#my patron saint of migraines

[lelianaslefthand]

ive had a migraine all day and keep thinking about him

#my patron saint of migraines #could not find any pictures of him with his hand stretched out this is the best i got #mass effect #kaidan alenko #.myedits

[gallusrostromegalus]

Waffles, Patron Beast of Migraines and Vertigo, Digital, 2024

I continue to set out to do a character redesign of an anime boy and end up drawing Lamb Angels instead. Not sure what's going on here but thems cute little fucks.

#Waffles the patron beast of migraines #note: not Saint. Beast. #my art #angel #after a fashion #sheep #lamb

[alexotls]

for my fellow migraine havers

#hes like my patron saint of chronic migraines #vinegar doppio #jjba #my art #flashing gif #<-only a little but id feel bad posting a migraine meme and not warning for the sparkle text

[rrat-king]

some Bad Girls accesory headcannons:

adaine

doesn't need glasses but wears blue light ones because the light gives her migraines. the glasses are round silver wire frames that she has broken and cast mending on too many times

she loses her glasses constantly so gorgug made her a glasses chain so they can just hang when she's not wearing them. it has little star charms and blue and silver beads

it's my hc that adaine didn't actually give kristen her pinky back, keeping the philange instead so she has the bone on a little necklace she wears. its morbid but sweet.

she has a leather book holster that ayda made her after she complimented her's so that they are matching. keeps her spellbook in it

has three bracelets from kristen: a red rubber 'vote for applebees' bracelet as well as two woven friendship bracelets, a purple and blue chevron as well as a orange white and blue striped

elf ears are... so stupidly sensitive so she has a hard time wearing earings but she does steal fig's ear cuffs a lot

kristen

wears dog tags with jawbone's number as her emergency contact in case anything happens. he doesn't legally have custody but its a safe way of making sure he gets called over her parents

got her septum peirced with fig in leviathan, was originally a silver barbell but had to take it out when she realized the silver meant that tracker wouldn't kiss her, so wears a little golden hoop instead

has six trillion bracelets. most of them are friendship bracelets she's made herself, but she also has a rubber sig figs bracelet, a pony bead bracelet that says 'little shrimp' as well as a 'WWCD?' she made with her campaign rubbers

bad at wearing rings but has a number of them that she keeps on a carabiner that tracker got her (most of them found in the river while throwing rocks with riz. don't ask her why there are so many lost rings in the river she doesn't question it)

she got rid of her cross necklace after meeting helio but still has the saint necklace she got at first cornmunion. it's saint iree, patron saint of the lost harvest

fig

has one of gorthalaxes guitar picks as a necklace along with a million others

wears rings around her horns, most of which she makes herself but fabian gifted her a few of his that he doesn't wear cuz 'they interfere with my fighting, thank you' that are nice elven gold

has a matching septum with kristen as well as a million other peircings

she. loves. mixing. metals. she wears a million pieces of jewelry and they are all mishmashed but because none of it matches it works

constantly stealing her mom's earings. it drives sandra lynn crazy

hardcore believer in scrunchys over hairties. always has one either in her hair on on her wrist even they somewhat clash with her aesthetic.

wears compression gloves under her fingerless gloves to help with her joints swelling

has a million pins including: some of her mom's old band pins that she let her have, band pins of her own, kristen's campaign buttons as well as kipperlillys but she doodles over those, pins she's made herself out of bottle caps, a little tin skateboard pin gorgug made her, and a red compass pin that ayda gave her that belonged to one of the previous ayda's

(will make one for the boys eventually when i have time to come to terms with riz's new found accessory addiction this season)

#so many of these are based on my accesories/my friends accessories btw #d20 #fhjy #fantasy high #dimension 20 #fantasy high hc’s #fantasy high headcannons #the bad kids #kristen applebees #adaine abernant #fig faeth #bird word

[bonnibel88]

𝓑𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓲𝓫𝓮𝓵 ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

୨୧ ꒰ she/her - cisgender hetero woman

୨୧ ꒰ aquarius - 24/01

୨୧ ꒰ catholic

୨୧ ꒰ 18 year old

୨୧ ꒰ functioning aspergers

- more info under the cut 🩰

୨୧ ꒰ birthplace; somewhere in south america hehe

୨୧ ꒰ europa ancestry; german great grandpa, Wolfgang R., french step grandma, Leda, unnamed italian ancestor

୨୧ ꒰ height: about 165 cm / 5' 5"

୨୧ ꒰ weight: 41 kg / 92 pounds (hopefully even less)

୨୧ ꒰ hair: not painted; natural hair color is a dark blonde, in sunlight might be clear, naturally straight but i curl it and my mother forced me to cut it short.

୨୧ ꒰ bra size: 38 B

୨୧ ꒰ eye color: A30

୨୧ ꒰ ill: pcos (still very fertile though), anorexia, anxiety, depression, migraines, sh addiction, autocannibalism in skin picking and lip biting

୨୧ ꒰ SHing: want to but very sensitive to pain

୨୧ ꒰ binge eating: rarely

୨୧ ꒰ acne: taking care of it ^_^

୨୧ ꒰ male friendship: none, only got my father as a friend

୨୧ ꒰ patron saint: St. Dymphna, St. Philomena, St. Rose of Lima

୨୧ ꒰ kinks (not necessarily a 18+ blog): military, humiliation, choking, age gap, boots, forced submission, cnc, erotophonophilia, autassasinophilia, blood, bruising, mask/balaclava, boots, leather, violence

#intro post #coquette #coquette core #dollcore

[princessmadafu]

St Denis (Oct 9)

Famously the Patron Saint of Paris, he was reputedly decapitated and walked away holding his head in his hands while still preaching forgiveness. This also makes him the patron saint of headaches and 'the megrims', - the modern word migraine deriving from 'emigranea', (h)emi implying half, and granea from cranium meaning head, so basically an 'healfes heafdes ece', a half head’s ache.

Not surprisingly, a famous migraine remedy from the 13thC monk Bartholomaeus Anglicus recommended - guess what? Woman's Milk. What is it with these medieval doctors and breastmilk? They denounced women as bringers of woe and evil, and then milked them for medicinal purposes!

Understanding the location of pain in relation to the humors guided the next step. The offending humor in emigranea was “hot and choleric,” so it required the use of cold medications in order to restore balance. “We anoint the temples, nostrils, and pulsating veins with rose water, together with the milk of a woman who is nursing a male child, and we induce sleep,” Bartholomaeus explained.

Oh, so only a male child...

I found a whole article on the history of migraine here, if anyone wants a read:

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK544089/

Oh and my almanac also says it's time to turn the pigs out to forage for beechmast; in order to encourage them, empty your chamberpot into the hogwash, because it will taste so nasty the pigs will refuse it and go off and eat whatever they can find elsewhere.

There now, haven’t I always said there are loads of uses for wee-wee!

***************************

Sunday thoughts today for the people of Creeslough in Ireland, who’ve lost ten villagers in a gas explosion at a filling station. That’s a lot for a tiny village to bear. Also to the emergency services - thank you!

[ashes-writing]

Could I get MJF headcanons please? 🙏

Oh my goodness, certainly! Thank you so so so so much for sending me this. You didn't really specify what type of headcanons and whew.. These kinda got away from me a little bit maybe?

They're not x rated. Just a lil spicy. A little food for thought if you will.

Warnings: ah.. if i remember correctly, because I wrote these while half asleep... there's not really anything in here that needs mentioning.

Tag List : ahh, well.. There's really not anyone on my taglist for anything I write just now because I kinda just made it. But if you wanna be tagged, please add your name [ here ]

[ my inbox is still open. I write for so many fandoms.. so many it's ridiculous... Headcanon asks only for now, any characters I have listed on my PSA -or if you wanna know if I'll attempt them ask me, and I'll close the box when I've chosen all five that I'm doing this round. this has been fun! ]

I do not consent for my work to be reposted -or plagarized, elsewhere.

✯ He’s probably going to insult you. It might be on accident, it might be on purpose. The reason for this is simple. He likes you and it really bothers him. I mean… it really, really, really bothers him. Maxwell isn’t the kind of guy who really notices a person right off the bat, so if/when he notices you and can’t get you out of his head, it’ll drive the poor bastard insane. This will lead to confrontations in confined spaces, your friends telling you both collectively to just get a fuckin room already and placing bets behind your backs about how long it’s going to take until you finally ‘get a room.’. 

✯ “Bite me.” “Is that a challenge?” - yeah, there’s a lot of that thrown back and forth too. The kicker to this is that when you’re insulting / roasting each other, it comes across as flirting. There’s a lot of staring at his lips or his biceps or the way that forest green shirt brings out the multitude of browns in his eyes and on his end there’s a lot of trying to restrain himself when you do that little thing where you pinch and rub the bridge of your nose because he’s got you so damn annoyed it’s bordering on a migraine. Or the way he towers over you, which.. For him to not be a very tall guy, I very much feel that he’s probably drawn to shorter people because he wants to feel like the bigger one, the stronger one, but anyway, where was I? Oh.. Oh yeah.. There’s also a lot of touching. Like he’ll step closer to you, sufficiently blocking off any path you might have to retreat. His hands will stop shy of grabbing hold of your hips to pull you in closer several times and this manifests itself in tightly clenched fists. He once clenched his fists so damn tight while you two were having a confrontation that he left imprints from his nails on the palms of his hands. 

