sufferthesea

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #24 (Nobody)

Word: Soup

Pairings: Hutch x Reader, Hutch x You 

Warnings: Canon-compliant mentions of blood, wounds, fighting, killing, drugs

“Five years this Saturday,” you announced proudly, smiling at Hutch as he lay sprawled out on the living room couch. 

“What’s that?” he groaned, nose bright red. He blew into a tissue loudly, obnoxiously. He always was a bit dramatic when it came to having a cold. The man could take a bullet without wincing, but he’d break down the moment he started sniffling. Today was no different. 

“Our anniversary.” 

Hutch looked at you in pure horror. You almost doubled over in laughter and plopped down on the middle cushion of the couch, your back against his stomach. 

“I don’t mean our real anniversary. I mean the day we met.” 

“Oh.” He melted into the couch and his eyes fell shut. He groaned as he rubbed his temples with his fingers. “You scared me.” 

“Yeah, I figured that. Don’t you remember that day?” 

“Of course, I do. I thought you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen before. And then I ran my bicycle into a street sign and fell onto a car. How could I forget?” 

You giggled at the memory, reaching out to rub Hutch’s arm. “I thought you were dead, honestly. I just heard all this commotion, and when I looked over, there was just some guy lying in the road in front of a car. I thought you’d been run over.” 

“I wish I’d been. It would’ve been less embarrassing.” 

“Whatever. Can you believe it’s been five years?” 

“No. It feels longer.” 

You pinched Hutch’s upper arm and he laughed, pinching your waist. Of course he could believe it had been five years. He’d only been counting every single day since he met you. It was hard not to, when it felt like his days were being numbered anyway. Hutch had come out of retirement a few years before he met you, but his marriage had fallen apart because of it. His wife had decided she couldn’t risk her children getting hurt, which was perfectly understandable. She moved to a new state to be closer to her parents, and the kids spent their time between houses. 

Hutch had met you on one of his post-divorce bicycle rides he often went on when he was feeling too overwhelmed with the reality of his life. He’d gone back to doing what he was good at, but at what cost? His wife? His children? His house? 

It wasn’t that you were entirely excited that Hutch could die at any moment, but you’d also been pretty understanding. 

“Everyone has to die eventually,” you’d said after Hutch had told you the truth about his job, and how dangerous it was. Of course, he didn’t randomly bring it up. He had no choice after your apartment had been broken into when some Russian drug runners had seen him leaving one night. They figured you might have some knowledge about him and why he was in the area. (They were convinced he was there for a hit. You had no idea what the hell they were talking about.) Thankfully, Hutch had forgotten his jacket on your couch and he’d gone back to get it. 

Needless to say, he’d taken care of the drug runners. 

Obviously, he had to tell you the truth after that. Obviously, you were shocked. Your boyfriend – the quiet, mild-mannered, old guy – was a hitman? It was hard to wrap your head around at first. You wouldn’t have believed it if he’d told you that on any other day, but after you watched him disarm three guys twice his size, with nothing more than his jacket and your (now destroyed) collection of Yankee candles … 

How could you go back to a normal life after that? Hutch wanted to break up with you, but you wouldn’t let him. 

“Why? So you can go save some other damsels in distress? I don’t think so, mister. You’re my knight in shining armor now.” 

Of all the things you imagined your life with Hutch to be like, you’d managed to skip over all the mundane stuff. Washing his (admittedly, bloodstained) clothes, cooking him dinner (after he came home from “dealing with something”), and bringing him back to full health whenever he had a cold. 

Like now. 

It wasn’t even a real cold. It was just a little baby cold, but it had wiped him out. Coughing, sneezing, shaking. You figured he was playing most of it up because he must’ve had some secret nurse-patient fantasy, but you didn’t care. You were shoddy with a needle and thread (bullet wound repair) and you were too squeamish to handle a blowtorch (cauterizing knife cuts), but you could do this. You could make him soup and force-feed him NyQuil. 

“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if you hadn’t seen me?” 

Hutch looked at you through bleary eyes. The NyQuil was kicking in. “I try not to.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I know what life was like without you. I don’t want to do that again.” 

You smiled and leaned over to kiss him. He planted his palm on your chest to keep you away. 

“I don’t want you getting sick.” 

“So you don’t have to nurse me back to health? Nice try.” You moved forward and kissed him anyway. He didn’t protest. When you pulled back, you smiled at him. “Want some soup?” 

“Please.” 

You retrieved a bowl of hot chicken noodle soup from the stove and placed it on the coffee table, along with a sleeve of saltine crackers. You refreshed his glass of ginger ale and placed two more Aleve tablets next to it. Hutch rolled into a sitting position and held the bowl with two hands, letting the steam wash over his face. He took several deep breaths and sighed heavily, shoulders relaxing. 

“You know what, Hutch? You messed up the first time we met.” 

His eyes shot up toward you, concerned. “How?” 

“When you came up to me, you were too embarrassed to really say anything. You should’ve said, ‘Sorry about that, I just can’t help falling for you!’” 

Hutch rolled his eyes to the ceiling. 

“Don’t roll your eyes! That was funny.” 

“It was terrible.” 

“Maybe, but you know you love me.” 

“Yeah,” he said, smiling warmly. “I do.” 

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #23 (Hannibal/Red Dragon)

Word:  Morsure. “A bite. The act of biting, or the mark left behind from biting.”

Pairings: Francis Dolarhyde x Reader 

Warnings: Canon-compliant mentions of murder, stalking, manipulation, scars, speech impediments

Dolarhyde was a biter. He couldn’t help it. He was pretty sure he was born that way. Well, he knew he was, in a roundabout way. When he’d been born, he’d had no teeth, just as every other baby was born without teeth. But the difference between him and every other baby was that he’d never really developed teeth after that. A cleft palate made it almost impossible for him to have normal teeth, or a normal mouth, or a normal speech pattern. It made it almost impossible to have a normal life. 

Through a series of rather terrible circumstances, Dolarhyde had ended up as the person he was: a serial killer. He wasn’t really sure if he’d consider himself that, but the newspapers liked to call him that. He was no longer a “crime of passion” or an “isolated incident.” By the time the newspapers, police, and medical examiners across multiple states realized that their “random” murders weren’t so random after all, Dolarhyde had already moved onto the next victim. But it wasn’t long after communication between states was established that Dolarhyde had officially passed the threshold to become a serial killer. 

The papers loved it. As much as they may have pretended to be frightened by the prospect of a “madman on the loose,” as one rag mag had put it, Dolarhyde knew they actually loved it, deep down. They loved it because they sold a lot of papers when there was bad news. They could sell fear. They could sell paranoia. 

They could sell death. 

And Dolarhyde provided a lot of it for the newspapers. He would’ve been happy about it, too, if they hadn’t labeled him the “Tooth Fairy.” That was such an idiotic name, and an insulting one, too. Just because he bit people didn’t mean he was a tooth fairy. Tooth fairies took lost teeth and left money behind. Dolarhyde left behind tooth impressions in the skin. They weren’t the same. 

He couldn’t express how annoyed he was at this little nickname to you, though, since you obviously had no idea that the Tooth Fairy and Francis Dolarhyde were the same person. It wasn’t because you were stupid, it was just because Dolarhyde was simply very good at keeping his identity a secret. Besides, it wasn’t like you’d had much opportunity to connect the dots between the violent murders and Dolarhyde. He was too quiet, too reclusive, to break into people’s houses and murder entire families. Wasn’t he? 

