#shellcrack

Gaara leaned forward against the railing. A heavy bassline pumped through the soles of his shoes and into the pit of his stomach, where it sloshed with alcohol he had not asked for and a keen sense of disconnect. His back faced the din of the house party from which he had retreated. He stared instead at the view which stretched beyond the patio: a thousand city rowhomes jutting up from the cracked pavement like broken teeth, plaquelike strips of yellowed grass from abandoned alleys and walkways, its immenseness, its ethereal mystique lent only by the chilled winter dusk, merging together into a gaping maw which threatened to swallow him whole. He had stood there for some time, palms pressed into the cold wrought-iron, the breeze a blissful sting on his cheeks, until the door behind him creaked open.

He turned his head just enough to identify a stranger.

@shellcrack [x]

Lux knows this woman. Although he has never met her, he has seen her before many times. The burnt. The heartbroken. The runaway. The one writhing in her body like a boiled egg that had been cracked open, skin raw and vulnerable and fingers searching for a comforting strand to pick at, only to remember as they fall through thin air. People would think it a Hollywood cliché. As somebody who made himself at home in clubs and bars, Lux knows better.

For a moment, he hesitates. It is obvious that the girl does not want to be perceived, if by the world or just by him. Why then, though, had she not simply grabbed a bottle from the store to drown her pain in solitude?

"...Yeah. I think so, too."

Then he is gone, for a minute only just behind the bar, before returning with a full glass in hand. His shift is almost over, given maybe half an hour. Things had already grown a little more quiet, and whoever was left trying to forget about their early morning the next weekday, Xavier can surely take care of by himself. Lux presses the glass into the woman's hands with a frown and waits for her to drink. Plain water, no more.

Sullivan Knoth had left his mark on her. It was a dark thing, a bruise that never healed and grew purple, deeper and deeper until it was black. A hole in her chest she couldn't seem to fill. Where justice once resided, used to guide her toward uncover truth, was now a gaping hole where only dark thoughts could survive. She often thought of revenge. Fantasizing what it would've been like to plunge a hot iron rod into Knoth's "all seeing" eye. He wouldn't be able to touch her then. He wouldn't be able to see the so-called harlot / whore before him. And she'd watch as he screamed.

The man and his wretched flock was not all to blame. It was Murkoff who really pulled the strings. They simply watched as the Langermanns were pulled deeper and deeper into their torturous experiment. Simon Peacock had claimed as much. And Lynn listened. Every fiber of her being wanting nothing more than to rip Murkoff apart for what they did to her. This dark thing inside her shoved away rational thought. It drew her deeper into Simon's plotting. She would see it through to the end if it meant that Murkoff would burn.

It was what brought her to Nevada. Simon believed Murkoff had their hands in another religious experiment and monitoring them may provide answers. At first, Lynn found herself hesitating. Too many awful memories of Temple Gate kept her from accepting. And yet, after some deliberation, she was texting Simon and accepting the job. It would be safe, he assured her.

It felt as though he would die in the dark, denied the light of her gaze. Robbed of honeyed kisses, those soft little sounds sweet enough to make a man sick with desire. All those nights in the back seat, his hand an eager cradle for her head, her panties bunched below her knees. No marital vows passed their lips, but they made holy promises all the same. Beneath dark canopies and star-strung skies, with their shining bodies damp and sticking, they planned their future. He was going places, and Miriam was coming with him.

Until she wasn’t. Until she knew that before love she had been the punchline of an unfinished joke, a dare easily won.

“Miriam, please.”

Desperation clawed its way up Royce’s throat, his whispered voice raised in an animal sound. Eyes were raw, red-rimmed, turned upward, blind to the heavens. One cupped hand was home to a collection of irregular pebbles, his other making projectiles out of them. They bounced and rattled against the dark window of the preacher’s daughter. No lights were on, but he knew she must be awake, sleepless, suffering with the same heartsickness as he.

All those times she had let him in. Through the window, into her bed, into her arms, into her heart. Times enough that he had mapped the floorboards of her bedroom, knew precisely which ones would creak their protest as they swayed and spun towards her that narrow mattress, lost in each other’s mouth, her soft hands climbing beneath the hem of his t-shirt.