✯ He loves to make you angry because your cheeks darken and your nostrils flare and you get this little attitude.. It’s like.. You’re making yourself every bit as tall as you can, you’re looking him dead in the eyes. You’d think he likes a person he can intimidate, right? You’d be wrong. Totally wrong. Holy shit you’d be wrong.

✯ Let’s switch it up a little, shall we? Just because he’s the first to antagonize you, this in no way means that he’s going to stand back and let anybody else do it. If someone is trying to come up on you or they’re being shitty to you, he’ll appear out of nowhere as if summoned by the patron saint of assholes themselves, that cocky smirk on his face as he stands behind you and waits on his chance to insert himself. - Note.. this has led to fights. So many fights. Bby is a grumpy personification of the fight me emoji and we all know that every now and then, he bites off so much more than he can chew.

✯ “I had that, asshole.” & “But did you really? Because it didn’t fucking look like it to me.” - the exchange happens nearly every single time he inserts himself into whatever craziness you’ve been dragged into. You don’t really know why he gets himself so bent out of shape over something you were going to handle yourself but secretly, it gets you just a little hot… watching the way he would quite literally take on the meanest motherfucker around to defend you, who he makes it so painfully clear he hates. Or this is what you’ve come to think.

✯ Try not to imagine him jealous. Or don’t. But it’ll look a little something like this. His hips against yours and his hand beside your head, leaving you literally nowhere to go. He’s fuming, his chest is heaving with each angry breath he takes and he’s ranting as if he has some kind of primal claim over your ass. When you laugh, oh no. Oh no no no no no… Anger flashes in those brown eyes, darkening them. Gonna go out on a limb and say it. If you haven’t figured out why he does the shit / is the way he is towards you, try flirting and living your life. It’ll make him snap and when he snaps, holyyyy shiiiit… The hand beside your head rests rough against your cheek as he drags his thumb across your lips. The kiss that follows is angry. It’s messy and mean and full of biting, sucking and the angry gnashing of teeth as your mouths meet again and again. And then again, because when you finally shove him away so you can at least attempt to process, he grabs your face and crashes his mouth against your mouth all over again. So yeah… If you want him to crack like an egg, make him jealous. Either intentionally or not.

✯ Once you’re finally past all this, – it’s about damn time, if you thought he was protective and borderline territorial before, whew… People aren’t even allowed to breathe in your presence and have him find out about it. If he even thinks this is happening, he will appear as if summoned and waste zero time showing whoever happens to be intruding / encroaching  your bubble exactly who he belongs to. Yeah.. Dude is territorial as hell.

✯ His jealousy -and his ego, they both stem from this strong undercurrent of him being one hell of a lot less self confident than he carries himself to be. His whole attitude is a defense mechanism.

✯ He is also surprisingly romantic.. After a few little arguments and you finally convincing the bastard you’re not going anywhere, it’s like this whole other side of the man opens up. Privately, of course. He’s been known to have your favorite chocolates, Midol and whatever else you need on hand at any given moments.

✯ He loves, loves loves to gift you jewelry. But what he loves more than this is to look up at you or catch your reflection in the mirror when you’re doing the deed / riding him and watch the way the light catches on the jewelry, especially if it’s a necklace.

✯ He’s not so much into full on PDA as he is smaller and more reserved gestures. He’s also not the biggest fan of putting every second of your private lives out there for the world to see on Instagram, but he has been known to indulge you every now and then and that bio damn sure reads TAKEN AF or some form. With him it’s more or less the smaller and more intimate things that mean the most. It’s the covert ass grabs or the way he leads you into a room with his hand on the small of your back. The way he’ll always be lingering close by even if you’re not always holding hands or finding private corners in crowded areas every few seconds.

I hope you enjoy these. I had a blast writing them, to be honest. I haven’t thought about/watched or written wrestling in quite a few months.

#le asks #mjf #maxwell jacob friedman #my headcanons ; mjf #my writing ; mjf #so this is me.. attempting to get back into the flow of creativity. #i really hope these work for you.

[clumio]

The Master for character bingo?

*I had to add asterisks to this because of the nature of the source material LOL they mean sometimes/in some instances…bbc executive if you’re out there give Sacha Dhawan more material because he could have done even more but one of his episodes was fucking Spyfall Part 2. Part 1 was great. More of that blease. I know audio dramas exist and there’s a ton of this character and different versions but. Sometimes they are just The Jonker but also they’re deeper than that. Anyway.

MY FAVORITE PRINCESS….TORTURE KING 9000 IN SABRINAS WORDS…they suck so bad your honor they enchant me. Me when im in a tragic codependent cunt-serving lowkey-fumbling gothic antagonist-occasional-sidekick competition and my competition is the master 😰 for real though. I have a lot of thoughts about them which is maybe a tenth emo projection and a lot just the text itself being batshit insane. Identity issues [VINE BOOM] abandonment issues [VINE BOOM] validation issues [VINE BOOM] all tied to a certain level on their identity as and relation to their opposing narrative foil [VINE BOOM] [CAR CRASH SFX]. Patron saint of migraines. Bets on losing dogs. Is a dog? Metaphorically? Actually was a cat one time. Non-metaphorically. Also was a goo snake. Was Evil Shadow Skull multiple times. Cannot die. I have like four different playlists about them. Love you The Master get well soon x

#ives.txt #dw #SORRY THIS IS SO LONG. im unwell about them. why are they like that. who did that #who do i have to thank. #I AM EQUALLY AS INSANE ABOUT THE DOCTOR and quite a few more dr who characters. for the record #it’s really just that they live in my brain. almost like. 🥁 no….. #thank you for letting me talk about the mail💀💀💀 #asks

[stylishanachronism]

Things I did this week instead of working on my shawl (which for the record is 60 rows in so I’m making good time don’t judge me):

-Got into two separate new podcasts, one of which I dropped for being not spooky and then sort of dumb, and the other of which is excellent (and ominous) but comes in very very short bites

-Wrote a lot about Eder knitting a shawl (and separately and not as much, a sock), because that’s a whole thing, and I’d say I’m going to convert the fandom but tbh I’d have to... interact with more of y’all and I’m shy as shit so tough luck me I guess

-Refrained from leaping over the counter and murdering any of my customers, which I feel was very magnanimous of me, and also something of a miracle, please do not lie about my service to my face, I am in fact the same person who’s been here all morning.

-Played Return of the Obra Dinn, which is in a word perfect, and if you haven’t played it yet you should drop everything and do so, holy shit

-Worked so much overtime, my manager is going to be so pissed, but he can’t do shit because he was the one who scheduled me this way

#the bad podcast is the white vault; which stands condemned of not being spooky for fully half its run #the good one is the hidden almanac which is just super great I'm making the madonna of leaves my patron saint #I should note the shawl is not my shawl; he's knitting the queen susan which I am currently too clever to attempt #for the record someday I will and then I will spend a year and change crying ring lace is ridiculous #no seriously RotOD is everything I've ever wanted in an investigation game and *then some* #the customer in question came up and told me the 'girl who had been there earlier' had forgotten to give their donut #I was the girl earlier; I hadn't had a chance to go on break so I had even been the only cashier the whole morning #I had not forgotten #also we had a rash of 'I'm so important I'm going to interrupt your current transaction so we can talk about my problem first' assholes #If I'm trying to make change do not come and ask after your shit wait your turn thanks #and we had a dick of a regular who took somebody else's drink yesterday complain we hadn't made his drink correctly yesterday #no shit a cold brew with sweet cream is *not* an iced soy latte #had to give him the drink for free anyway because I was working on a migraine and the other option was standing my guns for an hour #I have a deep well of implacable bitch but I also have a solid appreciation for being able to see straight

[minotaur-in-my-labyrinth]

God I want an ugly house so bad. By ugly I mean, completely detrimental to property values. When I'm through with decorating, painting, and carpeting my house, furnishing and planting, I want my house to give realtors a migraine just thinking about looking at a house anywhere within 6 miles of my house.

Purple walls, red carpet, so much fucking stuff, cultivated and managed collection of things, weird furniture, a room that's just walls covered in horrendous variations and recreations of Goya's Saturn Devouring his Son.

Statues adorn my yard, of dragons and old dead gods, tombstones all with Saint George's name on them, all describing him variously as "Shit-bag" "Cringe Patron Saint of England" "How's it feel to be the murderer of magic and majesty?" "I hope you bite the tines of your fork every time you eat"

I want the presence and visage of my house to destroy HOAs everywhere. I want a beholder to be peeking up from behind my roof and staring at anyone passing by. I want my doorbell to start playing We Like to Party. I want my doorknocker to be a gagged bald eagle.

#god i want an ugly fucking house so bad

[themetaphorgirl]

caitlin’s whumptober 2020

hey y’all!! so I’ve decided I want to try whumptober for the first time, and I want to fill your prompts!!

here’s the official post for whumptober for this year. I’m only accepting Criminal Minds prompts, but I’m excited for y’all to suggest things for me!

so! if you’d like to prompt something, just let me know:

-the number of the prompt you’d like me to fill (including the alts!)

-canon, the Patron Saint of Lost Causes universe, or the Spencer Blake universe (or if you have another AU you’d like to suggest!)

-any details you have in mind (scenario, focal characters, anything specific you can think of!)

