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aquietwritingcorner · 3 years

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Comfortember 2020 Day 1: Rescue Word Count: 1712 Author: Katie/Ally (aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl) Rating: T Characters: Olivier Armstrong Warnings: torture aftermath Summary: Olivier isn’t sure how long she’s been a prisoner. Tortured, beaten, experimented on, she’s lost all track of time. Fortunately for her, her Bears never were any good at giving up. Notes: This ties directly back into several Whumptober days: Day 1, Day 24, Day 30. All you really need to know is that Olivier was captured by Drachma and put into a prison called Rura Penthe (who’s name I totally stole from Star Trek sue me) and tortured by a man that even Drachman soldiers were terrified of named Geogreg Sodeset.

Rescue

One day Olivier would ask them how they did it. Drachma wasn’t in the habit of returning prisoners, especially high-ranking ones like she was. They also weren’t in the habit of letting people come to Rura Penthe. Rura Penthe was in the interior of Drachma, in the coldest region that had been discovered yet. It was supposed to be escape proof and impossible to break into. There was no way that anyone should have been able to come into this place to get her.

But if anyone could pull this off, it would be her Bears.

She was laying on the cold floor of her cell, her clothes having once again been removed so that the whip could be tested on her again. Sodeset enjoyed seeing just how his new whip affected her skin, apparently deeming her one of his favorite subjects. He would whip her, examine her, and then leave, taking notes all the while. She hated that she couldn’t do anything about it, but she was too weak and too injured to be able to fight back. The best she could do was keep her mouth shut and try to survive.

Even if escape or rescue seemed like an impossibility at this point. Death was a much more likely escape route.

She heard footsteps coming, but she didn’t bother to even try to move. Let them look down at her. She was in too much pain to move anyway. The footsteps stopped above her cell and she heard the door being opened. Was he coming back again? It seemed a little early for anyone to come back for her, but maybe her sense of time was skewed. It happened quite a bit. Or maybe they had just finally decided to kill her. She’d take that as a mercy.

She didn’t move, but she did glare up as best she could from her position, through the choppy mess that was what was left of her hair. She was more than surprised, though, when instead of any Drachman soldier, she saw Doc instead. Olivier blinked. That didn’t make sense. How could Doc be here? Was she hallucinating? She honestly wouldn’t put it past herself at this point from pain alone. Sodeset could have also put something on the whip. Actually, that would be likely for him.

Doc said something, but Olivier had trouble focusing on it, which she figured would be just as well for a hallucination. She hissed, though, when she felt a touch on her back. That certainly felt real! But then something was put on her back, and she cried out in pain. Whatever it was, it both burned and stung, and she wondered what kind of new torture she was being subjected to now. But after a moment, it cooled, and for what felt like the first time in months (years?) she felt relief.

“—neral. General. Olivier.” She turned her head towards Doc as much as she could, staring at her. Doc was looking at her, very concerned. “Are you still with us?”

There was something about her, that tone, that look, and Olivier had no idea how, but she knew that she wasn’t a hallucination. Somehow, Doc was real, and she was here.

“…of course…”

Her voice was weak, but Doc gave her a firm smile and Olivier’s heart ached at such a friendly, familiar thing it was. “Good. Then hang on. We’re getting you out of here.”

“…how?”

“Through the front door.”

That didn’t make any sense to her, but Olivier didn’t ask further. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to comprehend it right now anyway. The world around her did have a tendency to fade in and out. Still, Olivier kept an eye on Doc, not wanting to let the other woman out of her sight lest she disappear. Doc stood up, said something to someone above her, and then caught something. There was the noise of someone else coming down that detachable ladder, and she attempted to look to see who it was. Doc gently pressed her down, and Olivier flinched and let out a small noise of pain.

“General?” She said. “We’re going to dress you now. I’m going to bandage your wounds, and then we’re going to put clothes on you. It’s going to be painful, but you can’t go out like this.”

Olivier had no idea who ‘we’ was, but she gave a noise of assent.

The other person came into view, and Olivier got to see who it was. Miles. He looked just as stoic as ever, although she knew that was just a cover for the emotions he was feeling. Still, she latched onto it as best she could. She’d need his steadiness soon, she was sure. He knelt at her side and, although he said nothing, she derived comfort from his presence alone.

