* 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐲 !

rules?

muses?

wanted connections?

wanted opposites?

"hey, whoa, what the-" his body jerks forward, moving from a comfortable half-lying position to sitting rigidly on the couch. a sudden element of unease has been sprinkled into what had been an otherwise relaxing evening. "did you see that?" focus shifts from the window he's been goggling at to the person next to him. "there was someone outside," finch gets up, pointing towards where seconds ago he had spotted a figure, watching them from behind the glass. "i think it was that girl. from before?" the one who showed up earlier in the day, asking for directions to her friend christina's place. "what the hell?" he hadn't thought much of it in the moment, assuming she must've been lost and politely informing her the next cabin was about a forty-five minute drive north. now he's mildly freaked out, standing by the window and looking in the direction she sprinted after meeting his gaze.

“and how do we know you’re not the murderer, huh?” alma marley, the shit-stirrer, now spotted throwing around accusations like it’s her favorite pastime activity. “you show up here, unannounced, no one even fucking invited you-” she’s waving around a large kitchen knife, a precaution; an essential when there’s a killer on the loose. “i... might’ve-” soft voice interrupts, its’ owner, a terrified brunette holding up a guilty finger. “shut up, audrey.” alma groans before shifting her attention back to suspect number one. “you said you despised julia, fucking hated her guts. you killed her, didn’t you?”

“when i said ‘call me if you need anything’, this is not what i meant.” an admittedly foolish move on his part, a lesson learned for the near future. the words shoot from between gritted teeth in a harsh whisper, his frustration in lowercase, as though he’s afraid any sound above the volume of negative one point five will alert everyone in the neighboring areas of the atrocities he’s now (unwillingly) participating in. with arms folded in a severe case of parental disappointment, graham looks at the scene before him. heavy sigh incoming.“what are you expecting me to do, exactly?” 

open to: m / f / nb ( always 21+ ) plot:  taylor escaped her cult by fleeing in the dead of night and not looking back ,  and somehow ,    through the darkness ,    stumbled all the way to your muse’s front door .  they let her in ,    only moments later — there was a second knock at the door . muse: taylor (  25 ,  ex-cult member  )

      “      no  !    ”        she launches herself forth with no forewarning  ,      before they could move towards the door —-     scrawny hands clasp tightly  ,     encircling their wrist hard enough to leave a bruise  ,      mascara smudged eyes wide and full of woe .       “     please .    ”    she tries to soften her demand into a plea .     “    don’t open the door .   ”

he hasn’t even grown accustomed to the first random stranger in his home when suddenly there’s another, significantly more aggressive, knock on the door. surely monica must’ve scribbled his address in a bathroom stall again, because there’s no way he’d be getting so many visitors at this hour. those days are over, buried somewhere off-road in albuquerque, along with his former identity and the body of an underground crack dealer. winces when the already weird girl gets progressively weirder, her grip tightening around his wrist till he’s yanking himself free and slowly, but steadily, inching towards the drawer where the gun is stored. just in case. “who is it?” doesn’t take his eyes off of her. “do you wanna tell me what the hell’s going on?” 

     it is not often she loses control over her calculated demeanor —-   each step measured  ,    each breath in perfect sync .  anger outbursts are often contained in the palms of her hand  ,   carved out of dull amethyst and half moons .   until it wasn’t .  she slowly unfurls her little fingers from the pencil ,   looking up at him like a child caught red-handed .      “      you’re being unresonable .     ”     even then ,   she places all the blame upon his shoulders .

“i’m being unreasonable?” cue a sound that vaguely resembles a humorless chuckle, the traces of shock quickly morphing into anger. “i’m being unreasonable!?” just double-checking if his hearing’s still reliable, even if his spleen might not be. “you fuckin’ stabbed me!” spreads his arms, as though to give her a better look at the cold, hard evidence. “there’s a fuckin’ pencil in my fuckin’ ribcage area. you cunt. why the hell did you do that?” 

exhausted   body   forced   itself   to   make   its   way   towards   the   door,   embarrassment   &   urgency   working   in   tandem   because   another   minute   of   frantic   knocking   on   his   door   might   just   wake   the   whole   apartment   building   up    and   it’d   be   him   to   take   blame.    a   quick   look   in   the   peephole   to   make   sure   it   was   a   familiar   face   before   he   opened   the   door   as   wide   as   the   chain   guard   allowed,   reluctant   to   allow   them   in   unless   it   was   something   important.    “    it’s   fucking   3am,   what   the   fuck   are   you   doing   here   ?    ”   nonplussed   and   rough,    voice   just   a   little   above   a   whisper,   gentleness   hard   to   come   by   as   haze   of   sleep   and   fatigue   still   clung   to   him.             

he hasn’t slept in thirty-eight hours. frantic, driven by the fear of inevitable demise, he’s sporting the same plaid shirt he’s been wearing since they last saw each other at deena’s wake... three days ago, if he remembers correctly. ever since the freaky, hyperrealistic waking nightmare of his friends dying in a plane crash only for the plane to then actually burst into flames before his very eyes... time’s been bit of a blur. the random deaths haven’t been helping either. so far, two of their friends who safely made it off the flight have died in freak accidents, leaving the police perplexed, and him slightly suspicious. “it’s going backwards!” pours out of his mouth. “is emma here?” last time he checked, she was supposed to be staying over. but then again, she was supposed to be a lot of things. “there’s a pattern.” can’t seem to form a single coherent thought, pushing past the other and into the apartment. “see, in the dream... jeremy and deena don’t die till the end, it’s- it’s deena, and then jeremy.” waves around a piece of paper, a rough sketch of the inside of the plane, as seen on the news. “he’s the last one.” whereas in reality jeremy was the first unfortunate soul to bite the dust; found dead in his apartment a week after the incident. days after that, deena allegedly fell out the window and got impaled on a fence. “i think that maybe for some weird, inscrutable reason, it’s targeting people in reverse. i don’t know. i mean, it would make sense, no?” nothing makes sense. “i had this funny feeling the night jeremy died.” kind of like the one he’s having right now. “like something was gonna happen. i thought it was just the melatonin, because sometimes when i take sleep aids i have this habit-” he probably sounds utterly deranged. it’s time to stop, step on the brakes and go back to what’s important. cuts himself off, clears his throat. “is emma here?” 

what started as a verbal confrontation has turned into adam staring at the newly acquired accessory: a sharp object sticking out of his torso, slightly below the ribcage. azure eyes meet the other’s, bewildered, sharp pain spreading through his side despite the excessive amounts of adrenaline in his bloodstream. “did- did you just fuckin’ stab me?”