Once I’ve picked a suggested prompt for one of the whumptober dates, I’ll mark it with a strikethrough and start working on it ASAP for I’m ready for October! Once I start posting, I’ll replace the strikethrough with a link to the prompt fill.

If you’ve prompted something for me before and I haven’t filled it, feel free to send it again! And I’ll reblog this periodically until October. I’m excited to see what y’all want me to write!!

No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging

No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY “Pick Who Dies” | Collars | Kidnapped

No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | Held at Gunpoint

No 4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME Caged | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building

No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING? On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue

No 6. PLEASE…. “Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please”

No 7. I’VE GOT YOU Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker

No 8. WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO? “Don’t Say Goodbye” | Abandoned | Isolation

No 9. FOR THE GREATER GOOD “Take Me Instead” | “Run!” | Ritual Sacrifice

No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood

No 11. PSYCH 101 Defiance | Struggling | Crying

No 12. I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING Broken Down | Broken Bones | Broken Trust

No 13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask

No 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING? Branding | Heat Exhaustion | Fire

No 15. INTO THE UNKNOWN Possession | Magical Healing | Science Gone Wrong

No 16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY Forced to Beg | Hallucinations | Shoot the Hostage

No 17. I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING Blackmail | Dirty Secret | Wrongfully Accused

No 18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO Panic Attacks | Phobias | Paranoia

No 19. BROKEN HEARTS Grief | Mourning Loved One | Survivor’s Guilt

No 20. TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE Lost | Field Medicine | Medieval

No 21. I DON’T FEEL SO WELL Chronic Pain | Hypothermia | Infection

No 22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU? Poisoned | Drugged | Withdrawal

No 23. WHAT’S A WHUMPEE GOTTA DO TO GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE? Exhaustion | Narcolepsy | Sleep Deprivation

No 24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE Forced Mutism | Blindfolded | Sensory Deprivation

No 25. I THINK I’LL JUST COLLAPSE RIGHT HERE, THANKS Disorientation | Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears

No 26. IF YOU THOUGHT THE HEAD TRAUMA WAS BAD… Migraine | Concussion | Blindness

No 27. OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD? Earthquake | Extreme Weather | Power Outage

No 28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS. Accidents | Hunting Season | Mugged

No 29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR Intubation | Emergency Room | Reluctant Bedrest

No 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? Wound Reveal | Ignoring an Injury | Internal Organ Injury

No 31. TODAY’S SPECIAL: TORTURE Experiment | Whipped | Left for Dead

Alternate Prompt List

Alt 1. Punctured Alt 2. Falling Alt 3. Comfort Alt 4. Stitches Alt 5. Stoic Whumpees Alt 6. Altered States Alt 7. Found Family Alt 8. Adverse Reactions Alt 9. Memory Loss Alt 10. Nightmares Alt 11. Presumed Dead Alt. 12. Water Alt. 13 Accidents Alt. 14 Shot Alt. 15 Carry/Support

#caitlin does whumptober2020

[paper-stars-and-fireflies]

Tell me, should I let you go?

Tags: RadioDust, Trans!Angel Warnings: Drug Use, Addiction Fic was inspired by the song Sober by Bad Wolves. Listen while you read!      Angel Dust woke up in his bathtub, again. His neck hurt from being bent forward overnight, and his back and joints all ached from the cramped spaces and unnatural angles. At least the cool tile felt nice. Dizziness washed over him as he tipped his head back, trying to right his world, and soon after he was scrambling for the toilet, dry heaves wracking his frame. He spit, if just to relieve the nausea, and settled back against the wall, one arm feebly reaching for the vanity. There was a snuffling and scraping sound and all of a sudden Angel’s lap was full of pig, his pet bounding back and forth across him, desperate for attention.