You worked at a frame shop downtown. Most of your clientele were older people who wanted to frame photos of grandchildren, and graduates who wanted to frame their diplomas. A frequent customer of yours, unsurprisingly, was Francis Dolarhyde. He loved cameras of all types, which you suspected was why he got a job at Gateway Corporation. He got to play around with video recorders all day. When he wasn’t working, and if he’d found a particularly interesting photograph, he’d bring it into your store to have it framed. It took several visits for you to realize that the photos he was bringing in weren’t his. He’d more or less stolen copies of them from Gateway’s customers. You were hesitant to frame any more photos after that, but he’d managed to talk you into it. After all, it wasn’t like they were photos of people. They were just pictures of houses, parks, the occasional car. 

You were one of the few people that Dolarhyde felt comfortable speaking to. You were always tripping over words and mixing up the things you meant to say. Dolarhyde first thought it was because you were scared of how he looked. But when he observed you speaking the same way to other “normal-looking” customers, he realized that was just how you talked. It put him at ease. He wasn’t the only one who had trouble speaking, then. 

Dolarhyde had never asked you out, but he came in once near the end of the day. You had just enough time to frame a photo for him (it was a cute little blue house with a dog and bicycle in the front yard) before clocking out for the day. You’d asked him if he wanted to grab a drink or something to eat after you locked up. He resisted at first. You told him it could just be quick. You could eat and walk at the same time, if he preferred. You had to get home soon, anyway. 

Despite his better judgment, if Dolarhyde had better judgment, he’d agreed. That was the first of many “non-dates” the two of you went on. Each one was roughly the same. You’d get off work and find him waiting on the sidewalk or perusing some of the new frames in the store. You’d lock up, and then the two of you would walk to a bar or a restaurant with low lighting. Dolarhyde never liked to be seen eating or drinking in public. He could do it at work, sure, but those people were used to him. He didn’t like the stares he got from strangers. 

He did like, though, how you curled against him when you passed by a newspaper stand and saw the grisly headlines about death and violence. He liked when you grabbed his hand to cross a busy street, shuddering beneath your coat as you asked, “Who could do such a thing?” He liked when you sat across from him and swallowed your coffee or bites of sandwich, and he could see your throat constricting. He liked when you’d stumble over your words, blush, and then smile big because you knew he didn’t care. 

He especially liked it when you’d turn a certain way or look over your shoulder, and he could see the lines of your throat, and the way they connected to your collarbone. He always imagined biting you, then. He’d never do it in public, with witnesses, of course. But he imagined it. The feeling of your muscle and skin between his teeth. He wondered how easily your skin could break, if you bled a lot, if you had a high or low pain tolerance. He’d run his tongue over his dentures and imagine switching them out for the second pair sitting in a cup at home. 

No. He wouldn’t use those. Those were the ones he used on the mothers. Those were the ones he used to punish. He didn’t want to punish you. He wanted to know what it would be like to bite someone as a reward. He wanted to know what it would be like to hold you after making love in his bed and let you feel the scar on his lip. He wanted to undress in front of you and show you the Great Red Dragon etched on his back. 

But he couldn’t do any of that because, more than all of that, what he didn’t want was to scare you. 

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #22 (Detroit: Become Human)

Word: Surprise 

Pairings: Hank Anderson x Kara 

Warnings: Age gap, mentions of anti-android racism, Hank gets a second chance at having a family

No one was surprised more than Hank that he was dating an android. The word “dating” still kind of freaked him out, to be honest, but it had nothing to do with the fact that Kara wasn’t a human. He just felt that he was too old to be using a term like that. Too old to be throwing around “girlfriend” and “boyfriend.” At his age, he should’ve been a husband (and he had been at one point) or a father (which he’d also been once) or even a grandfather (which he suspected he’d never be). He could at least settle for “partner,” but that sounded too work-related. 

Connor was his partner. 

Kara was … 

Hank was thankful that all of this had happened after the Revolution. He couldn’t imagine explaining all of this to people when androids were still considered servants to humankind. Not that it really made him feel any less anxious when people saw them out and about in town and knew they were dating. Even if they couldn’t tell right away that Kara was an android, they’d be able to tell that there was a massive age gap between them. The ironic thing was, the age gap was far larger than anyone realized because Kara wasn’t the twenty-something she appeared to be. She was, in reality, only a few years old. 

Now, that freaked him out. 

He’d met Kara sometime after the Revolution, when Detroit was safe for androids again. After he’d reconnected with Connor, life had seemed to more or less go back to normal. There were less deviancy cases because androids were treated better, and they functioned better. Deviancy wasn’t considered bad anymore, but just a natural evolutionary step in the life of an android. 

Kara and Alice had escaped to Canada before Markus had been successful, and they’d been living there for a while before they decided to come back to Detroit. It had been a tough decision for them, but the amount of discrimination between Toronto and Detroit was almost comparable, and at least they’d know their way around if they were back in Detroit. When they made it back, they found a place to stay, and Kara was recruited and trained as a child advocate for the DPD. Despite the curb in anti-android attacks, there were still plenty of other crimes being committed in the city. 

DPD was how Hank, and Connor, met Kara. Connor seemed to know right away that she was an android, and Hank figured she was just another “perfect” worker for the department. He didn’t realize how much she’d gone through, and what she’d sacrificed to make it back to the city where she’d been created – and where she’d nearly been destroyed. 

Due to the nature of deviancy, new laws had been passed that allowed android workers to receive financial compensation for their work. A paycheck meant that Kara was able to afford a nicer, and safer, place for her and Alice, and she could purchase any sort of updated parts they needed to keep themselves running. Her tenacity and selflessness is what attracted Hank to her in the first place. It took a long while, but eventually Hank got the nerve to ask her out – as colleagues, of course. But the next time they went out, it was an honest-to-goodness date. 

People sometimes asked Hank if it bothered him that his girlfriend would never age with him. Some people nudged him and joked that he was lucky that way. Hank knew that risk when he first took Kara out. Her components may get outdated, and her wiring may get crossed, but she could always build herself a new body. He couldn’t. He would continue to get older and older, his body would get worn out, and he would eventually die. But he didn’t worry about that so much anymore. He worried more about if he was going to be home in time to take Alice to the park before it was too dark out. He worried about if Alice and Sumo were getting into trouble while he and Kara were at work. He worried about what to make for dinner, since he didn’t want to rely on take-out so much anymore. He worried if Alice was fitting in with girls her age, and if Kara was happy working at the DPD, and if it was too soon to ask if Kara and Alice wanted to move in with him. He was worried about the ring burning a hole in his pocket, and if Kara would like it. He was worried about Alice changing her mind after she’d come to him one night and asked if it was okay if she called him “Dad.” He was worried about whether Cole was proud of him, and worried that Cole might think he was replacing him. 

But at the end of every day, as he approached his home and saw the lights on, and the silhouettes of Alice and Sumo in the windows, and he and Kara walked in the front door together, he felt the weight of the DPD melt away from him. And Hank knew, as Sumo ran up to greet Kara, and Alice jumped into his strong arms, that he had nothing to worry about.

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #21 (NBC's Grimm)

Word: Comfort 

Pairings: Monroe x Reader, Monroe x You

Warnings: Canon-compliant mentions of violence/death, drinking, set in season 1, Monroe deserves better

Your attention was ripped from your book as a frantic, heavy knocking filled the living room. Someone was banging against the front door, sounding desperate to get in. You weren’t sure anyone in this area really knew Monroe enough to need his help personally, so it must have been a true emergency. 

