, battered with frustration. the high is still rocking his system. "where the fuck is it, coulda sworn hyung had it in here somewhere." he thinks back to a conversation that'd taken place over a half-squashed cigarette. 

“what? whaddya mean?” doug had gawked. 

“i mean, they’re gone. they lost the goods, so i made sure they got lost, too.” junyoung returned, waving his phone boastfully. doug had barely caught a glimpse of the name but there it was. 

it'd made him shiver then the same way it makes him shiver now even though the rest of his body and the bodies scurrying around him are burning up from anticipation and adrenaline and the drugs. 

with one last swipe, he finds the clearing. there it is. 

he jots the number down onto his phone, then locks junyoung’s. his feet shuffle back hurriedly to yeonju’s side and he places the phone next to the corpse. "okay," he says, before a sudden realization dawns on him. “fuck,” doug looks at junyoung's phone. "fingerprints, i forgot."

#ncdoug #ncjaein #ncyeonju #&&. DEAD IN A DITCH. #&&. CHEM X. #&&. WITH DOUG. #&&. WITH JAEIN. #&&. WITH YEONJU. #uh oh spaghetti o's

[nrobinson3389-blog]

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[coteriesrp]

– ADDY HAS BEEN ACCEPTED WITH DIVYA (AS NEELAM GILL)! CONGRATULATIONS!

You really went above and beyond on the character extras, holy shit. The app stands incredibly well on its own, providing a crystal clear image of your take on the character, your beautiful writing style, and nailing the vibe I had in mind absolutely perfectly; and then the extra work you did on establishing a background for her that really grounds her in the world provides such a tasty icing on top. Really looking forward to how much she and Dizzy are gonna get on each others’ nerves.

         — KIT

I love your writing, first off. It's the first thing I noticed, reading your application.  I was immediately taken by your portrayal of Divya, hard and ambitious and as Ventrue as Ventrue can be, pre- and post-Embrace. But the bit that really, really caught me was: "She still remembers the warmth of his blood staining her palms and fingers, and the way he tasted so foul. One thing became clear – her curated palate had no taste for the greedy." Do I really need to say ANYTHING beyond that? I'll just let your writing there stand on its own.

        — GHOST

You’ll be sent a link to our Discord shortly and have 24 hours to accept the invite or your role will be reopened.

out of character info.

ALIAS › addy

PRONOUNS › she/her

AGE › 23

TIMEZONE › gmt -6

in character info.

CHARACTER › divya patil

GENDER & PRONOUNS › cis woman ; she/her

APPARENT AGE › twenty-five years old

DISCIPLINE › auspex

DEMEANOUR ›

The unbridled thirst for power that courses through her veins is an unparalleled hunger; it permeates the very core of her being, multiplying into each cell, each nucleus, until the buzzing desire to control anything within her grasp consumes her in its ravenous flames. Her obsession with the concept of perfection has yielded a woman who abhors error in any form; those who have been cursed with the misfortune of her extended company are forced to reckon with her nit-picking, for Divya would never tolerate anything less than first-rate results. She’s quick to criticize, quick to undermine anyone who dares to stand before her. A cold, glacial exterior keeps her vulnerabilities locked tightly within. A part of Divya is foolish enough to believe that forcibly tearing her demons into small, bite-sized pieces and pushing them into the deepest, darkest crevices of her untouched mind may take away her weaknesses altogether. She speaks with hardened resolve, clinical and business-like at certain times & haughty and enraged at others. Her easily-ignited temper is the product of years of trauma, abuse, and mental degradation. Divya is and always will be the embodiment of power – from the way she holds her head high to the corruption she breeds in her heart.

JOINING THE COTERIE ›

Divya’s very existence has always hinged on the ability to step on others to lift herself up from her own ashes; as the daughter of one of New York’s most powerful influences perched upon the throne of Wall Street, she learned quickly that any and every man around her would come for blood if it mean subjugating her into nothing. Her aching desire to prove herself fostered the urge to join ranks with the most powerful forces around her. She often gravitated towards royal-esque entities, hoping to glean even the slightest bit of their golden-hued aura for herself – so to be offered the prestigious opportunity to join the ranks of generational power un her unlife felt almost like a reward for her trauma. To be bestowed with this chance – this gift… it felt right. Like this had been her destiny all along. She joined with arms outstretched, unbeating heart twisting at the ability to finally embrace a coterie that fitted her ideals of absolute perfection.