    “Be easy on daddy, now,” Angel moaned, scooping up the pig and cradling him. The nausea was ebbing slightly, but not enough. He turned his head, coughing and hacking into the toilet again. Just holding Fat Nuggets felt like too much, but Angel managed to claw and stumble his way to his feet. His reflection looked worse than he felt, mascara and eyeliner dripping down his cheeks and his eyes red around the edges. His throat felt scratchy and a fresh wave of dizziness had him stumbling forward into the sink.     “Saint’s sake, am I still drunk?” he mumbled, fumbling for his toothbrush. His mouth tasted like sugar and stomach acid, and it took him twice as long to get himself looking presentable, crumbled clothes aside. The dizziness and nausea had more or less left him to fester, but the lights felt too bright and a migraine had settled behind his left eye. He matched his steps to the slow pulse of his head, wobbling around his room as he unceremoniously stripped out of yesterday’s clothes and pulled on a fresh shirt and shorts. He had no plans to go out, so he didn’t bother getting too dolled up. He checked his phone, but there were no messages, not from work, not from his family, not even from Alastor. Probably for the best, even though he was craving a few sweet words this morning. Better to lay low and not let anyone realize how he was. There were empty bottles and plastic cups, and evidence of the fun that was wreaking so much havoc on him this morning scattered around the room. He cleaned it all up, burying it in his trash so no one would find it later. He should feel ashamed, maybe, drinking, smoking, maybe even popping a pill or two, but it wasn’t such a big deal. Just a couple drinks, a smoke, a couple pills. No one had to know, and he’d been so good. They had to give him that.     This was just one of those, whaddaya call’em? Cheat days. It was just a lil treat. One time thing. He placated himself, shoving off the bits of shame and regret crawling under his skin. Angel settled into his bed, Fat Nuggets happily curled up against him, grumbling as he thumbed through the TV channels. It made his head hurt that much more, but frankly he’d take that over the silence, in the room or in his head. He scratched idly at the inside of his arm, only glancing down when he realized he’d picked at a scab. A very new one.     He swore, tearing tissues out of their box, knocking over everything else on the nightstand. Angel dabbed at the tiny wound, peering closer. It was definitely a needle mark, and not the only one. He yanked down on the sleeve of his shirt, casting furtive glances around his room. It was fine, it was okay. It would be gone in a couple hours, a day top. It was tiny. No one had to know he hadn’t just fallen off the wagon, that he’d jumped headfirst. It was fine. He just had to stay home, lay low one day, be extra careful from here on. He crouched by the bed, picking up the things he’d knocked over. A couple framed pictures of his friends, another of him and Alastor dressed up in silly Valentine’s themed costumes. They’d thrown a party back in February for his six months sober celebration. There was a lopsided stuffed deer, a prize Al had won for him at Hell’s carnival, back on one of their early dates. When Fat Nuggets had torn it up one night, Al had hushed him, stitching it up and adding a few personal touches, showing him anything could be repaired. He set everything back up neatly. No biggie. This was something else that could be fixed. No big deal. Definitely not, until there was a knock at his door.     “Angel? You okay?” Charlie’s innocent voice was the last thing he wanted to hear, but he heaved himself onto his feet and stumbled to the door as fast as he could manage, leaning against it to hold it shut.     “Just peachy, dollface. Ya need something?” he called through the door, making sure all the locks were on. He pushed the chain lock all the way across, quieting the metal with his fingertips.     “You’re late for your check-in session, I was making sure you were up.”     “Check-in?”     “Did you forget? Today’s the 5th, you were supposed to meet me downstairs an hour ago.” Charlie’s voice was picking up a suspicious edge he didn’t like. Of course today would be a check in. How had he forgotten that? He was so careful, making sure he’d clear his appointments so he could live pretty freely under the radar.     “Sorry doll, I, uh, just over-slept. Stayed up too late….watching too many movies!” He bit at his lip, not buying his own excuses. Clearly, she wasn’t either.     “Angel, let me in. I want to make sure you’re okay.” She insisted. Angel huffed, putting on his usual demeanor. It wasn’t like he didn’t have practice faking it.     The door swung open abruptly, revealing Angel in his t-shirt and sports shorts, a button down shirt only partially blocking out the pride pun printed on his shirt in pastel colors. The sleeves hung down to half-way down his forearms, carefully folded. Charlie studied him, suspicion and confusion warring across her face.     “Something wrong, doll? I was in the middle a somethin.” He tried to hurry her along, one arm braced against the door frame. The injured arm was tucked against his back, the elbow carefully hidden with the cuff.     “I’ve just never seen you dressed like that.” Charlie finally admitted, staring at his chest. He shifted uncomfortably, wondering if the shirt looked wrong on him. Finally, she smiled, pointing at it. “I like your shirt. It’s good to cope through positive humor.” Angel glanced down. ‘The first gender’s free,’ the pink text read. ‘Too bad I needed a refund’, the white and blue text finished. He laughed with her, but it felt stuck in his throat. He could feel sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.     “So look, can we reschedule the uh, check-in, doll?” He tried to keep his voice steady, his smile wide. Charlie waved one hand, still giggling.     “Sure, sure,” she called, turning away. “I’ll see you after lunch then, my office. Bye Angel!”     Oh sugar honey. Angel bit his lip, keeping his internal screams to himself, willing himself to shut the door calmly and muffle his impending break-down in a pillow.     By two in the afternoon, Angel had scrubbed himself head to toe, made sure his makeup was flawless, perfumed, eaten, drank, anything and everything to beat back last night’s demons and act the part of the perfectly adapted, normal, and completely clean Angel Dust he’d been becoming the last eight or so months. ‘Just one quick meeting, no big deal,’ he kept reminding himself. He sauntered into Charlie’s office, plopping down into the chair opposite her desk, checking his nails to keep up his bored act. The marks on his arm were all but gone now, but there were still a few nagging symptoms of a come down he hadn’t quite chased off yet. Charlie shut the door behind him, part of her pledge to privacy, and sat across from him, separated by a massive wood desk that was definitely made for one of her parents. She just looked tiny, sitting behind it.     “Okay! So, we are… just shy of one year! How are you feeling today?” Charlie consulted her paperwork, searching around for her pen as she spoke. It was the one she’d taken from Katie Killjoy, way back at the hotel’s launch.     “Same ol’, bored as hell, but doin’ my best. Clean, nice, and well-adjusted.” Angel ticked off on his fingers, reciting the three goals Charlie pushed all of her patrons towards. She hummed, clicking the pen a few times before she began to take notes. She probed at him with the usual list of questions, asking about his recent activities, work, friends, mood, and how he was coping and feeling about each of the problems he’d mentioned in previous meetings. He could see she’d drawn his shirt in the margins. ‘Piece. Of. Cake.’ he congratulated himself, standing up and starting to excuse himself. He’d made it through the full hour without a single slip up.     “Sit back down, Angel.” Charlie scolded, setting her page down flat. She dropped the pen, eyeing the chair when he didn’t. He sighed, plunking back down.     “What’s up, boss?” He asked, arms crossed. Charlie reached over the desk, yanking his sleeve up before he could stop her.     “I knew it.” she hissed, sitting back in her chair, hands wrapped around her elbows, arms pressing flat against her ribs. “Angel, you’re not even close to clean.”     “What! That’s playing dirty! I am! Well, I was. Definitely was! I was being a super good boy, but then, I dunno, something happened, and then I guess I made a mistake last night, and then I guess, I dunno. A lot happened last night, an’ I don’t remember none of it, but I swear! I was clean until yesterday! I’ll get it back!” He wasn’t being completely truthful, he’d been sneaking drinks and hits of whatever coworkers had on hand while he was at work, but he definitely couldn’t tell her that, and he really had been cutting back… Why couldn’t he remember last night?     “Angel, you’ve come to check-ins still stoned before, just… stop.” Charlie pinched the bridge of her nose, blowing out a breath. “Last night, Alastor brought you home from Val’s. You were a huge wreck. He took you upstairs, but you started screaming at us and locked yourself in your room.” She paused, looking up at him, willing him to say something, but Angel, for once, had nothing.     “Have you ever told me the truth?” Charlie sighed, pushing herself to her feet. She circled the desk, opening the door with a resigned, defeated look. Angel frowned, knowing he was the cause, but not how to fix it. Getting high at work wasn’t surprising, but to get totally wrecked wasn’t right. Angel shuffled, thinking he was being dismissed, but what happened next was so much worse.     Alastor walked in, face blank and perfectly schooled into place. Charlie retook her seat, gesturing to the open chair beside Angel. Al took it, not looking at him. He just stared straight ahead, completely zoned out.     “Angel, you were already on your last warning before this. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Charlie tried again. Angel opened his mouth, starting over with what he’d already tried, but it fell on deaf ears. Neither Charlie or Alastor so much as twitched as he tried spinning line after line, trying for pity, sympathy, humor, anything. When she couldn’t take anymore, Charlie shook her head, scribbling away on a sheet of paper. Angel couldn’t make out the words, no matter how desperately he wanted to. It felt like his whole head was throbbing and the room was spinning. How hot was it in here anyway? He shoved his sleeves up, already caught out. It was hard to catch his breath, he slumped forward, tempted to put his head between his knees. Were his ears ringing, or was that Al’s static?     “Angel,” Charlie said, clearly not for the first time. Concern was leaking into her voice, and he fished himself back out, sitting up, head lolling to one side. Al stayed silent, not offering a hand, a word, even a tune. He had never felt so alone in a room full of people who were supposed to care about him. So much for that.     “Angel, I have to evict you.” She said finally, sliding the page over to him. “You have to sign this.”     It wasn’t possible to hold back the tears dripping down his face, and just as impossible to figure out why he couldn’t stop. Who cared about the dumb hotel. He had any number of places he could go. Molly had a spare room, if he wanted to go back to the mob. Cherri had a couch, and he’d already thrown his lot in with hers for turf wars. Hell, even Val would take him back and let him live in a studio if he did more videos. Screw the Hotel! Angel growled, throwing his things into duffel bags, ripping his posters off the wall, slamming the drawers closed after emptying them. Fat Nuggets hid under his bed, snuffling sadly, but he didn’t have it in him to apologize yet, even if the pig was innocent. Sometimes he just had to stay angry.     “I would think you wouldn’t want to destroy your own possessions, darling.” Alastor spoke softly from the open doorway, looking around slowly. Angel pouted, looking more pathetic than mad, but he didn’t care. He didn’t notice when Al had gotten there, but it didn’t matter.     “I don’t possess anything. Anything that’s mine gets broke or taken away.” He said pointedly, snatching the pictures off his nightstand. He inspected them, finally dumping them in the wastebasket by the vanity. Alastor blinked, his radio noise some garbled music that was probably supposed to calm his nerves, but they just grated on them more. Angel did his best to ignore him, storming around the room, packing away every possible hint he’d spent a moment in the room. Finally his last nerve snapped, worn thin by his unhelpful, intrusive, cold boyfriend. He snatched the deer plush off his nightstand, the last thing left unpacked, and hurled it at the Radio Demon’s chest. There was sharp feedback as it struck him, like a microphone dropping or a headset being plugged in.     “Would you just get out of here!” He screamed, voice shattering. Alastor looked passively at him, picking up the doll slowly, smoothing its short fur.     “Very well. I will wait for you in the foyer, if you prefer.” Alastor turned, still cradling the deer. “Would you prefer I take Fat Nuggets, or can you manage, love?” His trademark smile drooped, dipping into something smaller, sadder, but sincere, broken-hearted love in an instant. Angel sniffled, dragging his arm across his face. Saints’ sake, his makeup was wrecked all over again.     “Whaddaya talkin’ about?” Angel choked out, grabbing for more tissues. Alastor set the doll down on the bed, coming closer. Angel let him into arm’s reach, but he wasn’t ready to be touched just yet.     “I’m waiting on you, my dear.” Alastor repeated, gesturing to Angel’s bags.     “What for? Ain’t ya done with me for bein’a a dirty wh-” Angel was cut off with a harsh look from Alastor, contempt and scorn he rarely wore. “You’re nothing of the sort. I discussed this very carefully with Charlie last night, I’m very sorry we did not make ourselves clearer.” Alastor fetched the pictures from the wastebasket and looked at them, keeping his hands busy.     “You ain’t breakin’ up wit me?” Angel asked again, eyes wide. But he was sure that Al had been so cold because…     “Never, my love. I would never abandon you over something so trivial.” Alastor set the pictures aside, finally lifted his hands, cupping the spider’s face gently. His gloved thumbs cleared away the last of his love’s tears.     “But you were so….dead?” Angel tried, sniffling again.     “I was so worried about you, darling, I was beside myself. I stayed with you all night, and spoke with Charlie once I was sure you were quite alright by yourself.”     “So Charlie is kicking me out -”     “You’ll be moving in with me, my love.” Alastor spoke softly, eyes downcast. He drew Angel in closer, pulling him to his chest. “Charlie agreed it would be better for you, but to keep it quiet. If that’s not what you want, then-”     “No! No, no no, I, Al, I want that, I just. I don’t get it.” Angel sighed, resting his weary head on Al’s shoulder, four arms wrapped loosely around him. He knew not to hold too tight, or else Al got squirrely. Al drew back, but only slightly. He pressed his forehead to Angel’s, his ears and horns tangling gently with Angel’s hair.     “Addiction is difficult, and it can only be fought with attention and support, not alone, isolated in a hotel room. I’d like to give you that, if you’ll have me.” There was hope, love, faith, and trust in Alastor’s voice, everything Angel had ever wanted, truly wanted, the things he’d tried so long to replace with the high, trying to stuff his feelings with drugs.     “I’m never going to let you go.” Angel answered, new tears prickling at his eyes.     “Let’s go home, my darling.”  

#radiodust #Trans!Angel Dust

[lesbiansforboromir]

Ι hope you are feeling better! :)) Migraines suck :( I have two questions from the ask thingy: 2 and 6... But also, I have another question: if you could get Tolkien to develop/explain more a facet of Middle Earth, what would it be??

Lord of the Rings Ask meme!

My migraine is a LEETLE better than you very much for asking, should be settled by tomorrow!

2: Which character do you connect too the most?

LADS................... IT’S BOROMIR! There’s a lot about him that I REALLY identify with, as odd as that may sound coming from a fairly immobile 5′3 non-binary lesbian but there’s a lot of Boromir’s themes that I like DEEPLY feel, as well as his manner of like... not to show my whole ass but you know, emotionally repressed ect ect Having a family of people who take up a lot of emotional space and kinda navigating that- YOU GET IT YOU GET IT

6: Which race would you be?

I always used to say I was a dwarf and man I still really love dwarves but... dwarves don’t do the sea and honestly like... human.. Still my place. The only folk for me. 

If you could get Tolkien to develop/explain more a facet of Middle Earth, what would it be?