The bandaging process was extremely painful, and it was Miles’ gentle hands who helped her through it. She cried out in pain quite often, and by the end of it, she was shuddering with pain. Miles simply held her as Doc prepared the clothes and gave Olivier a moment to rest. She refused to pass out, though, too scared that if she did, when she awoke it would have all been a dream.

The clothes they dressed her in were thick, woolen, and soft, but they were still incredibly painful to put on. It was worth it, though, when Miles gently placed her in that fabric hammock she had woken up in, and she was lifted up and out of her cell for the first time in ages.

It was pulled to the side, and Doc was there, giving instructions as she was gently lifted from it to a stretcher. Other Briggsmen were there. They were the ones moving her, keeping the Drachman soldier at a distance, and surrounding her. She noted Falman there as well, who seemed to be rapidly talking to what looked like to be a Drachman official. He as doggedly pressing a point, but Olivier couldn’t focus enough to understand what he was saying. She was already having trouble focusing on the here and now. She did, however, see Geograg Sodeset standing nearby, looking highly upset that she was being taken away. Her breath caught as he laid eyes on her, and she could see true fury in them that frightened her to the bone. Then suddenly, Miles was between them and she was being covered with thick blankets, Doc still fussing over her. Her stretcher was picked up by the Briggsmen, and she was carried out.

She lost focus as they moved throughout the complex, only perceiving bits and pieces of it. But it was like stories she had read as a child, of coming up from an underworld. They passed people crying out in pain, begging for help, some cursing them for leaving, but the higher up they went, the less of that there was. The heat from the level she was in started to fade, the temperature around them growing cooler as they continued. And the light went from nothing but continuous red red red all around her to cooler tones and more natural colors. When they reached the front door and they opened it, a sharp, biting, frigid wind cut right through her. She gasped, and Doc frowned, encouraging the men to walk faster. Olivier, though, laughed. It felt good. It was not Rura Penthe. It was something else entirely.

It was as if that had broken the spell, and she finally lost track of what was going on. It was a flurry of activity, pain, and long forgotten sensations like cold and dark and snow and gentleness. Doc was right there in it all, her presence a stability that allowed Olivier to relax. But what helped even more was when she realized that Miles was next to her again, his glasses off, and looking down at her with highly concerned eyes.

“…Miles…” she breathed out, and he reached out to her, placing a gentle hand on her head.

“General.” He paused and then, after a moment dropped the formalities and instead leaned into their deep friendship. “Olivier.”

“How?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s complicated. But it is an official rescue. They can’t take you back.”

That eased her mind eased at least some of her fear, and she let out a breath, although it hitched in pain, and felt her eyes grow moist from the relief of knowing she wasn’t going to be in Sodeset’s hands. Miles’ brow creased at this.

“What did they do to you in there?” he asked, and she shuddered, thinking about the tortures she had been through—the worse ones she had seen that were Sodeset’s pet experiments. Something must have shown in her eyes, because Miles shook his head and didn’t press it. “No—I don’t need to know the details.” He frowned. “Rest. We’ll do the best we can to take care of you.”

She looked up at him, not ready to rest yet. “…How bad…?”

Miles hesitated, although Olivier didn’t know if it was because he didn’t know what to say or didn’t know how to say it. Doc didn’t hesitate, though, still working as she answered Olivier. “Bad,” she said. “It’ll be a long road to recovery, General, and if you just make it out with heavy scarring, you’ll be lucky. You’ll probably need to go to Central for a full recovery. But you will live—and knowing you, you’ll be fully functional one way or another.”

Doc’s words were, oddly enough, reassuring, and Olivier relaxed back into the cot that she was on. She realized for the first time that she was in the back of some sort of medical transport, with equipment in it, and other people around her. Briggsmen were around her, surrounding her, and she could hear their familiar voices. Olivier closed her eyes, a small smile turning up her lips. For the first time in who knew how long, she was able to relax, gaining comfort from her men and her friends surrounding her.

“Rest, Olivier,” Miles’ voice floated over her. “We’ll have you home soon enough. We won’t stop. We never did.”

And she didn’t doubt it.