You set your book aside, using a loose scrap of paper as a bookmark, and hurried to the door. You yanked it open, ready to usher in a woman scared out of her mind, or a child crying, or a man bloodied and bruised. Instead, you saw a woman with rich red hair and a black leather outfit standing on the porch. Her eyes flashed hotly at you and she looked you up and down. It was less like she was surveying the competition, and more like she was eyeing up a meal. 

“Who are you?” she barked, which surprised you. Shouldn’t you be the one asking that question? You were, after all, the one who lived here. 

“Who are you?” you shot back. “Why are you trying to break down my door?” 

“Your door?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I believe this house belongs to Monroe.” 

“How do you know Monroe?” 

Her lips twisted into an annoyed smirk. “How do you know Monroe?” 

“Babe?” came Monroe’s voice from down the hall. He came shuffling into the living room, using a towel to dry his hair. He was dressed in his bathrobe and looked like he was ready to take a nap, which he probably was. Both of you enjoyed a midafternoon nap together. “Who is it?” 

You turned and stared at him, and you could feel the mystery woman’s eyes looking past you at your boyfriend. He looked at you expectantly, and you saw his eyes slowly move over your shoulder to the woman at the door. His expression twisted into a mix of shock and horror. 

“Oh crap.” 

“Hi, babe,” the woman sneered. “Long time, no see.” 

“Angelina, what are you doing here?” 

“I came by to see you, Monroe. You know that.” Her voice was low and seductive. It made your skin crawl. 

You turned on your heels and set your jaw in anger. “Monroe–” 

He hurried to you, placing one hand on your shoulder. “I’ll explain later. Just … give me a few minutes, okay?” 

You turned a sharp look back at Angelina, who tauntingly wiggled her fingers in a goodbye wave at you. “You better have a good explanation for this.” 

“I promise, I do. Just hang out in the bedroom for a while, okay?” 

You snatched your book off the couch and felt your entire body burn with envy as Monroe approached the front door. The last thing you heard before you locked yourself in the bedroom was Angelina asking, “Can’t I come in and sit down? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” 

Perhaps it was childish to be seething in the bedroom, contemplating locking the door to keep Monroe out (whenever he decided to show up and give his explanation, that is), but you couldn’t help it. You didn’t know Angelina, but you knew what she was. Blutbad. Just like Monroe. You could just sense it. 

Although you were neither Grimm nor Wesen, you could sense when someone was. You hadn’t met any Grimms other than Nick, but you’d encountered a lot of Wesen. You never could see their true forms, but there was always something about them. You didn’t know if it was a pheromone, or just a way they held themselves. To you, they always felt different. 

That was partially what attracted you to Monroe in the first place. He was pretty quiet and reserved, and he wasn’t like most of the other men his age in the area. He kept to himself and never seemed all that interested in hooking up with people he met at the bars, unlike your friends. While your friends would disappear with their boyfriends, or the guys they’d met that night, you were often the one left behind. Or, usually, you were the designated driver. It was during one of these nights when all of your friends had dispersed into the night with men on their arms, that you finally got up the courage to talk to Monroe. He’d been sitting at the bar alone, steadily drinking his beer. You’d seen him plenty of times, and you thought he’d seen you, too, but you couldn’t be sure. That night, though, you were going to make sure he noticed you. 

It felt like it was ages ago that you’d said your first words to him. As soon as you sat next to him at the bar, you could sense something about him. You’d chalked it up to the atmosphere of the bar, the smell of liquor, but after you’d gotten his information and met him for a proper date the next day, you knew it was something else. It took a while before you discovered he was a Blutbad, and his friend Nick was a Grimm. They were worried their world would seem strange and frightening to you, but it wasn’t. You’d grown up on fairytales and had watched monster movies at every slumber party you’d ever attended. It almost felt like the universe was preparing you for this, for Monroe. 

Monroe kept such a low profile and rarely associated with other Wesen, that you knew right away something was wrong with Angelina. Aside from giving off the vibe of being a Blutbad, she just screamed bad news. It was killing you to wait in the bedroom while Monroe and Angelina talked, but what else could you do? As much as you wanted to hear everything they were saying, you trusted and respected Monroe. If he asked you to wait here, that’s what you were going to do. 

You were almost thankful that it took a while for Monroe to come back to the bedroom. It’d given you enough time to cool down and work through your anger. He knocked gently on the door before cracking it open, peering in. He looked almost sheepish, like he was worried you were going to throw something at him or curse him out. If he’d come in ten minutes earlier, you might have. 

“Babe?” 

“You can come in,” you said firmly but not unkindly. 

Monroe sighed in relief and swung the door open. He sat on the bed beside you but kept his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry.” 

“About what?” 

“That you had to meet her. And meet her … that way.” 

“Who was she?” 

Monroe took a deep breath and exhaled heavily, his shoulders slumping. “She’s my ex-girlfriend. I haven’t seen her in a while.” 

You’d never heard Monroe talking about ex-girlfriends before. You didn’t know he’d even dated before. It stung a little, knowing there were parts of his life that he hadn’t shared with you, parts that he had kept secret. You knew he had the right to keep parts of his life locked away, but you thought your relationship was good enough that he didn’t feel he had to. 

“What did she want?” 

Monroe let out a bitter laugh and muttered, “Me.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean … she wanted to get back together with me.” 

You swallowed hard, anxiously picking at the cuticle on your thumb. “What did you say?” 

Monroe looked at you in disbelief. “What do you think I said? I told her no, that I’m with you.” 

“And that took almost twenty minutes to say?” 

Monroe studied your face for a long moment, his eyes almost unreadable. He scrubbed his face with his large palm and groaned. “Okay, she … she wanted a lot more than that.” 

“Do I want to know?” 

“Maybe not, but you have the right to know. She wanted …” Monroe took another heavy breath, but he couldn’t look at you anymore. He turned his eyes down to his hands, staring at his calloused palms. “She wanted me back, and not just as her boyfriend. She wanted me to embrace being a Blutbad. She wanted … She wanted me to fang out again. To go on the hunt. To kill.” 

Your heart twisted in your chest. You wanted to reach out and grab Monroe’s hand to comfort him, to let him know you were there, but you weren’t sure if that’s what he needed. Monroe had given up that life long before he ever met you, but you often wondered if you had any influence in his choice to stay “sober,” as he called it. He wasn’t abstaining from his instincts simply because he was afraid you’d discover what he truly was, because you already knew what he was. Did he keep from running in the woods and killing animals – people – other Wesen – because he didn’t want to disappoint you? Or did he feel like you were holding him back? 

You finally decided to reach out and grab his hand. You laced your fingers with his and squeezed tight. “Why would she want that?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess because she thinks I’m easier to convince? Because I’m the only Blutbad around that doesn’t have her on my hitlist? She could just be screwing with me, just seeing if she can undo all my progress. I never was able to figure out what goes on in that head of hers.” 

You steadied yourself before asking the question that was beginning to burn a hole in your chest. “Monroe … what do you want?” 

He looked at you, eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

“I mean … do you want to keep living like this? Abstaining from the hunt? Or do you want to join her? Do you want to act like a Blutbad again?” 

“Why are you asking me this?” 