WRITE WESTRON, CREATE WESTRON YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD, YOU CAD OF THE HIGHEST ORDER, HOW DARE YOU TELL ME ALL THE HOBBIT NAMES ARE ‘ANGLISISED’ AND THAT THEY’RE ALL SPEAKING A WHOLE OTHER LANGUAGE AND NOT TELL ME WHAT IT IS. MOST GONDORIANS MUST HAVE WESTRON NAMES, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO MAKE WORKING CLASS GONDORIAN OC’s NOW HUH??? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO CREATE WORDS THAT DON’T HAVE GOOD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS FROM WESTRON FOR VARIOUS CULTURE SPECIFIC CONCEPTS??? BUT YOU NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT DID YOU JIRT, YOU PATRON SAINT OF ELF FETISHISM, YOU FATPHOBIC BASTARD, YOU RACIST ARSE, TAKE RESPONSIBILITY!!! FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME!!!!!

#AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #anyway #ask memes #chats #I'm fine I'm find it's cool I'm fine #princeimrahils

[saint-batrick]

a little while back when i had an impressively awful hangover, a friend of mine invented a patron saint to petition for my hangover to end. and...it did? like. abruptly. like a light switch turning off. it wasn't immediate but it was only an hour or so later, and i've never had a hangover clear out like that before.

so instead of being a silly one off, we both believe in him unconditionally. i love him and i want to share him.

saint alfonso, patron saint of hangovers, migraines, and digestive distress. he's a good guy. i love him dearly.

[darkstar6782]

Fade to Black - 2.12: Nightshifter

“And then, they took me out of the vault and dragged me upstairs to one of the offices. I thought they were going to kill me. But there was this girl up there, lying on the floor with her… with her throat, just, you know… and, and she looked exactly like me! How is that even possible? I don’t really remember what happened. I was just so scared, my heart was racing so fast. I screamed, and then everything went black. And when I came to, the other girl was fighting with Dean. That’s what he said his name was, anyway. I thought he was so brave at first, trying to protect us from that psycho. I don’t know what that freak said to Dean to get him to start helping, but he really was just one of the hostages at first, I’m sure of it. Oh, sorry, yeah. So, the girl was fighting with him, and screaming, but there was no way she could have been doing that. I mean, her throat was… and there was so much blood! But she was alive, somehow, and Dean held her off and shouted at his brother—Sam, I think he called him—to get me out of there. Sam helped me up, and we both ran into the hallway, and then he told me to get everyone out of the vault and to get out of the bank as fast as I could. That’s where I was going when the cops found me. Did you find them yet? Do you know why they did it?”

Henriksen stopped the tape, pondering Sherry’s final question for the hundredth time in the last week, at least. He’d be lying if he said that the story that was taking shape around the bank heist made any sense at all. For starters, there was the fact that nothing had been stolen. All the witnesses said that the man who had initially come into the bank with the gun had said it wasn’t a robbery, that he’d been extremely surprised to see the Winchesters—though they’d seemed to have a passing familiarity with one another—and that he’d been going on about government conspiracies and ‘mandriods’. That first suspect—Ronald Resnick, a former security guard for a different bank that had been held up as well a little over a month ago—was obviously a round-the-bend PTSD case. It was almost a shame that the cops had taken him out, because his story likely could have cleared a few things up, but it was also possible that he had just been at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was what the Winchesters were doing there that mattered, and that was where things started to get really confusing.

The security guard that they released said that he had let them in earlier that day, that they were posing as technicians doing a routine check of the bank’s security camera system. They’d seemed like nice young men, he said. Others had echoed the sentiment, saying that, even after Resnick had been killed and the Winchesters had taken over the situation, they’d seemed very concerned about the hostages’ safety, that they seemed to think they were doing what they were doing for the hostages’ protection.

And Henriksen would have been inclined to believe them, but for the fact that there were three bodies tied to this case: two of them at the bank itself. One of the patrons had been found in an upstairs office, stripped of all his clothes, his throat slit, and it looked like someone had tried and failed to hide the body in the ceiling. The second body had been the twin of the young woman whose statement he had listened to a dozen times over in the last few days: Sherry, the bank teller, who swore up and down that she didn’t have a twin and had never seen her doppelgänger before that night. That woman—as of yet unidentified—had also been missing most of her clothes, and, in addition to sustaining both a gaping neck wound and a letter-opener to the heart—the latter being the wound that had killed her, though Henriksen was at a loss to explain how the former hadn’t done the job—had also had most of the skin ripped from one of her arms in a surprisingly gruesome manner. Add that to the two unexplained piles of liquifying skin, clothing and hair that had been found in an upstairs office and in one of the stairwells, and the body of the bank manager that had been found a few hours later at his home—cause of death was apparently suicide a few hours before the hostage situation took place, though several other bank employees swore that he was at the bank at the time of the robbery—and it was enough to give anyone a migraine.

But Henriksen had spent enough time tracking down the Winchesters to know that all of this was nothing but smoke and mirrors. Never mind that there were elements of it that rang remarkably similar to the Saint Louis case, or that the true criminal in the Baltimore case had been the now-deceased Detective Sheridan. The truth of the matter was that strange, unnatural death followed these two young men wherever they went, and, if his research was correct, had followed their father as well. From coast to coast, whenever the Winchesters showed up in a town, something horrific was bound to happen, and if they weren’t stopped, the killings would never end. The rest of it didn’t have to make sense, as long as Henriksen remembered what truly mattered: seeing the Winchesters brought to justice. He would see this case through, no matter the consequences, and if it was only because some part of his mind really wanted the answer to that question too—why did they do it?—well, no one but him needed to be any the wiser.

#supernatural #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfic #2.12 nightshifter #fade to black #victor henriksen

[twofootedbones]

Wooden Boxes (Entire Story)

Summary: Small group of friends finds themselves in the forest just to get drunk and burn tree branches in a fire pit. One thing leads to another and now John is stuck with some kind of cheap horror movie plot box and a becomes responsible for a murder. Now that is all just between him and Father Erik. 

"Father I believe I have done more than sin, " John sat calmly on his side of the confessional. The calm demeanor wasn’t going to last long as his story continued and he knew this. "Tell unto me your troubles child, " Father Erik had invited the boy into the safe space after his recent suspicious behavior. John hadn't always been one to make it to church every single Sunday, but the boy's family was well known here. The man had watched him grow up watching him become more and more of a strapping young man each Sunday up until he had gone off towards college. But for the young man to suddenly appear in his church after all this time, it was obviously a moment of need. John stared down at his shoes, simple black sneakers that he could see the collecting dust fall towards. The woven brown reeds were pierced by the dyed sunlight coming from the stained glass. Greens, blues, and reds danced around the space making everything seem like it was all a children’ room. 

"It started through a party, " 

Erik would've never expected the boy to say anything like that. The blonde never seemed like the type to go to any party higher than a get-together. But there could be a lot about the boy he didn’t know.

 "We were all drinking, no one driving, it was technically supposed to be a camping trip, "

-

"If you haven't finished that wine yet you better fucking pass it bitchboy, " Conner gargled and cackled. His voice slurred through 2 fireballs and more than his fair share in beer. John clung to the white wine like it was a bar of gold. "You drunk slut! Get your own!" He yelled swatting away the hands of his brother. Saron sat across on a separate log, laughing into his premade sex on the beach, while poor Rick sipped from his Vermouth. He had to be the slightly sober one out of all of this, having to get at least a gallon or two of the booze before getting any kind of buzz.

 The blonde twins on the other side of the fire continued to argue about who should get the long empty white wine bottle. The air was crisp, untouched by human pollution, it was strange to both Rick and Saron but to the other two, the forest was a second home. Everyone held their own geographic location close to their hearts, while Saron loved the feeling of sand and the sounds of the sea, John craved the smell of the great pines and the sight of the growing ivy. The fire crackled before them, embers flying up into the now dying daylight. The chill of the wind started to hit everyone but the safety of Rick's van was only feet away. John shot up, almost immediately falling back over in the process. 

"I'm going to go take a piss, and I'm taking my wine with me, " he announced while stumbling towards the surrounding trees. "Don't stay out there for too long!" Rick called after him. Saron pats the older boy on the chest. "This is John we are talking about, if he gets lost then we're in a different forest, " 

The blonde did a sloppy job doing his business, hitting everything around the tree trunk rather than the tree trunk he was currently touching foreheads with. Something yelped behind him, it was like a scream that was gagged too soon. The blonde shot around, zipping himself up with more precision than his blackout brain would've wanted. He had never heard a sound like that in the forests before, no bird or mountain lion could ever make such a sound. There was someone or something out there amongst the leaves with him. 

Eyes started to search the leaves desperately, his drunken brain making him see and assume the worst of the worst. Was there a body amongst them? Did the poor boy wander upon a murder scene? The wind blew through the leaves, the temperature dropping with the sun. Once green trees are now turning black. The forest colors dripping down into the ground, making everything a harsh brown and an unforgiving black. Those green eyes wandered across something that might've matched the scenery, but the shape was wrong. A thick and tall wine box sat rotting amongst the forest floor. The top of the box was covered in layers upon layers of various colored candle wax. It seemed to be fresh wax, no dirt visible in the brightly colored substance. It sat straight up, facing the boy and almost inviting him in. At first, he was going to laugh, no amount of adrenaline could sober him up. He giggled at the box, unable to see any seriousness in the situation, believing that this thing could just be someone’s time capsule or some kind of harmless prank.