#comfortember #comfortember 2020 #Day 1 #Olivier Mira Armstrong #FMA #fma fanfiction #Fullmetal Alchemist #Fullmetal Alchemist fan fic #fullmetal alchemist fan fiction #fma fanfic

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silvorr · 5 years

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Gabriel Approves The Second Time Around

Part 3

When Plagg was satisfied with the cheese stash he kept in Adrien’s bag, the little Kwami turned around ready to whiz over to his charge and head to school, but was met with the sight of his kid sitting at the edge of his bed and looking at something in his hands.

Plagg sighed and floated over. “Are you looking at that damned ring again?”

Adrien flinched but didn’t move, “I’m really doing this Plagg.” His voice was hoarse and it was as if someone had stolen his breath away. That someone was probably Marinette.

Plagg simply rolled his eyes at Adrien’s dramatics, “I thought we were over this yesterday.”

“I thought so too. I’m scared Plagg.”

“I told you the promise ring’s a bit much.”

Adrien shook his head, “Not that. Just the- the whole idea of it. Of this. We’ve been going out for a month Plagg. What if- what if this is too fast for her? What if I’m rushing things? Should I wait? What if- “

“Oh please.” The pure snark in the Kwami’s tone had Adrien looking up in time to Plagg coming to hover in front of him, his green eyes full of a strictness he’d never seen before, “That girl is head over heels in love with you, even I can see it and I’m usually napping in your pocket! If anything, you’re not doing this soon enough. You’ve already been on four dates with her, what more do you want?”

“I- “

“Oh nuh-uh.” Plagg shook his head and crossed his arms, “Let the Kwami speak. As cheesy as this sounds, both of you deserve to be happy, kid, and both of you have already danced around each other for long enough.”

Adrien sighed and looked back down at the ring he held in his hand. It wasn’t anything extravagant, nor was the tiny heart shaped gem real. If it had been, Adrien knew with certainty that Marinette would never accept it. For one reason or another, she hated being spoilt, as fun as it was for Adrien. Too many times he had been unwillingly paid back and right now, he really couldn’t have her saying no.

“Maybe I am worrying about this too much.”

Plagg threw his tiny hands up in exasperation, “Finally!” The tiny god whizzed into the shelter of his breast pocket and nudged him softly, “Come on kid, you’ll end up being late for school.”

Adrien stood up and grabbed his satchel, “May lady luck be by my side.”

Plagg snorted. If only Adrien knew…

Adrien was already seated when Marinette walked into the classroom. This was one of those rare days when Marinette was on time. That being said, Adrien hadn’t expected her to arrive this early, he thought he’d have more time to prepare but clearly, that wasn’t so.

“H-hey Marinette.” God, when was the last time he stuttered around her? He thought it had ended after their third date.

She gave him her sweetest smile, the effects of which were clear in the way his heart beat extra loud in response. “Good morning Adrien.”

‘WHY DOES SHE HAVE TO BE SO PRETTY?!’

Adrien shrunk on himself a little and mumbled, “Good morning Marinette.” To his relief, she hadn’t heard him, but Nino had. The DJ was busy stifling his laughter into a fisted hand and Alya was shooting him weird looks.

Adrien didn’t dare turn around to start conversation, lest he be blinded by that angelic smile again, but then Nino and Plagg nudged him at the same time and he sighed. He had to get this over with at some point.

“Hey Marinette?”

She continued rummaging through her bag and gave him a non-committal hum. The fact that she hadn’t met his eyes yet gave him some form of relief, because he couldn’t trust himself to word properly if he had those beautiful bluebell eyes on him.

“Will you- will you come to the-the stairs near the Eiffel Tower with me? At-at lunch today?”

She finally looked up and there was something- something bright in her eyes that had Adrien’s heart stutter to a stop.

‘Is it hot in here or is it just me?’

“I’d love to Adrien! What about- “

This time Alya intervened, “We’ll come along later, m’kay? Nino and I have something we need to do before that.”

“Okay.”

Adrien made a sound similar to being choked, but he was saved from any embarrassment when the teacher walked into the room.

God, this was going to be hard.

When lunch came around, Alya and Nino helped Adrien and Marinette escape without anyone bothering them, for which Adrien was eternally grateful. Any interruption now would end up in him losing his nerve completely and who knows when he’ll be able to muster up the courage to propose again?