Now, all doors were closed, and his world was colder for it. The future they had built together burned without warm.

Cutting through the resinous scent of pine needles, through the earthy notes of rotting mulch and fungus, came the reek of blood. Its coppery, metallic tang filled Farkas’ nose, strong enough to coat the back of his throat, to lie thick on his tongue. A red ribbon was what pulled him through the fringes of woodland, deeper into the forest’s feathered heart.

In her mortal life Mary lived only within the confines of London. She traversed the city, going where she pleased and always returning to the West End to the safety of her home. A familiar routine. But beneath that structure was the heart of adventure. At night, a young Mary poured over the pages of books her parents would supply her - each filled with descriptions of the wondrous world outside of London. One day, she promised herself, she would see the world.

She had not envisioned seeing it through the eyes of the pale, wretched woman she'd become.

London was far behind her. The boat she took to America would serve as her escape, and she was intent on leaving the memory of her brother in the grave where her name was still carved into the cross. The greater the distance, the less his voice rung in her ear. So in the years to follow Mary kept going, travelling further and further west until the earth was so dry it cracked at its surface and the sky knew no bounds.

London and New York were cramped, buildings stacked on top of buildings and shaped by metal-studded teeth of industrialization. Here, the land stretched so far even Mary's keen eyes could not see its end. She reveled in it. Her fascination did not extend to the poor upkeep of aging infrastructure. Each town she drifted through, a pale shadow in the dark, was more deplorable than the last. The hotel room of the latest was not where she ever envisioned she'd be, but it would have to serve until the sun slipped behind the horizon.

Thick blinds are drawn back after she rises from a long slumber. The day was gone and the dark ink of the night was beginning to bleed into the sky. Hunger stirred in her, a ravenous urge that infected every part of her being. It only grew as she readied herself for the hunt - tying her raven hair back and slipping into jeans and a plain t-shirt. The clothes were far from her usual choice - always one to opt for high fashion - but she was not intent on standing out. A predator must conceal herself if she were to corner the prey.

                            ——  𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭  𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬  𝐨𝐮𝐭  𝐚𝐬  𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐟𝐮𝐥  𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬  𝐟𝐨𝐫  𝐟𝐮𝐧  𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡  𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨  𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.  sawyer  knows  that  making  out  with  women  at  a  bar  is  problematic  in  some  ways,  but  with  miriam,  she  has  a  hard  time  saying  no.  it's  only  ever  when  they're  drunk  that  they  end  up  like  this,  lips,  tongue  and  teeth  claiming  one  another  with  soft  noises  of  contentment  and  bodies  pressed  against  one  another  that  screams  'more  than  just  a  good  time'.  this  time,  however,  they've  found  their  lips  locking  even  in  the  uber  back  to  sawyer's  apartment.

                            there's  little  regard  for  the  driver,  though  knowing  the  social  standards,  he  isn't  about  to  complain  about  two  women  sucking  face  in  the  back  seat.  in  all  honesty,  sawyer  isn't  usually  a  big  fan  of  kissing,  the  joy  taken  out  of  it  through  not  so  pleasent  and  traumatizing  experiences  that  leave  her  more  that  willing  to  forgo  the  activity  if  necessary.  but  with  miriam,  she  can't  help  the  way  her  hand  cups  the  back  of  her  neck,  drawing  her  closer  as  if  such  proximity  is  even  possible.

                            ❛ we  should  slow  down . . . ❜  the  words  are  breathless  against  the  other  woman's  lips,  brushing  their  noses  against  one  another,  ❛ you're  drunk . . . i'm  drunk . . . ❜  another  kiss  is  stolen,  a  whimper  accompanying  it  as  she  lets  it  linger,  drinking  in  miri's  taste  before  she  continues,  ❛ we  only  do  this  when  we're  drunk . . . only  for  the  night. ❜  her  tone  is  almost  pathetic  in  nature,  as  if  she's  disappointed  that  this  will  end  once  they  sober  up  and  go  back  to  pretending  they're  nothing  but  just  friends.

@shellcrack : ❛  so  stay  drunk  for  the  weekend  .  ❜