“Because, I need to know where your mind’s at, where your heart’s at. If you want to … to join her, to go out and kill, then … then you should do that. I don’t want to hold you back. I don’t want to make you into something you’re not.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’m not a Wesen, Monroe. I’m not even a Grimm. I’m nothing. I just … I don’t know what I am. I can sense when people are different, but I can’t do anything with that information. And I can never be like you. I can never fang out or go hunting or … or kill. I’ll never be able to relate to you the way Angelina can. I can only love you like a human could, and I don’t know if that’s enough.” 

Monroe silently reached out with his free hand and brushed tears off of your cheeks. He cupped your chin between his fingers and tilted your head up until you were staring into his eyes. His eyes were filled with unshed tears and his voice wavered when he spoke. 

“Don’t you ever say that about yourself again, do you understand? I don’t want to hear you talk bad about yourself – ever. You’re not nothing. You’re everything. Okay? I don’t want to go hunting or to kill things. I don’t! I mean, no offense, but I didn’t stop doing those things for you, you know? I stopped before I even met you. But it feels like meeting you was the reward I got for stopping that part of myself.” 

“Monroe–” 

“No, just listen to me. It’s true, Angelina may get me on a level that you never can, because she and I are Blutbaden, but … Angelina only knows the old me. She doesn’t know the me that you know. And I don’t want her to, because I don’t want her in my life anymore. She doesn’t want what’s best for me. Even when we were together, it always felt like her goal was to try to get me killed. I … I couldn’t live like that. And I told her that when she was here. I told her that the Monroe she was looking for didn’t exist anymore, and that she wasn’t welcome back here.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Yes, I did. Or else she’d keep coming back and keep coming back until I gave in or …” He shook his head. “I don’t want to think about it. But just know that I’m done with that part of my life. Some days, I’ll admit, it’s hard to fight it. It’s hard to not join the others and act on my instincts, but … I think about what I’d be giving up, what I’d lose. My progress, my dignity, you.” Monroe leaned forward and placed a firm kiss on your lips. “I’m not going to lose you.” 

You pulled your hand free from his and wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him hard. He grabbed your waist and helped you slide onto his lap. Your tears peppered his cheeks as you kissed him all over his face, your laughter mixed with soft cries. 

“I love you, Monroe. I promise that you’re never going to lose me.” 

“I promise you’re not going to lose me. I love you, too, babe.” He planted his hands on your hips and kept you on his lap. “You ready for a nap now? I know crying takes a lot out of you.” 

You shook your head. “Not yet.” 

“No? Oh.” Monroe laughed and kissed you deeply again. “We need to do our make up ritual, don’t we?” 

“Yes.” 

Monroe grinned and hoisted you up, turning around to toss you onto the bed. He climbed on top of you and planted kisses all along your neck and face. “I promise to make it up to you, over and over and over again. As many times as it takes. And then some.” 

And he did.

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #20 (Five Nights at Freddy's)

Word: Mirror 

Pairings: None

Warnings: Mention of kidnapping/murder (canon-compliant), Garrett's ghost, my theory on what that mirror message in the movie was

Garrett wished he could have said something to Mike, but how could he? He didn’t have a voice in this place. Only a few of the kids were allowed to talk (if they could be called kids), and it was always the same. The blonde boy with the blue eyes in the striped shirt. He was the leader of their group and he was allowed to talk all he wanted. He gave permission to the others to speak if he wanted them to, if he could use them. 

But mostly, it was the Yellow Rabbit that did the talking. Garrett wasn’t like the other kids. He knew the Yellow Rabbit wasn’t just a rabbit, it was a man wearing a rabbit suit. The reason he knew that is because he was the only child who had been taken by the man without the rabbit suit on. He’d seen his face. He’d heard his real voice. It had been a long time since that day they were camping, but he remembered it like it was yesterday. 

That was the weird thing about being dead. You remembered things that happened a long time ago very clearly, because you never ever got older. 

And Garrett remembered that man. The look on his face, the way his breath smelled, even the clothes he was wearing when he’d kidnapped Garrett. He remembered everything. And he knew that that man was the one who owned Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria. He knew that because after he’d been killed, the man brought Garrett’s body into the pizzeria and hid his body there. This had been after the pizzeria had already closed down due to the other children going “missing.” Garrett knew they weren’t missing, because he knew exactly where they were. Right here, in the pizzeria. 

Because he remembered the man so clearly, and because he knew he owned the pizzeria, and because he knew the man was also the Yellow Rabbit that the other children seemed to follow like sheep, he knew that the man had bad intentions when he hired Mike. Garrett was especially confused when he saw Mike show up to work that first night. It had taken him a little while to recognize him since the last time he’d seen him, they’d just been little kids. 

Well, Garrett still was a little kid, and always would be. But Mike no longer was. He was grown up. He had a beard. And he had a job. But Garrett knew his brother and he knew that the man was going to hurt him. Unfortunately, Garrett didn’t have an animatronic body like the other children. He couldn’t manipulate the robotic animals to get a message to Mike. And even if he could, he wasn’t sure he could really trust himself inside of an animatronic. He’d seen what Freddy and his friends had done to the other security guards. Would Garrett do that too, and to his own brother, if he were to possess one of the robots? He didn’t like to think about it. 

Garrett was still trying to figure out how to get a message to Mike when the man showed up at the pizzeria. He also looked older, but he was the same man Garrett knew had taken him. The man let himself into the building and inspected each room. He then stood in front of each animatronic for a long while, just studying them. They never moved. Garrett wasn’t sure if they recognized this man outside of his Yellow Rabbit suit, or if they just knew instinctively that he was someone they couldn’t hurt. But Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, and Foxy never once moved while in the presence of the man. 

When the man got to the security room, he stood in front of the cameras for a long time. Then he looked around the room until he saw the mirror. It was dusty and dirty. Garrett saw him smile the same smile as the day he’d kidnapped Garrett. Then he lifted a finger and began tracing words into the dirt. 

IT’S ME 

The man laughed to himself then went to check out the rest of the building. Garrett didn’t know what he was looking for, or if he was even looking for anything, but he didn’t care. As long as the man was away from the security room, the place where Garrett was waiting until Mike came back, he was happy. 

What did that mean, “It’s me”? It took Garrett an awful long time to think of what it could mean and why the man would write it. He didn’t come up with an answer until Mike showed up the next night with a Nebraska poster. Mike taped it to the wall, put headphones on, and fell asleep. The image of pine trees was startlingly familiar to Garrett. The same trees he’d seen when he was camping with his family. The very last time he saw Mike. 

The man must have known that Mike and Garrett were related. That must have been the message. 

“It’s me.” He was telling Mike that he was the man who had kidnapped Garrett, who had killed him. He was taunting him. Would Mike notice it? Would he even make the connection? Garrett wished he could have been placed inside an animatronic now so he could barge into the security room and point out the mirror. He wanted to shake Mike by the shoulders and scream at him that the man he was working for was the man who’d destroyed their lives. But he couldn’t do anything. 

He couldn’t do anything except sit and wait. And he hoped that maybe Mike would see that mirror and the message written in the dirt. And maybe Mike wouldn’t know that the man was the Yellow Rabbit and the kidnapper and all sorts of evil things, but maybe he would see it and he would think someone else had written it. Maybe he would see it and he wouldn’t think it was the man saying, “It’s me, I’m the one who killed your brother.” 

Maybe he would see it and think it was Garrett who had written it, and it was saying, “It’s me, your brother. I’m here. You found me.”

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #19 (Detroit: Become Human)

Word: Retro 

Pairings: Connor x Reader

Warnings: Android discrimination/perceived “racism”

For @smolbeandrabbles!!! I know you're not really into "x reader" fics but I hope this little drabble can tide you over until your commission is done! I just HAD to write a little scene of Connor enjoying some classic android films! And then, of course, I had to address the issues with those films ...