Still, it was far too quickly that he found himself seated on the steps near the Eiffel Tower. The tower seemed as beautiful as ever, but not as beautiful as it had been when they had gone on their first date there.

“Adrien? Are you okay?”

Adrien turned to look at Marinette and he was immediately captivated by her bluebell eyes. She looked worried and he could understand why; he’d been acting weird around her the whole day today but could you really blame him?

“Marinette there’s- there’s something that I- umm…”

“Adrien?”

His hand had wandered into his pocket, where he could feel the cool metal of the ring. His fingers traced the heart shaped jewel on it.

“You- You really are something special Marinette.”

That caught her off guard. Her eyes widened in surprise and her cheeks started to flush red. She managed to squeak out, “Thank you?”

Adrien let out a shuddering breath, “W-we’ve gone out on what, three dates now?”

“Four.” She mumbled. He knew that, hadn’t forgotten. Still:

“I really really enjoy spending time with you Mari. You really are an amazing girl.”

She had her eyes closed and her breathing was heavy. Adrien had a feeling that she already knew where he was going with this.

“What’s your point Adrien?”

“Marinette.” Her eyes were on him again. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

Her hand flew up to her mouth in time to muffle a choked sob. He had pulled out the promise ring and was holding it out to her, and while she couldn’t take her eyes of the ring, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

Finally: “Yes yes yes, a hundred times yes!”

He chuckled and she jerked forward until he had his arms wrapped around her and she was giggling uncontrollably into the crook of his neck. He laughed along with her and held her tightly. She was his, finally his! Nothing could compare to the joy that made his heart stutter, to the beauty that stole his breath away. She was so amazing and sweet, and he had the privilege of calling her his girlfriend.

When they finally pulled away just enough to look at each other he leant forward and kissed her forehead, “God, I like you so much Mari.”

“I like you too Adrien.”

He let her pull herself out of his grasp and extended a hand to her, “May I?”

She giggled and accepted his gesture, “You may.”

He was grinning uncontrollably as he slid the ring onto her finger. It was a snug fit and that fact alone would have been enough to make Adrien cry with relief. Proposing was so fucking hard, how did Marinette do it when she first confessed to him?

“Adrien?”

He looked up at her and his breath caught in his throat. The pure joy in the way she looked at him, her gorgeous smile, everything about her was so… ineffable. Completely and utterly ineffable.

He was too captivated to notice exactly when they had sidled closer to each other, or when she had slowly snaked her arms around his neck, or when he had encircled both his arms around her waist. In that moment all he knew was that her face was centimeters away from his, that his gaze kept flickering between her eyes and lips, and that to kiss her now would mean… everything.

She cupped a hand on his cheek and he leaned into the touch, his eyes already fluttering close. Almost there…

They heard their voices before they saw them. Someone loudly proclaiming about how excited she was to have lunch with her friends and two amused chuckles that followed after. Adrien sighed and he let his forehead rest against Marinette’s for a split second before he was pulling back and so was she, but not before he had softly kissed her forehead and whispered, “Next time.”

They could finally see their friends approach them with Lila in the lead, who waved excitedly. Adrien giggled at Marinette’s sour expression and waved back as his girlfriend quietly huffed beside him.

As Alya, Nino and Lila joined them on the steps, Nino shot Adrien a questioning look and in response, Adrien shifted closer to Marinette so he could wrap an arm around her waist and shot the DJ a cheeky grin. Lila, who had clearly planned on sitting next to Adrien and probably latching on to his arm (like the parasite she was) faltered at his gesture. She looked between him and Marinette and her smile turned slightly bitter, subtly enough so that anyone not particularly looking wouldn’t notice. She awkwardly stopped just a step or two below the new couple and sat down.

Alya caught the whole interaction and her eyes widened as she shot a look at Marinette. Marinette could only blush and snuggle deeper into Adrien’s side in response. Clearly, that was not enough to satisfy Alya’s insatiable thirst for these kinds of things. “Did something happen while we weren’t here?”

Marinette simply pressed herself harder against Adrien as she kept her gaze firmly down on the concrete steps and Adrien tightened his grip around her in response. While Marinette was dying in embarrassment though, Adrien was soaking in all the attention with a welcome grin. “You could say that, right Marinette?”

Marinette might have mumbled something in response but Adrien couldn’t tell.