(UN)LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY ›

Her transition into the life of the Kindred allowed Divya to embrace the ravenous hunger that had always gnawed at the pit of her stomach; to be able to fully embody the petulant desire to tower high above others was a natural inclination that seized her almost immediately. Christened by the Clan Ventrue, Divya and her refined palate find a certain level of carnal pleasure in using the dimwitted Kine to her advantage. She had always been a bit exclusionary in her mortalhood – and now, as one of the undead, it feels only natural that she view vessels as nothing more than toys, devices, and forms of nutrition rather than as sentient, separate viewings. She views her new unlife as a transition for bigger and better things. The ability to pervade the senses, thoughts, and perceptions of the Kine bring her much joy, an adrenaline-induced power trip often following suit. Her philosophy surrounding her new state of being is what it had been when she had been a weaker, sniveling human fool – become greater than anything anything anyone has ever seen and then some.

THOUGHTS ON HUMANITY ›

Foolish, dimwitted sheep; Divya views nothing more disdainfully than she does her own time as one of the Kine. Humans had always been so painfully ignorant of their own capabilities, slaving away to graves of their own making – and now that Divya has been reborn as one of the Kindred, she sees them for what humanity truly is. A plague. Her archaic beliefs are abnormal for someone born in such modern society, but they linger nonetheless, dwelling in the hollows of her black heart until all she can see in humans is whether they are worthy of her finicky palate or would be better off left dead.

LIFE EVENTS ( tw: physical abuse. ) ›

manhattan, new york city, ny / 2013 – She was 23 years old; under her belt was a masters in business analytics from Columbia University. Divya had foolishly thought that such a fleeting accomplishment would earn her father’s good favor – but she learned quickly that not even exemplar grades and a prestigious institution would be enough to prove that she was worth her salt. She stood idly in the entryway to the large, sprawling penthouse her father called home, perfectly-manicured fingernails digging ever so slightly into the smooth surface of her iPhone. Dark hues watched with thinly-veiled anticipation as her father’s large figure paced intermittently in the wide living room. There was an air of impending doom sinking deep into her skin, burrowing into her bones and making a home in her marrow – but then again, it always seemed as if a deep sense of foreboding followed her wherever she went. All Divya had asked was whether her father had decided to appoint her to the position of CFO or not, as he had promised he would upon the completion of her degree. She had spoken calmly, measured tone far from minced, and had her head held high. Such an act, however, had been easily misconstrued as defiance. Heresy. She clenched her teeth together tightly as her father came to an abrupt halt. Her heart raced angrily in her chest, beating wildly against the confines of her ribcage, as she watched him turn then slowly make his way over to her. Divya didn’t dare speak; if she wanted her moment of glory, wanted her moment of appreciation, she would have to bide her time. When she looks into her father’s eyes, though, she sees nothing akin to pride. Instead, there was a look of disappointed rage. The fire lighting up her insides dimmed and before she could part her lips to ask what concerned him, his hand came sharply down against her cheek. Head snapped to the side and the dull throb of angry pain singing her face was nothing compared to the shame coiled deep in the pit of her stomach. She lowered her gaze, swallowing back the protest balancing at the tip of her tongue. “Never ask me again for something outside of your league,” her father warned, baritone growl low and menacing. “When you finally show promise worthy of anything more than a lowly intern position, then I will consider it. You think your Masters makes you any more qualified? Please.” His patronizing scoff crawled under her skin and twisted her insides. “If you want power, you’ll have to work harder than that.”

