#joooooo

los javis en mask singer 4x08 (final)

The light falling into the kitchen was deep red, dyeing the water in the kitchensink, the dirty dishes and the pale tiles put at the wall by the sink into a deep scarlet. As scarlet as the cloth of his short, much too short, much too small, leg where the blood was seeping through the trousersleg so thick and hot it seemed to smoke in the coldness of the small, dark room. He was sitting with his small back pressed against an old wooden door that shaked and rattled in his back as if cought in a storm. But at the other side of the door was no storm. A storm was not snarling so loud it hurted in his ears. A storm had no teeth so long that they had digged through his trouserleg and into the soft flesh of his thigh until blood was spilling out wildly. A storm had not the strenght of a mad foxbear as it threw itself against the wooden door with all its might, ready to break in, ready to colour the room the same colour as his trouserlegs, ready to end the hunt. When he had stumbled into the room with his leg nothing but a mangled piece of moveless flesh hanging from his rumph, he had lost is flute that had slithered across the old ruins floor. It was dark inside the ruin, but the bones the flute was made of stood out against the thick blackness and was clearly seeable. But the flute was too far away. Two inches too far away. Just two inches too far away. Yet if he could reach the flute maybe he could calm down the magical beast in his back, the Foxbear might was mad but even an insane mind could be touched by his aura. But the flute was too far away. Two inches too far away. Just two inches too far away. The door in his back groaned meagerly when the beast threw its body against it and for a second, just a second the wood gave in enough for the foxbear to almost reach with his long claws inside the small room to cut into flesh. But the second ended as soon as it had started and he could shove himself back against the wooden door, closing it enough to keep the claws out and only a light bloody streak on his shoulder bore witness to the second his strenght had given in just so little. But the flute was too far away. Two inches too far away. Just two inches too far away. And if he would just lean a little to the side his weight against the door would not be enough to hold the beast back. But if he went slowly, Inch by inch, so slowly, maybe he coudl reach it, maybe he could play a song. But the flute was too far away. Two inches too far away. Just two inches too far away. Only on inch too far away. No longer too far away. No longer too far away when the door in his back broke down. Instead of closing around the flute, Chris hand closed around the dirty cup and his eyes met the bright tiles put on the wall over the sink insead of the sick blacknes that had hung liek a veil in the ruin. [ @bewitchingbaker ]

Falkner: *Walking in to a room* Sorry I’m late... I was... doing things. *Sounds of running footsteps progressively getting louder* Will: *Out of breath* THEY PUSHED ME DOWN THE FUCKIN’ STAIRS.