He looked straight at Alya and his grin turned into a smirk, “I asked her out.” Then, almost like an afterthought, “She said yes.”

Alya let out a huge whoop and fist pumped into the air and Nino chuckled as he clasped Adrien’s back, “I’m proud of you man.”

“My OTP is cannon!”

Lila, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during this whole time gave them all an uneasy smile, “I’m really happy for you Adrien. And for you as well Marinette.” The way she said her name, Adrien sent a warning glance at Lila. Lila’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh my GOD, the class is going to flip!”

Once the school day had ended and Lila was finally in the safety of her room, she let out an enraged scream, “WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS!”

She threw her bag against the wall in frustration and stalked over to her bed, pulling at her bangs the whole way, “That good for nothing clumsy nobody! How dare she! HOW DARE SHE! Adrien belongs to me; how dare she try to steal him away! Why I- UGH.”

Lila stared up at her ceiling from her position on her bed, her mind moving at a mile per minute. She couldn’t understand what Adrien saw in that girl Marinette, but one thing Lila was sure of, it wouldn’t be enough to keep Adrien away from her. Adrien was Lila’s, he belonged to her the minute she had set her sights on him and some goody two shoes wouldn’t be enough to change that. All she needed to was-

Wait.

Lila smiled. Her biggest advantage over Adrien was his father. His father, who- well he probably hadn’t approved of his relationship with Marinette, had he?

Lila giggled in delight. Adrien- oh poor sweet Adrien- would soon see what his father had to say about this.

#adrien x marinette #marinette dupen chang #adrien agreste #adrienette #adrien #marinette #alya #nino #lila #lila rossi #miraculus ladybug #miraculous fandom #Plagg #Gabriel Approves The Second Time Around #part 3 #gabriel agreste

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sleepylop · 5 years

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One Night on Floor Seven: A Hallway Opera

Well, well… welcome to the hallway carpet! Hope you can learn to put up with the smell of curdled soymilk and sour-fragranced aerosol. Personally, I’d like to believe that unrelenting decay is what gives floor seven its character. A delightfully all-consuming “decay,” which extends past just mold caked with chemical lavender. Here, you’ll find five residual units, installed as an afterthought for the sake of filling out surplus space. (A cluster of tumorous apartments, if you will.) That being said, I’d like to introduce our cast—or, better yet, I’ll open the stage and allow them to introduce themselves.

Enjoy the show!

1. Friday, April 19th, 9:42 PM:

Tonight, he’s sat near the top of the stairwell, broadcasting his thoughts on the status of neo-Pagan reptilians and their rapid encroachment on social values:

“I am warning you all so early on, with what we all know is coming, but are too chemically possessed to acknowledge! Our creator died long ago, but a God greater than him has stepped up to rule us; and, he is testing our integrity each and every day! Still, we’re—” He lets out a feral, yet impassioned belch, before continuing, “—we… we’re failing! We’re failing his tests, and we are willingly submitting to witchcraft, and the demonic reptiles who wield it against us! We must come together through a shared blood offering, and repent for our stupidity! Blood! We must give him our blood! Evil will drown in our blood!”

He’s preaching to what seems to be an empty hallway, relying only on the possibility that his voice will slip its way into the surrounding units. For him, walls with the thickness of battered cardboard are a fantastic asset for his ministry.

Each slurred syllable is coated with a residue of cheap cider, as is the inner thighs of his sweatpants. “His” legal name is unknown. His apartment door sits just three feet to his left, and the dilapidated “worship space” he now rents out can be found just two blocks up the street.

He’s also been asked, on a series of occasions, for clarification on exactly what higher power he’s touting as humankind’s omnipresent foster parent. He has yet to give an explanation more concise than simply, “Well, I invite you to join me, for this week’s Sunday evening worship! Together, one day, we will have the honour to bleed for our beautiful, beautiful king. Join us in the only true path to holy redemption! You will soon understand all, I promise you that.”

It’s been just short of two months, and the residents of floor seven have come to a silent consensus: Do not engage with the righteous-ass preacher in room 703, lest you be roped into joining his non-denominational suicide cult. Do not speak or further enable him. Just walk past, again and again. And, most importantly, keep an eye out for any bold-faced, blood-centric news headlines.

Surely enough, morbid curiosity has become the collective vice of floor seven.