Connor was almost offended at the depiction of androids on screen. You’d told him that this was one of your favorite film series and that he “had” to watch it. So he sat down with you while you queued up the film and made popcorn for yourself. Even though Connor didn’t eat, you liked to pretend he did. You kept the bowl in between the two of you as you cuddled up to him, a blanket draped over your laps. With the lights off and volume turned way up, it was incredibly atmospheric. You felt it was almost romantic. 

Connor did not feel that way. 

“Is this really what they thought the future was going to be like?” 

You looked away from the screen at Connor, his pale face illuminated in the cold blue light of the movie. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean … did they really think that they were going to go into space?” 

“Well, it is set almost a hundred years from now, which was about … one hundred and forty or so years from when the film was made. It could still happen.” 

“Not now, I don’t think it could.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because they’re just using androids as workhorses in this film. We’re not going to go back to that, to when people discriminated against androids.” 

“I love your optimism,” you said, smiling at him. “But it’s just a film, babe. Androids weren’t even a thing when this movie was made.” 

Connor still wasn’t satisfied. He frowned, which looked odd on his face. “But they’d thought of them … they thought if they could make androids in the future, they’d just … abuse them. And I don’t like that it has to be a secret. Why doesn’t Ash just tell them that he’s an android? Why do they have to find out after they try to kill him?” 

“Well … I don’t know. I guess to add to the tension of the film. You’re supposed to think that Ash is just another crew member, but that he’s shady. It’s a shock to find out that he’s not human, and that he’s working for the Company.” 

“Is he shady because he’s an android?” 

“No, I don’t think that’s what they were going for. I think it’s just coincidental. Some of the other characters were weird, too. I mean …” 

Connor gave you a look that said he wasn’t impressed with your answer. You paused the film and sat up, turning to face him. 

“You’re absolutely right, Connor. The depiction of androids in this film isn’t very flattering, and it doesn’t endear androids to anyone. It does feel like it was meant to be anti-android propaganda. But I promise you that they made this film decades and decades before they even considered real androids – people like you – to be a thing in our society. It’s a science fiction film. I think maybe that back then, the idea of an android – a machine that could look and act and sound like a human being – kind of fell into the uncanny valley for a lot of people. It was another way to scare audiences … kind of like how they used to use deformities and limb differences to scare people in films. We know now that it’s wrong, but it was a cheap and easy way to shock your audience. It’s not right but it’s how things were back then. I’m sorry that I chose a film that’s very insensitive about androids. I should’ve thought it through more.” You held his hands firmly, looking into his eyes. “We can turn it off. We’ll find something else to watch.” 

Connor clasped your hands back. His palms were warm from the thirium running under the layers of his synthetic skin. It was another little detail CyberLife had thought of when they designed Connor. They needed him to blend in seamlessly with his coworkers at the police station, and giving him warm skin just made it all that much easier for humans to accept him as their own. It was easy to forget that Connor wasn’t a human when he looked, acted, and felt like one. It must have been the same for the crew on the Nostromo, believing that Ash had been one of their own up until that famous (or, rather, notorious, in android circles) scene. 

“No, this is a movie you like. We can finish it.” 

“I don’t want to watch it if it’s going to make you uncomfortable. I’ll let you pick something else.” 

Connor shook his head. “This is part of our history, our culture. I can see this and understand why some people were so biased against androids before the Revolution. Films like this … it painted a picture of what it could be like. I understand why humans would be afraid or even angry. It seems the director of this film thought of us as threats. I suppose that he could not be blamed for thinking that. Most people consider anything new or different to be a threat to them.” 

“I think you’re right, Connor. I think the director didn’t care for androids too much. But the next film, Aliens? You’ll love the android in that film. I do. And I think the director did, too. It was directed by a different person.” 

“Is it a more flattering portrait of androids?” 

“He’s the hero.” 

Connor glanced at the screen then back at you. He squeezed your hands and smiled. “Let’s finish this film, but I don’t know if we should watch the other one.” 

“What? Why not?” 

“I don’t want you to compare me to him. You may find that you prefer him.” 

You laughed and pulled Connor into a kiss. “There’s no one I like more than you, Connor.”

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #18 (The Quarry)

Word: Rumor

Pairing: Travis Hackett x Reader, Travis Hackett x You

Warnings: Mentions of verbal abuse/trauma, abusive parents. This went from a character study to a meet-cute.

There was a rumor around town that something strange was going on with the Hackett family. They had always been a strange bunch, but things had really gotten weird in the last few years. 

Travis had always been on edge, even when he was just grocery shopping or walking around town. He now seemed more than on edge. It felt like he could explode at any given time. If someone said the wrong word, made the wrong face at him, breathed too loudly … But what could have happened that would have changed him so much? 

Perhaps it had just been too much, living with that family. You knew that the Hackett matriarch was far from motherly. You’d heard her screaming from inside the cars the Hackett boys used to drive her around. She never had a kind word to say. And her sons, Chris and Travis, always looked so defeated whenever they came into town. Occasionally, they’d loosen up after a while, if they didn’t have their mother breathing down their neck, but it never lasted long. As soon as they hit the checkout line, or finished their meal, or caught sight of their car parked in the lot, they tensed up. Shoulders, jaws, everything. 

The Hackett boys simply could not rest with their mother around. 

It had always been like that, though. People loved to gossip in town, and no one gossiped more than waitresses and bartenders. You’d visited one of Fishkill’s only cafes almost daily and gotten an earful about the Hacketts every time. The gossip only stopped when Chris or Travis would come in, though they never stayed for long. If they weren’t picking up a meal to go, they were sitting in a corner booth, eyes down, staring coldly into their drinks. It always felt like a forest when a bobcat is hiding – like everything is holding its breath, waiting for the predator to pounce. 

You knew neither Travis nor Chris were predators, though. They were kind, even if they were a little rough around the edges. Travis more so than Chris. Chris got to practice his people skills by running the summer camp up at Hackett’s Quarry, but Travis was mostly stuck dealing with lost tourists and kids trespassing on private property. Maybe he had a reason to be so grumpy all the time. He rarely saw the good side of humanity. He always had to deal with the side of the community that everyone else tried to hide. 

Protect and Serve. That was the motto of the police force. How much of a toll did that take on a person? You wondered if Travis ever felt like he was the only person keeping Fishkill safe. If he kept like he was the only person keeping his family safe. You hated to admit it, but he was probably right. Who else would put their lives on the line for the Hackett parents? They were sour-faced and sharp-tongued. It must’ve been hard growing up in a home like that, to still be tied to it even as an adult. You couldn’t imagine what Travis and Chris must’ve done to survive that house. 

The not-knowing was killing you, but you didn’t dare go up to Chris or Travis and ask them about their lives, especially not their childhood. It wasn’t your business, and you doubted you’d even get an answer from them. It’d also blow up any chance you had to actually getting to know them, particularly Travis. You couldn’t be so nosy with such a reserved man like that. One false step and he’d retreat back into his shell and ignore you forever. (You’d seen him do that with one or two people from Fishkill who’d asked too many questions that Travis didn’t like.) There was really only one thing you could do to get on his good side. 

You waited until a day where Travis was alone in the cafe, sitting in the booth, waiting to order. Chris wasn’t anywhere in sight, and you were secretly grateful for that. Chris talked enough for the both of them if someone started a conversation, but that meant Travis had a means of escape. A chatty brother allowed Travis to never say a word, which was not what you wanted. 