 "Did you just scream?" he asked the box. He moved closer, stumbling and slow. He started to talk to the box like it was a small dog, fear had left him. "Ya cold out here buddy? Come on, let's go back to the bonfire, " with that John picked up the box and started to carry it back towards camp. Everyone had already crawled their way into the van by then, so he slipped the box into his lemon of a car, placing it in the passenger side before forcing himself into the pile in the back of the van, shutting the van door behind him. He pushed himself onto the end being back to back with his brother. Having all of the blankets stolen from him before he had even fallen asleep. The sounds of the forest seeming to pierce the metal walls and echo through the vehicle. 

-

"This box, " 

Erik interrupted the story snapping John back to the tan comfort of the confessional. "What did it look like again?" 

John knew all too well what the box looked like, he knew every single detail and wax smudge on that stupid box. For something so simple it was stapled into his mind so well. The bright tan of the wood and how it was stained different shades from the candle wax. How the locks on the side looked so out of place and how the screws were put in wrong.

 "It was a wine box, one of those old ones like the cigar boxes, with white and purple candle wax all over it, " 

“Hm,” 

-

The sun tried it's best to pierce through the dirtied and fogged up windows of the van but had no such luck, only creating a dim and dusty light that stained everything yellow. John had woken up first, almost expecting the sound of his alarm to attack his senses, but instead it was just the lovely symptoms of a hangover. The night before started to come back to him as he gazed upon the white wine bottle he fought so hard to keep cuddled up to him. 

While the red of the metal walls and the yellow of the light provided comfort, something was off. There was something wrong about the scene, it felt as if he shouldn’t be here. The forest was silent, no morning birds, no sounds of the small creatures running through the leaves and the bushes, nothing. Something was stopping everything. 

No matter how hard he tried to shake it, the feeling of someone watching him overpowered his murderous migraine. Rick, the patron saint of all their outings, had packed not only a surplus of aspirins and a cooler of just orange juice. His pounding mind pleaded for him to try and get up to get the two miracle products but something was stopping him. Something was looking right at them, he could feel it. A pair of eyes all too bigger than his own we're starting him down and he could feel them on him. Three deep breaths and counting the number of breaths that came from the rest of the room grounded him. Three of his own and three others. The sunlight started to brighten, desperately wanting to get inside of the van. How much time was he wasting staring at the ceiling? And how much longer was this feeling going to last? 

Then something else tried to get in. An unidentifiable head covered the small back window, much too large to be a human's. It didn't move, just stood there. John couldn't see the window, but when the light that once covered the roof had up and left him, so did any calm demeanor that he once had. "Rick, " 

He called out for the silver-haired boy, hoping and praying that he could see what he was seeing. "Rick, wake up, " John' eyes refused to leave the ceiling, watching and waiting for the light to come back. "Rick, " he repeated in a harsher tone. 

"Wh- what? What?" He had finally woken up, and just like that, the light was back. John finally got his bones to move, sitting up and changing his focus from the roof to the window. "I think there's someone outside the van, " 

"What?" was apparently the word of the day. "Yeah, I think there's someone outside, they were just looking through the window, " 

Rick untangled himself from Saron and pushed himself up against the same window that the head was once hiding behind. The boy pushed to unlock the door while the other two struggled with their own hangovers. Conner lazily watched in awe as the silver-haired boy moved so fast. He swung the van door open as well as started swinging, looking back and forth for anyone around. “Hello?!” he called out to the empty, empty forest. John trailed out after him, wobbly from the sun’s rays attacking his eyes and brains. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s out here,” he said a bit calmer to the staggering blonde. “But there definitely was, look at your poor car dude,” 

John staggered over towards his vehicle, hearing the van door slide shut behind him, the two left there no doubt snuggling back up and falling back asleep. The entire windshield was covered in sap. A full brown and golden coat covered the glass, almost completely obscuring the view. “It must’ve been some fuckin prankster kids or something,” Rick shook his head, reaching to touch the syrup. “I have a snow scraper under the seat it might work,” the blonde mumbled. 

-

“The whole front glass pane?” the older man interrupted with another question. “If it really was just some hooligans, where would they have gotten all that tree sap?” 

John laughed on the other side of the thin woven wall. “It would be quite the prank to pull, no matter how much I scraped, there was no real way to get rid of it,” the boy would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about gathering tree sap just to do that to Conner or believing that Conner had done that to his car himself. “Six car washes later it’s not as sticky anymore but the windshield wiper still gets stuck,” 

“Continue with your story, my child,” 

-

The door swung open all too fast, slamming the door handle into the thankfully placed door stopper. It wasn’t like it was stopping much due to the many doorknob sized holes in the wall. The apartment manager wasn’t exactly happy about it, but this wasn’t exactly anything new. He’s been living here for a year now, when he moves out he’ll fix it. The aspirins had started to wear themselves off as they lacked the power to last the whole migraine. That’s only expected from gas station migraine meds. He shut the door behind him with his foot, unable to touch the handle with his hands as they were both filled with the simple camping equipment and the new antique he gets to add to his collection, free of charge. He set the wine box down on the coffee table, for now, the glass clinking as the metal corners hit the surface.

John left the box there, wandering further into the two-bedroom one bath apartment to shove the other items there before returning to the couch where he would further hibernate. On the way back to the living room, he kicked off his shoes only to leave them somewhere in the hallway. Right now was not the time to keep things simple and clean. The shirt came off next, being thrown somewhere towards the kitchen but he never saw where it landed. A pale body flopped onto the small pull out couch, his feet hanging off the other end but being too lazy to pull the whole small bed out of the couch. Green eyes stared at the wine box that made the coffee table it's home. The box was surprisingly clean for being somewhere in the forest. John started to search for his phone, slapping his pockets until he could recognize the size of his ancient smartphone in his front pocket. 

While Conner begged for him to update his phone and finally live the 5G life if it wasn’t broken don’t fix it. John clicked open the phone and started his common words search. Wine box covered in wax? Spiritual box? Vintage box covered in wax? Spiritual wine box? 

The last search is when he actually got anything. Dybbuk box. What was currently sitting on his coffee table was something called a Dybbuk box. Thousands of clickbait videos showed up in the results. Tens of them having “Gone wrong” somewhere in the title. He opened up Youtube, clicking through the thousands of videos till he could find some kind of informational video that was obviously a child's clickbait. A short video by some kind of news site told him everything he could need to know. Well, not really but get the gist. The box held some kind of demon, a demon that would latch itself onto whoever came into contact with the box. John had carried that box with both hands on multiple occasions. The lady in the video said that the bad events would come in threes, but with the millions of clickbait videos, he started to believe that this was all just a load of shit. Mostly considering that the legendary box was a small wine cabinet and not a dinky single bottle wine box.

 The boy clicked his phone off and set it down on the coffee table next to the box. “Did some Youtuber leave you in the forest, huh?” he asked the box. He smiled at the small prop, laughing about the story he could tell to Travis and Carol in class tomorrow. “I got a bookshelf with your name on it,” he spoke to the box again. 

He didn’t realize that he had slept until he woke up to the natural light leaving him behind. What was he doing when he got home? The light of the street lamps found their way through his windows. He didn’t want to get up just yet, staring out his window and watching the cars on the road outside. Class started back up tomorrow, ending spring break and starting the home stretch to summer break. As if he was even going to make it that long. His grades have been falling to pieces before his very eyes, having to get Travis and Carol to help him with everything. They were upperclassmen and he’s lucky that he even got them to look at his direction. Maybe he could squeeze in a bit of homework tonight. His eyes wandered towards the ceiling. 

Something blocked the light again. 

The same pitch black figure, head much too large for its own body, it was a blessing that the neck could even support it. Or perhaps that's just what the shadow made it look like. John had only got a glimpse of it before it duck down below the window. The blonde shot up, staring back at the window. Now he was starting to regret not having curtains. He didn’t live in a shady part of town or didn't trust his neighbors, but he was starting to. John rolled off the couch, keeping his eyes on the window only looking away to check if the door was locked. It wasn’t. 

The boy dreaded moving anywhere close to the window, it was an irrational fear, there was nothing there he could still be drunk and this all was just his eyes playing tricks on him. He was just tired. It was just one of his neighbors walking by. It was a car going by the streetlamp. 

The two locks shut with two simple clicks. The door knob lock jiggles slightly and the deadbolt sliding securely into place. A short lived wave of calm brushed over him, a breath he didn’t know he was holding escaped between his lips. A crash snapped him back into reality, his body whipped around to face the wine box that had now flashed itself onto the floor, standing up perfectly. John wasn’t a very religious person, while his family forced him into church he believed it was all just some story that people preached for morals like fairy tales. But at that moment, he could believe that there was something in the house with him.

“This is ridiculous,” 

Anger forced his anxiety out and made itself the leading factor of his actions. The blonde stormed over and snatched the box off of the ground, almost throwing it into the spare room. The box landed amongst the forgetting camping stuff on the floor. He slammed the door behind him and went to bed without a shower. 

-

“You threw the Dybbuk box?” 

The voice was harsh and stern. Erik was always a second father to him, so it was a bit difficult to hear that tone. John started to shake, regret and grief taking over him for disrespecting the box and disappointing Erik. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbled holding his head in his hands. The center latched clicked open and the small door opened up, the older man slipping in a box of tissues. 