2. Friday, April 19th, 11:08 PM:

At the edge of the staircase, right where the carpet is beginning to peel away from water-corroded wood, the preacher has fallen asleep. Oh shit, his snores sound fucked. Possibly, maybe, suggestive of sleep apnea… maybe?

At least, this assessment of symptoms is what twists its way into Evie’s thoughts, via what is beginning to feel like a paranoid reflex. Having just reached the peak of the seven-flight climb, especially, her attention is already shrouded by fog and gorging itself on any thought that’s not this is where I tumble to my death, I’ve lost all feeling in my calves and I’m forgetting how to climb stairs.

The lone elevator is out of service, just as it has been for the past four years or so.

Ahead of Evie, the wallpaper is beginning to distort, her tired eyes directing a show of yellowed roses rearranging and twisting into one-another. Her room, 705, lies directly ahead, the front door bulging in synch with the walls.

It has been a miserable day. Like, an exceptionally shitty day. Far too often, as much as she cares for her own future as a registered nurse, Evie finds herself considering the legitimacy of the suicide cult. Sometimes, school and a lifetime of anxious baggage don’t mesh remarkably well.

Just as she raises her foot to proceed onward toward freedom, Evie feels a cold hand latch onto her ankle. And, before she’s able to come to a conscious halt, she hurdles toward the off-green carpet. Evie’s fall forward is then ceremoniously punctuated by her right knee jabbing into floor, sending a shockwave of pain down her calf. Her backpack presses its weight down onto her, prompting Evie to lose her balance and roll off to the side, twisting her captive ankle in the process. Well, if only I had fallen backwards, to my sudden, wonderful death.

Evie jerks her head around to see, as she had expected, the liquified form of the preacher brandishing her leg, his pale hand squeezing at her ankle. Before Evie can determine the most effective explanatives for the situation, the preacher mumbles, “G’evening, miss. I almost didn’t see you passing by. Can I talk to you ‘bout something, while you’re here?”

Evie doesn’t respond. Instead, she yanks her ankle away from the preacher, making a deliberate effort to at least dislocate his wrist in the process. This effort seems to have failed, as while Evie scrambles to her feet, the preacher continues to slur, “I noticed that you’ve been living what looks like, um, a homosexual lifestyle. I’d like to discuss that with you, maybe, just a bit?”

Growing rapidly more jaded toward the absurd universe that is floor seven, Evie keeps her mouth shut—which, is truly a test of will. God fucking damn, is this guy even a real person? Or is this just the start of my inevitable breakdown?

As Evie makes the short dash to her front door, she hears the preacher continue to babble from the floor. “It’s just, I wanted to have a little discussion, y’know? Homosexuality isn’t, uh, innately bad, I guess, but sometimes it is the product of psychic population control, and I just wanted to let you know, so that our New World Order is never able to—”

The sound of Evie’s door creaking on its rusted hinges is directly followed by a thunderous slam. The preacher’s words catch in his throat, seeming to choke him in the process.

No, really, he’s suddenly gagging on air. He’s beginning to go blue in the face.

Neither he nor Evie notice: Her wallet is now buried in the carpet, just a foot from where the preacher’s head hovers barely over the ground.

Left with no opportunities for further harassment, he dozes back to sleep, cuddling his empty bottle of cider into his chest.

3. Saturday, April 20th, 12:31 AM:

A grey-haired man, dressed in loafers and a faded tie-dye shirt, is approaching room 702. He’s certainly not a resident of floor seven, but he has a very important appointment.

He notices the familiar shape of the preacher curled into a tight lump, snores echoing throughout the narrow hallway. Still, the sight is unsettling, even for a frequent visitor. Something about this strange situation will never, ever sit right with him.

In his peripheral vision, as the visitor raps softly onto the door of room 702, he notices a metallic glint, nestling against his foot. Is that… oh, a lost wallet? Jesus, it looks like the kind of wallet a little girl would strap to her matching purse. Do any kids even live on this floor?

Shrugging to himself, the visitor kneels down, scooping up the glitter-dusted wallet. It fits oh-so snuggly into the palm of his hand. Maybe Mistress Delia will know who this little thing belongs to.

After a moment more spent on standby, the door eases open.

Snores continue to cannibalize the airspace.