brooklyn, new york city, ny / 2016 – Two years of fighting tooth and nail for every promotion, every acknowledgment, every little success left Divya with jaded disgust regarding every little surrounding her; having every move she made analyzed so relentlessly by the tyrant who helped birth her proved to push Divya to maddening extremes. She had successfully taken on the role of CFO of her father’s company, ousting each and every person that dared to gaze upon her for a fraction too long – and her agonizing temperament left her with few friends and far too many enemies. She was unwavering, a beacon of pure mental fortitude – and soon enough, her name became associated with the harbinger of figurative death. Women like her were never meant to be dainty. She was as jagged as a blade, sharpened teeth ready to destroy anything that came too close… and such a tenacious attitude won the favor of her soon to be sire. A chameleon Kindred from the Ventrue Clan had discovered her blazing flame of potential like a diamond in the ruff, spotting her at a Fundraising Gala with the astute sharpness of a hawk. When he approached her, Divya immediately fell into the dangerous habit of sizing up her supposed prey – though little did she realize that the man before her was an apex predator to the nth degree. It was not a sordid love affair nor was it anything romantic in the slightest; the bond Divya developed with her future sire was one of mentor and mentee. She learned how to control her surroundings in a way that her father never could – and soon, she became filled with the thirst for more, to become so much stronger than she already was. The initiation into her unlife came both suddenly and slowly. The culmination of her sessions with her sire came in the form of a singular offer – would Divya like to become the strongest there ever was? It felt rhetorical; she had laughed at first before finally, she said – “Of course I do.” It was the clarity of her voice that won her sire’s confidence. She would make for a strong Kindred. The Embrace and her sire’s careful protection produced a fledgling with stone-faced potential. She learned the ways of her discipline carefully and diligently until she was able to take on her most coveted task – to take out the man that had turned her into the monster she was today. One year after her Embrace, her Sire made it clear that she was ready for her Becoming. But to prove herself one more time, Divya had to embody her most carnal desire. When she slipped into her father’s penthouse, the man was sleeping soundly in his bed. She stood idly at his bedside, head cocked and dark hues intent. When careful fingers slowly drew the blankets back, he stirred with a tired groan. It was the last sound he made before Divya let the Beast spill free, unbridled and fueled by rage. She still remembers the warmth of his blood staining her palms and fingers, and the way he tasted so foul. One thing became clear – her curated palate had no taste for the greedy.

EXPANDING CONNECTIONS ›

dizzy / Vapid, air-headed behavior incites the most ragged of violences from within Divya’s core; she had never taken kindly to those who take everything they have for granted and Dizzy’s painful bubbliness easily falls under this category. Perhaps, though, Divya’s obvious distaste for the girl stems from a place of vague jealousy. What is it like, to live so freely and free of shackled chains binding one’s ankles? Will she ever know, or will she always be a slave to her own work ethic? She has not a clue and perhaps that is exactly why Dizzy’s dizzying personality pulls at Divya’s desire to snap uncontrollably at the drop of a hat. Maybe one day – she can learn from the other. But only when the tension is finally relieved from her bones.

harel / Respect is not a sensation Divya gives out freely; to earn her respect is a game of whether you can bear the brunt of her heavy gaze or not – but somehow, Harel has managed to tear down the expectations Divya so often holds. Their quietude and ability to bear what feels heavier than humanly – or Kindred-ly – possible puts her in a state of silent awe. She dares not admit this, though, because that would be weakness. Instead, she studies them suspiciously in hopes of one day besting them. It does not sit well with her to feel so small and meager compared to another and so, she persists. Uncomfortable, begrudging respect has left her with no words to say.

angel / Rapt attention has always so childish – but it’s a sensation that cannot be helped when her eyes fall upon Angel. Their strange ways interest her and she can’t help but feel as if they are the only being in this coterie that understands her in a way beyond superficial. She chides herself often on the fact that perhaps her fascination is childish – like a schoolgirl crush – but it does little to quell the fact that the lingering desire to treat Angel not only with respect, but as an equal, continues.

miscellaneous info.

EXTRAS ›

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LAST WORD ›

hewo! i hope you guys enjoy reading this application! only thing i wanted to ask if you guys are open to any alternate fcs? an idea i had is neelam gill! it’s totally oaky though if you’d prefer keeping the current fc over an alternate! just thought i’d ask! thank you guys!

#accepted. #divya.