-

The most annoying alarm rang through the apartment, breaking through the blockage of both the walls and the pillows. John slapped the life out of his phone, sliding his and back and forth to desperately shut the sound off. His face still buried deep into his pillow and blankets still covering his face. His hand bumped into something that definitely wasn’t on his nightstand last night. The harsh wooden texture and the smooth oily feeling made his eyes shoot open faster than a speed dial. There stood the box, right on his nightstand. John sighed, slamming his face back into the pillow, this had to be a prank. His hand remained on the box, trying to think of who had a spare key to his apartment. 

Conner.

 Of course his brother would do some stupid shit like this. His pranks always had layers upon layers of planning. A small splinter of doubt hit him, believing that Conner was too piss drunk to place the box behind him in the woods, but then he remembered that Rick was sober and that trio of assholes lived together. So, of course he would be in on it. The blonde rolled out of bed, checking the time on his phone before picking the box back up. 

“If I throw you away then he won’t be able to move you around anymore,” he spoke to the box again. “But then again, if I hide you somewhere then I could catch him in the act,” he smiled, his plan sounding like a great one. There weren't a lot of places in his apartment that he could hide the box, but there were a few places he knew Conner would never look. So, into the back of the freezer it went. The box was covered up by frozen bags of fruits and vegetables. “Let’s see him find you now,” 

-

John got home from class like it was every other day, slamming the door open and closing it softly before throwing himself onto his couch and crashing his backpack onto the coffee table. Only this time when his backpack slammed itself into the coffee table, it shoved something else off of it. John lacked a TV so there was no way he could blame the crash on something as simple as a remote. The blonde lifted his head to see before him the stupid box. He was started to curse this box and the stupid game his brother was playing on him, did the boy really search through everywhere?! And in the freezer of all places?! He was sick of it. He was sick of the idea that Conner had even thought that doing this stupid little demon prank was a good idea. 

It all just bothered him so much more than it should, unable to understand these drastic moods lately. He was mad almost all the time now, mad at his apartment door, mad at his classmates, mad at his stupid car, mad at his friends for being so fucking nosy, and mad at himself for being mad. It was all so confusing.

But angering all the same. 

The blonde struggled to find out where the thorn in his demeanor was from, while the box in front of him knew exactly where it was from. The boy stared at the box, brows permanently frowed together in the most peeved face he had ever made. “What’s even inside you anyway you useless thing?” he asked in the box. Then it jostled. Causing him to become startled himself. “What the fuck?” he said aloud, quickly shifting to sit up and pick up the box. It jumped again in his hands. This scared him more than just seeing it move on the floor. He's held jumping beans before, but those were small, whatever this was, was bigger than some bug.

 John threw the box across the room, hearing it crash against the wall with a thud then crack open on the floor. The wax scattered itself and the wood splintered. The inside remained pitch black despite the many lights that flooded the apartment. John stood up, backing away but needing to get closer to be able to kill whatever rat or creature Conner had put in this stupid wine box.  It was only after a void black dripping hand slapped itself out of the small box did he realize that this wasn’t a prank. The hand desperately slapped and gripped at the carpet floor, whatever it was attached to wanting out. The fingers curled and flexed in all different directions, seeming to drag itself towards John. The boy was stuck in place, watching with wide eyes as a second hand forced itself out of the broken box. Both arms and finger flexing and flailing around, the sound of the newly wet carpet being slapped on by the mystery appendages. A watermelon sized head pulled itself out of the small opening, the jaw was sharp and pointed in several areas, just above opening in a large toothed mouth with a swirling tongue that seemed to go up and lick the rest of the face like a gecko would to its own eyeball. The head shook back and forth, sometimes even slapping itself on the carpet too, desperately wiggling to free itself from the prison it had once been trapped in. A skinny body followed the head, neck thinner than would ever be expected to lift the head and a chest that was no larger than a notebook. There were no legs on the creature, relying on the long arms it had to keep it mobile. It seemed to look around the small apartment before making a Beeline towards the blonde that only watched in shock and fear as it dragged itself forward and onto the coffee table with just its thin and dripping arms. It was as if the creature was made out of nothing but stale and out of date ink. The large mouth opened before those arms propelled the body towards John with a powerful launch. 

Last thing he knew, the creature was on his face. 

-

John woke up on his apartment floor hours upon hours later. It couldn’t have been that long because it was still light outside, but the buzzing of his phone told a different story. The simple caller ID told him that it was one of his classmates. Well technically an upperclassmen, but he was a classmate all the same. “Hello? Travis?” he spoke slurred into the phone. “John!?” the voice on the other end boomed. “Where have you been!? You’ve been out for two days!” 

There was no way his phone battery had lasted more than 3 hours the day he got home. The boy looked down at himself as the older man on the other line continued to speak, completely tuning him out as he examined himself. He was still wearing the same shirt and same shorts he had been wearing when he got home. The same backpack sat on the coffee table. The scene he endured came back to him, he whipped his head around to look for wither the creature that attacked him or the box he had shattered, but neither were present.

“Are you even listening to me?” Travis snapped him back to the phone conversation he hadn’t gotten a word of. “What?” he asked.

“Where are you? Me and Carol are going to come get you, we’ve been worried to death dude,” 

Well that was reasonable. “I’m just at my apartment,” 

“We’re on our way,” and with that the line went dead.

A feeling of dread started to attack the boy, although it was just a simple phone conversation, he was yet again alone in his apartment. He was afraid to move, even more terrified to even go into any of the rooms of the house. There was no telling where the thing had gone, even if it did make it back to the stupid box, he didn’t want to see it anymore. John looked down to his legs and noticed something he hadn’t earlier. From his ankle all the way up his legs, even so much as stretching under his shorts, was covered in patches of bruises. While some were a fading yellow, others were the deepest purple he had ever seen. How was he supposed to explain these to Travis and Carol? 

John would either have to face his fears of the other rooms, or try and explain that he was attacked by a Lovecraft creature. The boy stood up on aching legs, almost immediately falling back to his stop on the ground. It hurt. The boy's face twisted up in pain, temporarily distracting him from the fear of the loose creature. Each step sent shockwaves through his body, his feet feeling as if he was walking on scolding needles. The walk towards the bedroom door felt as if an hour had already passed, sweat starting to run down his face already. While he turned the doorknob to the room, the one attached to the front door started to shake as well. It was followed by all too forceful knocks and a deep voice that broke through every wall. Maybe it had taken him an hour to get to the bedroom. “Just a second!” he yelled back, the remaining fear that gripped onto him let go, leaving just his injuries to slow him down. The knocks continued as he threw the dresser drawer open, he was surprised that Travis was being this impatient but then again he did drop off the face of the earth for two days. Wait, if they were really worried then why didn’t they just get Conner to let them into the apartment. John stared at himself in the body length mirror as he struggled to hop his legs into the longer sweatpants. Something wasn’t adding up, but he blamed it on school and some other unknown excuse he knew was there but couldn’t think of. 

The blonde started to get used to the new pain that was walking as he rushed from the bedroom to the front door, the knocking continued up until he placed his hand on the doorknob. He paid no attention to it until he swung the door open to see no one there. Nothing but the day’s sun and the gentle breeze made its way through the entrance. A sound went off behind him, he could almost recognize it as the knives in the kitchen clattering to the floor and the coffee table bursting into pieces. 

-

This time John actually woke up. The boy was on his knees in the middle of the small kitchen, steak knife in his hand aimed towards his legs. He couldn’t move, only observing in horror at the various butter and steak knives that sat around him in a circle, each blade curled completely into a corkscrew. His heart is the only thing racing. His knuckles shone white as he squeezed on the handle of the knife in his hand, terrified of the object but refusing to let go of it. He wanted to get up, he wanted to run away, he wanted to find his phone he really did, but something had his legs bolted to the tile floor. Half-assed deep breaths calmed his pulse down somewhat, but how was one supposed to be calm in a situation like this. The blonde tried to look over the kitchen counter towards the rest of the house, unable to see a single thing other than the darkness of the window. What day was it? What time was it? Was he still alive? John was endlessly confused with his situation. The mild confusion and anger stopped dead when a familiar slap sounded just out of his view. His heart rate kicked up again, being just as loud as the several wet slaps that followed the first. The long inked hand appeared again, just around the counter. The flexing appendages pulled and scraped the head and rest of the body into view, the creature dragging and lifting itself to sit right in front of the boy. It was silent. The only sound echoing through the small space was John’ breathing and the sound of the tar from its body dropping to the tile. It was a staring match despite the monster’s lack of eyes. The mouth started to open, open wide. John was convinced that the mouth of teeth would be the last thing he would ever get to see before his body would shut down. The mouth kept going, opening and curling back much like the blades on the ground around him. It revealed a face. The face of a boy much like him but so much younger, bright almost glowing red eyes met his green as the real staring contest began. The muk continued to curl back, revealing hair that could rival the black tar in color and a surplus of skin that one would only find on the body of an albino. 

A simple dress shirt and sweater vest was revealed as it continued to drip away, splatters of blood covering the sleeves while whatever blood was on the vest had been swallowed by the darker colors. The rest of the tar dripped away revealing a sight much worse than the cover of the void. The creature lacked legs because the boy under lacked them as well. The dress shirt and vest were shredded at the ends, revealing in full view a pile of driped and wasted organs that spilled out of the open body. Flesh hung out in surplus, the meat seeming more of a petrified jerky with age. John had audibly gasped at the sight, almost expecting an attack from the boy in front of him for doing anything. But instead, he spoke. “I know,” 

The voice was broken and raspy, but remained deep and sarcastic. “You need to do something for me,” the voice spoke again. 