You waved a waitress over and ordered a coffee, asking her to send it over to Travis. She gave you a funny look and quirked an eyebrow. 

“You sure you want to do that?” 

“Yes,” you said firmly. 

“You trying to get him to open up to you? It won’t work.” 

“I’m just trying to be nice. I’m sure he could use a nice gesture.” 

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart.” 

“Just send him a coffee, will you? And I’d like my check, please.” 

The waitress shrugged and left to get a coffee. She dropped the check off at your table, and the coffee at Travis’s. He looked up at her, momentarily confused. You could see he was trying to work out why she’d brought him a coffee when he hadn’t ordered yet. Then, he seemed to just accept that the waitress knew his order, because he didn’t even ask her why she’d brought it to him. He just took a sip of the black coffee and ordered his food. 

The waitress glanced over at you, shrugged, and mouthed, “I told you so.” 

Your face burned with embarrassment, but you pushed it down. You weren’t here to get praise or to be seen as some type of hero. You just wanted to do a nice gesture. Maybe the coffee was a little too subtle, but it didn’t matter. You still knew about it, and that’s all that mattered. 

You fumbled through your wallet for exact change when a voice startled you. 

“Are you the one that sent me that coffee?” 

Your attention snapped upward to the towering figure of Travis Hackett, who now stood beside your booth. You swallowed hard at the sight of him so close. It occurred to you that he’d never actually spoken directly to you before. 

“Yes,” you managed. 

His cold eyes studied you for a moment, as if he were trying to assess if you were a problem. He must have decided you weren’t because he stonily said, “Thank you.” 

You beamed. “You’re wel–” 

“Don’t do it again.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry.” 

“I can buy my own coffee.” 

You blushed in embarrassment. “I know that. But you shouldn’t have to. You do a lot to keep this community safe, so … I just thought it’d be nice.” 

“It was nice, but I don’t want you spending your money on me. Understand?” 

“Yes,” you said in a small voice. It felt like you were being reprimanded by a teacher. 

“Good. Have a safe rest of your day.” He returned to his booth and sat down, the waitress arriving nearly at the same time to give him his food. As she passed by your booth, you shoved the soft paper bills and loose change at her. 

“Here.” 

“Don’t need it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Your bill’s already been covered.” The corners of her mouth twisted in a knowing smirk. 

“By who?” 

“Guess.” 

You glanced across the cafe at Travis, who didn’t look up once. You turned back to the waitress. “Are you serious?” 

“I never thought I’d live to see the day. Don’t go getting a big head about it, now, though. You go blabbing about it, he’ll never do it again.” 

“Cross my heart. Will you tell him I said thank you?” 

“Nope. I’m gonna pretend I don’t know anything about it. But you go on ahead and get out of here before he regrets doing it.” 

You stuffed the money back into your bag and leaped up from the booth. You tried your hardest (and mostly failed) to not look at Travis one last time before you left the cafe. Maybe Travis wouldn’t be so hard to get to know as everyone thought it would be.

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #17 (Barbarian)

Word: Secret

Pairing: None

Warnings: Mentions of stalking/violence, manipulation. Could be considered an AU if you think Keith was innocent.

Keith was definitely a serial killer. He knew it, Tess knew it. But he also had this way of disarming people, of turning their expectations on their heads. He was extremely tall and conventionally attractive (if he did say so himself), so a lot of people assumed he was going to be charming or suave. Instead, he played it awkward. Goofy. Nervous. He stumbled over his words and said the wrong things and apologized through laughter. 

Women trusted men that were a little goofy. Not odd. Not weird. Not strange. But goofy. Men who wore patterned socks and watched reality baking shows and had a “guilty pleasure.” (Keith would never admit that his guilty pleasure was, well, murdering. He had to pretend it was something normal, but still believable. Baking Michelin-star desserts, and failing. Using Pinterest. Listening to Britney Spears or Miley Cyrus. Having an embarrassing tattoo in a “very inappropriate place” that his mother “definitely doesn’t know about.”) 

He could play it goofy. He could make the faces and do the voices. He could act like he’s uncomfortable with the size of his own body. He could convince anyone that he was safe. 

It was working on Tess. 

She’d showed up in the middle of the night, soaking wet, wanting to be let in. She hadn’t even flinched when he answered the door. She was a little surprised, maybe, but she’d been adamant that it was her rental. And it was. He had rented the house through HomeAway, but he’d cancelled last minute. The cancellation fee was a lot cheaper than paying for the actual rental, but he’d already gotten all the information he needed: where the key was, the passcode, and a guarantee that the house was going to be empty. 

Keith wasn’t stupid. There was a reason this house was available. No one in their right mind was going to rent a house in Brightmoor. He knew the chances of someone else booking the house were slim to none, so he wasn’t nervous about squatting in the house for a while. Of course, Tess just had to show up and throw a wrench into that, but it was fine. She couldn’t have known Brightmoor was the last place a girl like her should’ve been, especially late at night. She was from out of town and she arrived too late to get a good look at the neighborhood. 

She was, for all intents and purposes, the perfect victim. 

Aside from saving himself some money, Keith was also glad that he’d cancelled the reservation for the house. If he’d been confirmed, and Tess had been confirmed, then they could easily trace anything back to him, if Tess were to disappear during her stay in Detroit. Now that there was physical proof he’d cancelled the reservation (he’d even sent an email to HomeAway with an emotional, but fictional, story about how an emergency came up at home and he couldn’t make it after all). Sure, the cops may investigate the previous renters and find it suspicious that Keith was double-booked for the same time Tess was there, and they may call him up and ask where he was and if he really stayed in New York, but in the end, he would get away. They’d chalk it up to some homeless person or a crackhead in the neighborhood. They always did that. It was part of the reason that Keith picked out shady neighborhoods in the first place. Who is going to miss some girl who disappeared out of Harlem? Or Skid Row? Or Detroit? 

Keith was surprised at how stupid Tess was, though. She’d come across as pretty bullheaded and savvy. She knew to keep her distance from Keith when they first met. She knew that sleeping in her car was preferable to sleeping in a house with a strange man. She knew that it was suspicious they both had reservations for the same night. 

(If Tess had been smarter, she would have found an opportunity to steal Keith’s phone and go through his emails. She would’ve seen it was an old confirmation email he’d shown her. She could’ve easily found the cancellation email. And if she’d gone through his Sent folder, she would’ve found the fabricated email about having an emergency in New York. But she hadn’t done that. He, however, had gone through her phone. In her rush to appear like she wasn’t snooping when she handed him his wallet, she’d left her phone on the dresser. When she was in the shower, he had enough time to go through her phone and her suitcase. It was so easy to learn everything about her just from those things. He found her emails back and forth about her job interview, which included Tess giving high praise for Blue Easy, including her favorite scenes. He saw the texts from her controlling ex-boyfriend, and the texts from her concerned friends and family. He found her Airbnb confirmation and how much she’d paid for her stay. He found her social media, her Notes app, and a list of local artists she wanted to bring up in her interview, including the Lion Tamers. He Googled them on his own phone and saw there were almost no photos of the band, they had only a few thousand streams on SoundCloud, and their Instagram was a combination of artsy photos and local tour dates, mostly on the East Coast. How easy to make up a lie about being in that band. How easy to gain her trust, make her feel like she was meant to be there, make her feel like the stars were aligning in her favor.) 