4. Saturday, April 20th, 2:06 AM:

A lopsided smile softening his face, the visitor steps back into the hallway of floor seven. He shuts the door softly behind himself. A half-formed bruise is visible on the meat of his bicep.

He swivels around on his heels, readjusting to the sound of snoring and the smell of asbestos and rot. And, before he can even will himself to take a step deeper into reality, the visitor is hit with a second resounding noise: A hollow tapping, rising from the nearby stairwell.

Then, within seconds of the visitor’s panicked acknowledgement, a new man reaches the crest of floor seven. A batlike man, dressed in an elaborate mixture of dark, free-flowing fabric and romantic embroidery. His face and hands are deeply wrinkled, and his platform boots only emphasize his height—which, towers well over the visitor. White roots are beginning to tease his otherwise purple-black hair, which has been tied back into a tight ponytail.

With a relaxed smile and a custard voice, he addresses the visitor. “Oh, hey, have I seen you around here before? I feel like I’ve seen you comin’ in and out, before.” He follows this up with a string of deep breaths, still recovering from his upward journey. Clearly, the fabric wings are entirely nonfunctional.

Feeling heat rise to the surface of his face, the visitor shrugs. “Yeah, you may have,” he says, staring over the other man’s shoulder, eyes losing focus. “I’ve been around here a few times, before.”

With a curt nod, the retirement-bound vampire begins to stretch his right arm across his chest, his silver jewelry chiming faintly. “Cool, cool. Anyway, don’t mean to hold you up. I’m Oscar, by the way; feel free to say hi, next time, alright?”

“I… I can remember that, okay,” the visitor replies, his voice barely audible over the violent snoring, which has practically become ambient noise. “Do you live here?” he asks, after a beat of hesitation.

Oscar hums. “Indeed, I do. I was just gettin’ back a bit later than usual. Had an interesting night,” he says, then hums again, softly.

“Where are you coming from?” the visitor asks, before any social phobias can drag him back down to hell. He’s still baking in his own endorphins, as he often is after some therapeutic-grade flogging. Mistress Delia may be a professional domme, but she places spectacular concentration on the emotional relief of her clients.

“Well, since you ask, I just got done with ‘goth night,’” Oscar says, air quotes included, paired with a dramatic eye roll. Which, is made exceptionally dramatic, thanks to his purple lenses. “The last goth club ‘round here closed years back, which continues to suck profound ass, but occasionally I hear about a ‘goth night’ happenin’, usually at some club downtown. This one had been… not brilliant. Mainly just played a grating loop of 2000s industrial. And, major points off for all the Marilyn Manson tracks. Do people still think the dude’s music is ‘goth’? Really?” Oscar yawns, as if the freshly branded memory is enough to further exhaust him.

Still, the visitor responds with a nervous smile. “That’s, um, interesting. I… didn’t know about any of that.” He pauses. Snoring takes over again, for a moment. “Anyway, I should be going, now. It was nice meeting you.”

With that, the visitor makes a beeline for the stairwell. As he weaves around Oscar, the elder goth offers a quick, “Nice meeting you too, man. Hope good ol’ Delia is treatin’ you right.”

And, finally, the visitor is no longer a visitor of floor seven. Or, of anywhere, currently.

Oscar retreats to room 701, boots tapping in rhythm with the preacher’s sour attempts at breathing.

5. Saturday, April 20th, 4:38 AM:

Later that morning, after a violently disoriented and hungover preacher returns to his own apartment, the door to room 704 opens for the first time.

Out comes Sal.

Sal’s a normal guy. He works in accounting. He’s gluten-free and recently took on a side gig in multilevel marketing. He calls his mom every night, just before 8 PM.

Sal just wants to catch the bus.

Sal’s been searching for a new apartment.

Wish Sal luck.

#writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing #amwriting #oh no hayley is writing #here's a short story I wrote a few months ago! for a workshop #although I turned in the draft late (kind of due to a stupid misunderstanding on my part)#so it was never workshopped by the class. ;n;#anyway yeah here's a short story that semi-directly caused one of my only bad panic attacks last semester! yipee~#(btw I didn't fail the assignment or anything and I got an A- in the class jkdfgnsgnk)#(but that certainly didn't stop me from flipping my shit~)

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