It took him more than a few seconds but the blonde managed to find his own voice. “Who are you?” he asked. 

“Var, You need to do something for me,” he repeated, his tone becoming more and more aggravated. There was no avoiding the question. “What, what do you need?” 

That was where he had started to cover up the grave he dug himself. John had invited the dybbuk onto himself. He had allowed the creature to attach itself to him. The spirit of the boy and the boy’s disgusting and murderous longing. The boy pulled himself closer, the curled knives moving on their own around him. “2116 Aervre Street,” the boy said, putting his hands on his, wrapping around them to help hold the knife in place. They were as cold as ice, burning his hands the longer they stayed there. The knife started to freeze in his hands, crystallizing and piercing his hands. This was real, this time it wasn’t a dream. The body of the boy melting in front of him, the knife staying attached to his hands. Whispered started from behind him, at first he couldn’t tell what they were saying, but as they grew louder and closer he could make out the word simply. “Kill, kill, kill, kill,” it chanted. 

He had a job to do and Var was going to make him do it. Legs shooting up and moving on their own. The curled knives clattered around the kitchen as his legs started to feel. Wet. The black sludge from the floor flowing up and attaching themselves to his body. He didn’t come back to the present until he found himself sitting in the car. 

The car started with a scream, the busted engine coming to life as the small key started the whole thing. The car lights turned on with a flash before shutting off, leaving the boy in the darkness of the night, only interrupted by the glow in the dark lights of the dashboard symbols. The sharp blade glimmered in the flashed lights, drawing his attention to it once again. He had everything he could’ve needed. Bolt cutters, the knife that had yet to leave his hands, gloves, simple toss away shoes he had left over from summer, he had everything. John could feel himself getting sick over the task at hand, half of his mind rejecting even thinking that the spirit had meant something else while the other half, the half that wasn’t him, was already committing the crime. The busted  box sat in the back, fully visible through the rear-view mirror. Var was watching him, watching him closely. The blonde could feel the pressure of the creature resting on his shoulders, almost forcing itself into his body, forcing him to have a lead foot. The car calmly left the parking lot and out onto the main roads. Snoogle maps screamed the directions to him through the discount sound system. The bluetooth speaker glued to the dashboard jostled as he sped up, completely ignoring the speed bumps as he passed through empty neighborhoods. He bounced up and down in the car, feeling Var shove him back down into the seat. The tools that once sat next to him in the passenger’s seat now found their home on the floor, the wine box in the back seat refused to move, as if it was glued down tight to the middle seat. The fresh wax on the box seemed to melt, never dripping but a constant flow like it was all pulsing. Like it was living. It was living. John ran through a red light, the sounds of the honking cars in the intersection snapping his attention back to the road, he was back on the main road again. The cops were going to be called on him soon. He knew this as a fact. 

The speaker roared his last few directions at him, the bass and water damage almost gargling the words. John was almost convinced that part of the sounds were the demon’s doing. The speaker said something about the destination being on the right before the dust dome completely exploded, shooting the guts of the small speaker forward and towards the metal mesh making that mesh the only thing keeping John from facing an electrical injury. The blonde slammed on the brakes, the tires shrieking behind him the trimming bound to be ruined by now but none of that mattered to him apparently. John yanked the key out of the ignition, checking over it to see if it was bent or not. It was fine though scolding hot to the touch, he learned that the hard way. Hissing as he shoved his twice burnt fingers into his mouth as if it was going to make a single difference. Once with ice and once with heat. Something in the back of his mind screamed at him, he could hear the raspy voice he had heard in the kitchen speaking to him. "Hurry up,” was all the voice was repeating. The words forced a noticeable amount of anxiety on the boy, draping himself over the center compartment to reach the tools he needed on the floor. John put on the medical mask with shaking hands, tucking his hair into a baseball cap he planned to burn after all of this, and scribbled all over his face with a body paint stick not even bothering to look in the visor mirrors. He needed to be unrecognizable. Snatching a satchel from the back seat he was ready to head out. The boy looked over at the house, the first thing he saw was the doorbell cam. There was no real easy way to take those out, so he couldn't use the front door or approach the front steps at all for that matter. The gate to the back was easy money, chain link and short enough not to make much noise climbing over. 

The backyard was large, large enough to fit a pool but remained empty. A sharp knock to the back of his head staggered him enough to drop to the ground. “You didn’t even check for a dog,” the cracking voice screamed at him. Var was right, but John could honestly care less. His vision blurred as he tried to get up, the dybbuk cursing in the back of his mind saying things about how he didn’t hit the other that hard. The blonde walked around, viewing the backside of the house, looking for cameras, open windows, or any lights on in the house. It was as if the place was completely abandoned. Every single curtain was open while none of the lights were on. There was no camera and no lights. “You’re welcome,” Var almost screamed in his right ear. He had gotten all too used to having to deal with the creatures lack of volume control. The sliding glass door made a click, John could only guess that the lock on it had sprung open. The boy took off his shoes, shoving them into the bag and throwing on some cheap flip flops over his socks. Fashion didn’t matter in the middle of attempted murder. The pure rubber shoes squeaked as they pressed against the wooden floors. He started to shut the door behind him when a small gash opened itself up on his arm. It took a lot in his power to yelp while it happened, quickly covering it to stop bleeding. If his DNA evidence was found on the scene, they’d catch him almost immediately. “Easy escape,”

John acted quickly, sliding one of the flip flops off, yanking his sock off, and attempting to wrap and tie the fabric around his arm right as he slipped his foot back into the shoe. The sock ripped to shreds in his hand, easier to wrap around his arm. He was already wasting so much time as it is, feeling the demon on his shoulders grow more and more impatient the more he struggled to tie the fabric off. 

John looked around the dining room and kitchen combo. It was pristine, as if the cleaning lady had just come by not two hours ago and deep cleaned every surface. If he left so much as a trace he’d be fucked. Var started to pull him towards a doorway, that doorway led to the living room. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling that seemed to stretch all the way to the roof, no divider between the up and down stairs areas. A small curving stairwell stretches itself from the bottom to top floor, proudly displaying an open hallway where several doors could be seen, every single one of them was closed. Stress was taken off of his back and neck, feeling Var lighten his attachment. The dybbuk was searching the house for the target, John stood patiently in the living room, looking around the doors to see if there was any kind of alarm system anywhere in the house. That was when he saw some items that started to raise a bit of suspicion. It was difficult to view in the plain darkness, so he pulled out his phone and flashed the light of the screen towards it.

 A wheelchair sat next to the door, with one of those stair climber chairs sitting right next to it. Something wasn’t right here. Some kind of monitor sat next to the tv, the wires stretching from there to the couch. Before he got the time to investigate further the pressure of barbells returned to his shoulders, the pressure forcibly pushing him towards the stairs. His foot touched the carpeted stairs with caution, the fabric below him squishing down and bouncing back as if it had never been walked on before. The knife in his bag began to feel heavy, this time not because of Var but because of the guilt of knowing what he was about to do. While this was a problem, something told John that he wouldn’t even have to take the knife out of the bag. Tears started to gather, glassing his eyes but refusing to fall just yet. His nose started to stuff up but he chose to ignore it, breathing through his mouth allowing his shaking breaths become louder and louder. Var had not made some kind of comment or punished him for the behavior yet, but he knew it was going to come.

 A quick slap to the face set him in the right direction once he got to the top of the staircase. To the left it was. The dead silence of the house was replaced with the light sounds of a breathing machine. Quite literally. John recognized the sounds from having to take his brother to the hospital for an asthma attack. The faint sound alone confirmed his suspicions, this old enemy is quite old indeed. The door was almost highlighted as it sat on the other side of the hallway, green lights shining from the crack at the bottom of the door. The blonde felt empty, as if the hands that were opening and door and the feet that were walking across the cushy carpet weren’t his. Before he could even come to, the once calmy beeping monitor was dead flat. The wire that once held the whole man together in his hands and out of the power socket, but Var still wasn’t satisfied and that was the last thing he had heard. The creature screaming in the back of his mind. “It’s not done till there's blood!” 

-

The morning light invaded the newly placed curtains in the apartment, the light cream color giving the whole living room a comfortable feeling. John needed it. He was free from the creature that had plagued him, but it was all from over. Every single news article and report only reminded him of the monstrosity he had gone through and every single time he had been abused by the spirit that possessed the simple wine box. The blonde could only assume that Var was gone completely, not finding a single trace of the box anywhere in his apartment or car. The knives in the kitchen remained bent though and the scars he earned from his battle with the creature would remain there forever. Perhaps he would be able to deal with all of that. 

-

John took a deep breath, completely calm by the end of his story although he knew there was nothing but trouble that could come from it now. Erik stared at the boy through the woven mesh, the natural sunlight now gone, leaving them with nothing but the artificial light of the church chandelier. The once calming kaleidoscope of stained glass colors is now gone and replaced with the buzzing of LED bulbs and eye straining bright white. The blonde looked up at the man who just stared at him in disbelief. “Please don’t tell anyone,” he begged. 

“Not a soul,” 

#original writing #original story #original fiction #writeblr #writing #writers #writing community #writeblr community #creative writing #horror writing #horror story #horror fiction #writing on tumblr