All Keith needed to do was wait. Wait for Tess to finish her job interview so someone could say, “Yes, she was here at this time, the very same time Keith Toshko was home in New York.” Wait for Tess to get her guard completely down so she’d ignore all the red flags. Wait for the perfect moment to get Tess into a vulnerable position. 

That moment came when he freed her from the locked basement. He could play hero for her. A little skeptical (he wasn’t, after all, the “charge headfirst into danger and fight it barehanded” type; he was nerdy and goofy and harmless), but willing to see what had scared her so much. He could solidify her trust in him, get her to follow him, get her into a nearly-soundproofed room without a struggle. 

All he had to do was go into the basement first.

[sufferthesea]

Me: I don’t need to make an AU for this. I’m fine. It was enjoyable and I can move on with my life. My ttp gremlin brain:

@sufferthesea​  Now this one. 100% confirmed. Your fault. 😉

* * * * * * *

Plant Your Curse Under My Skin: A Concept

— [Playlist] —

My heart’s an artifice, a decoy soul Who knew the emptiness could be so cold? I’ve lost the parts of me that make me whole I am the darkness I’m the monster

—

It’s running through my veins And it’s everything I touch Be careful when you love me I’m only out for blood You knew I’d be the end of you But you always wanted more Be careful what you wish for

— — — —

Investigating strange noises was always a bad idea – every horror movie she’d ever seen had told her that. Hell, every regular movie she’d ever seen had taught her that. Especially as she’d been in this house barely a month and as far as she was concerned, she was now literally in the middle of nowhere USA. Her gaze flicked to her cat; eyes also fixated on the direction the noise had come from. They both let silence settle for a moment and she almost went to looking back at the map spread before her, until another noise made her jump. She closed her eyes tightly and muttered under her breath. “Dammit.” It could have just been the wind. Except that wasn’t wind; there was no howling about it. Wind was near constant and she’d heard wind in this house before. It was nearly all wood; almost impossible not to hear the wind in here… She placed her pencil over the point in the map she’d been studying – she had to get this place up and running and get to know the area sooner or later, right? – and crossed to the window. Folding her arms, she peered outside. Nothing. Another bang. This one closer than the first two. She scowled, and turned to her cat, now much more relaxed, blinking at her slowly. “Oh? I suppose I’M the one that’s gonna have to go out and investigate it, huh?” She barely got a mewl as a response and she shook her head, retrieving her jacket and grabbing her torch, “Whose stupid idea was buying this place anyway!? I’m on my own, I don’t know anyone, the nearest houses are probably a good few miles away… If I get murdered, no one is gonna come looking for me. But we can’t have that noise all night.” She turned back to the cat as she opened the door, pulling her jacket on. “If I die – it’s on you!”   Stepping out onto the porch she flicked the torch on, and the porchlights she’d already rigged, creating a halo of light in a wide arc that almost stretched as far as her parked up truck. She turned slowly in the same arc, looking for anything that could be making noise. Silence. But dead silence. Not even nocturnal creatures rustling around. She frowned, and something twisted in her stomach. Ignoring it she stepped forward and off the porch. “Don’t be so stupid. Something is loose somewhere. Or it’s a pipe or something. Geez.” She’d never been scared of anything much before. She couldn’t afford to be; she’d done a lot of fending for herself. She wouldn’t be out here fixing up this farm house if she hadn’t. Her steps were careful as she made her way to the very edge of that semi-circle of light, panning her torch around into the darkness in front of her. Nothing so much as stood out, let alone reflected back at her. She halted right at the edge, and the words of the guy that had shown her up here resounded in her head. ‘Wait…? YOU’RE the one who bought Ed Harley’s place!? Well, be careful up there… guy just disappeared one day a few years back.’ She cursed herself – at the time she’d rolled her eyes and blown it off; why did she have to remember it now!? Sweeping her torch again and still finding nothing, she shook her head, turning herself away from the darkness. “Well, there ain’t no way I’m stepping outside this light… I know all those horror film tropes.” She clicked her flashlight off and holstered it, hands in her pockets she shook her head, and strolled back to the safety of the house. She had music - if it got too loud, she’d just turn that on. Investigate in the morning when it was light. Which, with the way she was feeling, she’d much rather.

She didn’t make it to the porch.

It caught in her peripheral; but it wasn’t like when you think you’ve seen something and it’s a blur of movement and gone. She froze in her tracks because it stayed there. Her blood immediately turned ice cold and out of all the dumb horror flicks she’d watched, she was really about to get caught up in one herself. She tried to swallow, couldn’t. But also couldn’t stop herself from turning towards it. Her body lurched and she wasn’t sure whether to throw up or scream, but neither happened – too scared to even give her a proper fight of flight response, she managed to back away three paces before she was officially rooted to the spot. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her ears and the pounding quickly became white noise.

She wasn’t even sure if she was seeing what she thought she was; all sharp teeth and claws, milky white eyes that almost stared through her, air awash with malice she could almost taste – it didn’t even need to come nearer for her to know it’d tear her to shreds in seconds. And tall; it towered over her, imposing in stature and figure; body twisted and deformed – alien - and of course it could step into the halo of light. What was she thinking?! She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t even do that. Her body just ceased to function – and somewhere deep within she realised just how scared she was. That this was how she died, and how long it might take someone to find her… Maybe they never would.

She managed another step, but that was a miscalculated error and she stumbled onto the floor, unforgiving. Now it looked even more imposing; and scrambling along in the dirt probably looked pretty pathetic to it, as it stalked across the ground, head turning this way and that as if it was trying to size her up. “P-Please…” Somehow she managed to find a voice, “Oh god-! Please-! Please don’t kill me!” What was she doing!? It probably didn’t understand her, let alone care about her begging for mercy. It reached for her and she threw her arms over her head, curling as best she could into a ball. Expecting to feel it rip through her skin; would she bleed out? Would it eat her? Hell… maybe there’d be nothing left here to find. She wasn’t sure if it was screaming or she was. Or both, mixed together in some kind of death cry. But it was the last thing she heard. She gasped, lurching awake. Finding herself no longer in the dirt, but laying on the outdoor couch she’d set up on the porch. Daylight. It was daylight. Was that a dream?  It hadn’t felt like a dream. But she KNEW she hadn’t been here when she… Scrambling off the porch she threw herself back down on the ground to study the sweeps and ridges made in the earth from her scrabbling around. She turned in the direction it had come from – whatever it was. Nothing, no trace. Almost as if it was never there. And it certainly wasn’t now…. She rose to her feet, looking back to the house. But it was there, in her head… vivid and clear as the sunshine she now found herself standing in. She rushed back inside; cat yowling at her sudden presence, she barely had time to say sorry for that, as she grabbed a pencil and her sketch pad.

Staring at the blank page she froze again; sketch it from memory? Hell, that wouldn’t be hard. But why? Who would know what it was…? She turned slowly back towards the map, still unravelled across the kitchen table. She supposed now was as good a time as any to get properly acquainted with the locals…

—

Rumours fly in a town this size.

Though she can barely call the place she’s moved to a town. More a community. A backwoods community that doesn’t trust her – especially when she starts asking questions. It was supposed to be a literal escape from everything, but encountering an entity no one seems to want to talk about would get anyone questioning why they decided to be out here in the first place.

Especially when it keeps coming back.

Armed with minimal knowledge of the area, or the folklore, she turns to the belongings that remain of the man who used to live here. And the only one that seems willing to listen to her; the creature itself.

