#fxxtballsajoke

The Darkness leans into Jackson’s hand and just lets out a tired, human sigh. Even the way he smelled was different. His head turns a bit and he kisses the other’s palm gently. “Somethings happened.” he murmurs softly. “Not sure yet... but I might be losing this fight faster than I thought...” He just looks so human. Amos looks at Jackson. “They might find me... and I might be human again... and I’d forget everything.” he closes his eyes.

there were few instances like this in the world, where a young girl who wasn’t really supposed to be living on her own was. there was few instances where rich girls disowned their mothers, casting them to be not good enough. but Cheryl Blossom was a storm of uncertainty and shock. nothing she did was ever norm. she was never following the laws of what was usually considered right. she never had. perhaps that was what had landed her here in the first place.

when she had told Penelope first that she was going to be getting a lawyer, the woman had laughed at her; bitter, cold, as it always was. ‘you have no lawyer, Cheryl. you only have my lawyer’. those were her exact words. and for a moment, Cheryl had feared that she was correct. but some research and digging around on social media had revealed that a close and longtime friend of hers had been a pretty big big shot. reaching out to him had been effortless.

sitting in the office, however, made things real. the cool leather of the seat she’d been advised to sit in bit into the gentle skin of her back and her thighs through the thin fabric of her clothing, reminding her that this was real, she was awake, and there was no going back from this decision. not that she would ever want to. melancholic eyes were uncharacteristically warm as they rested upon the male on the other side of the mahogany desk. a fondness that had often been saved for just the brother whose death had set all of this in motion. “thank you for seeing me.” the words felt unnecessary, but she said them all the same.

one hand raised to flip long red hair over her shoulder, the other rested almost nervously in her lap, rubbing the soft material of the skirt she wore. her stomach twisted, forming knots that made her uncomfortable, demanding that she shift in the position she had placed herself in. but she refused. she would not allow anyone, even Jackson, think she had any bit of love left inside her body for that woman.

banshee. in irish legend they were supposed to be faeries. faeries that warned people of impending death in the house. Cheryl was no where near being a faerie, and when these bursts of... banshee hit her, she did not feel the slightest bit magical. it was always terrifying. all her senses would panic and fizzle, snapping under the pressure of impending death. she knew how it felt to die, and it was terrifying. if she hadn’t been afraid of her impending doom before, she was now. perhaps it was the trauma that awakened her powers, but she felt every second of it. the struggle. the pain. the last moments. 

as the feeling of death, unnatural, washed over the redhead, her body wretched itself free of the protection of red satin sheets. balling her fists into the soft and gentle fabric, her eyebrows knitted together. eyes squinted, cheeks pushing up into her own vision. lips parted, jaw dropping. the scream falling from her lips. loud enough that it shook the floor, made the things on her dresser rattle. the death quake. someones life was ending.

muscles moving out of habit, completely against her own will, the girl climbed free from her bed. only enough sense in her body to drape the red robe over her shoulders before she began her journey to where the body lay in wait. 

it was probably an hour before she snapped back to her senses. she stood in a puddle of warm, sticky blood, and at her feet laid the mauled corpse of a teenager from town. she’d seen the boy around Beacon Hills High a few times. she did not know his name. 

shaking fingers fiddled with her robe. she kept her phone in there in the night time for reasons exactly like this. this wasn’t the first body she’d found. it would not be her last.

LAST CALL: JACKSON WHITTEMORE

honestly, she remembered calling him the night before. an old friend, a good friend. many days were spent hopping around the summer cabins with him, Jason and Lydia. while it made more sense to contact the other banshee, odds are she’d only call one of the stronger supernaturals to come along with her - better to cut to the chase, and avoid an angry, sleeping Lydia, and just call the werewolf - kanima boy.

blood smeared her screen as she pressed his name. it was only then that she realized the blood was all over her - as if she had fallen  in it.

Send 🌑 to crawl into bed with my muse

ask stiles about his feelings | accepting