And when it saves her life, she discovers it might not be the monster everyone thinks it is.

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #16 (Sicario)

Word: Sign

Pairing: None.

Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical violence. Mention of SA, drugs, murder, etc. Angst.

Alejandro never anticipated that he would have to learn the word “Mafioso” when he was learning sign language to talk to his daughter. He thought he might have to learn some words that surrounded his job as an attorney, but those conversations would come later, when she was older. He would only need to know things that were important to her and her world, such as her favorite foods, or colors, or her toys. He didn’t need to know the signs for “gun” or “kill” or “ransom.” 

Sign language had been mundane, really. He picked up a sign here and there to repeat to his daughter so her world could expand a little bit. 

Orange. Pork. Noodles. Horse. Television. Dress. 

Each word was an experiment in dexterity and patience. It was hard enough for Alejandro to learn them, but it became increasingly difficult to teach someone who had never heard the word before. Sometimes it felt like he was trying to describe colors to a blind person. He could show his daughter pictures of a horse all day long, but she could never understand the feeling of letters in her mouth, how the sound rolled off the tongue. When she saw a picture of a horse, she would never first think, “Caballo.” She would think of her hands by her head, twisting them back and forth like the ears of an anxious animal. 

It was after his daughter’s death that sign language became sacred, something he held dear to his heart. The fluidity of his hands and fingers, the way he could communicate soundlessly. All of it was locked away, never to be used again. He’d taken it for granted, had even been annoyed at times by how difficult it was for her to learn certain signs, but he would’ve done anything to have her back, to look her in the eyes and sign “I love you” once more. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything with his hands except ball them into fists and bloody his knuckles against bricks and drywall and anything within reach. 

It felt like a miracle when he’d been recruited. He didn’t care who it was or why they wanted him, he was just thankful they’d given him a chance to use his hands again. But he didn’t use them for sign language. He used them to strangle, to stab, to claw, to shoot. He used them until they were broken and bloody, then he’d bandage them until they healed, and then he’d start again. Over and over again until his knuckles were swollen from scar tissue and his palms were rough from handling guns. He soaked them at night to ease his aching joints, and wrapped them in gloves in the morning so he wouldn’t leave fingerprints when he broke into narco homes. 

It wasn’t until years after he’d been reborn as a sicario that he learned the sign for “Mafioso.” An informant was Deaf, and he’d needed to know all the words to use when interrogating him. 

Cocaine. Murder. Rape. Trafficking. Gun dealers. Hitman. Kidnapping. And, of course, Mafioso. 

He hadn’t wanted to do it at first. It felt blasphemous to use his fingers, to use his daughter’s language, to spell out these words, this violence. The only signs he wanted to know were for candies and birthday parties and grading homework. He didn’t want to know how his fingers were supposed to twist to form the words for “blood” and “dead.” He didn’t want to imagine that the hands that had once held his daughter, that had worked so hard to learn a new language just to communicate with her, had become so violent. 

It was Matt who convinced him otherwise. Hadn’t it been this very violence – cocaine, trafficking, gun dealing – that had killed Alejandro’s daughter in the first place? Alejandro had been an attorney, after all. It was his actions, trying to bring about justice in an unjust world, that had gotten his wife and daughter murdered. Wasn’t it sort of poetic, sort of vengeful, to learn these signs? These words for the things that had killed his daughter? Wasn’t it his right, his duty, as a father to give his daughter her voice back? If she’d grown up, after all, she’d learn these words anyway. She would’ve wanted to have long conversations with her father about his work. She would’ve wanted to know her father was a hero who was trying to clean up the streets. She would’ve been proud of him. 

So he’d learned the words. All of them. He hated each one, but he hated the ones who perpetrated them even more. And he liked the idea that his hands could talk for him, in more ways than one. He liked that he could be completely silent in an interrogation and still have a thousand things to say. He liked that no one outside of himself and the one he was signing to could understand him. 

He liked the idea that with every word he signed, it was his daughter, coming back to take vengeance on the men who’d hurt her. 

He liked the idea that when he signed, he wasn’t alone.

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #15 (Wednesday)

Word: Care

Pairings: None

Warnings: Mentions of Addams-typical violence

People thought Wednesday didn’t care about people, but that wasn’t true. She cared a lot. She just had kind of a funny way of showing it. But if she didn’t care, she wouldn’t have stuck around so long to get to know people, or talk to them, or anything, really. 

Take her brother, for example. She cared about Pugsley perhaps more than she cared about anyone else. Despite the non-consensual electroshock therapies she performed on him, or the attempted beheadings with her childhood guillotine, or the time she tied rocks to his legs and rolled him into the lake to see if he’d drown first or find a way to cut his own feet off, Wednesday cared about him. Why else would she drop a bag of piranhas into a swimming pool during school hours, in front of witnesses? Why would she risk being expelled or even going to jail if she didn’t care? She wouldn’t have. 

Another example is Enid. It took quite a lot of warming up to Enid, but Wednesday eventually got there. If she didn’t care about her, she wouldn’t have cared if Enid got her heart broken by Ajax (he was lucky Enid covered for him the night he bailed on their date, or else he may’ve woken up with a freshly-shaved head). She wouldn’t have cared that Enid felt unsafe on their quest for the Hyde. She wouldn’t have cared if Enid stopped talking to her and moved out of their dorm. But she did care. She cared a lot. It was just hard to express that to anyone, especially to the person she cared about. 

How do you tell someone you value their opinion? Or enjoy their company? Or want to get to know them more? And how do you do it without making them into a target for someone who wants to hurt you? How do you do it without opening yourself up to being hurt or manipulated? 

How do you know who to trust when you’ve never trusted anyone? 

The person that caught her by surprise was Eugene. Small, awkward Eugene with his single-person club and a hive full of loyal bees. Wednesday’s path only crossed with his through fate – also known as Principal Weems. If she hadn’t forced Wednesday to join a club, she wouldn’t have met Eugene. Wouldn’t have gotten him hurt. But she also wouldn’t have been able to stop Ms. Thornhill. Eugene was the one who really saved the school, even though he had to sacrifice his bees to do it. Did people know that about him? That Eugene cared so much about everyone, not just himself, that he sacrificed the only things who’d cared about him at Nevermore in order to save people who’d never even talked to him? Did they know that he almost died in the woods trying to uncover the truth so that no one else would get hurt? 

How could Wednesday not care about someone who dove headfirst into danger and violence? How could she be indifferent to someone who looked Death in the face and didn’t blink? 

And, of course, she cared about Thing. He’d been her constant companion at Nevermore. And even before then, he’d been with her every day at home. Before Pugsley was even old enough to walk, Thing had been there to help guide Wednesday in the ways of the Addamses. He was the first creature she performed surgery on (he was always happy to let her practice her stitches on him); the first creature she dropped from the window in the tower of their house; the first creature she electrocuted, shot, tied up, and drowned (though, it was really impossible to drown Thing since he has no lungs). He was a happy volunteer, and one of Wednesday’s first mentors. She never felt truly lonely with Thing around. 

What Xavier said wasn’t true. He accused her of being selfish, of not caring about anything or anyone. He just didn’t understand Wednesday. From the outside looking in, of course it seemed like she was selfish (and she could admit that she was quite selfish from time to time), but it wasn’t her fault she came across so cold. What was one to expect when Morticia Frump and Gomez Addams had a child? Surely they didn’t expect Wednesday to turn out like her Aunt Ophelia, all blonde hair and daisies? But just because Wednesday didn’t show her emotions on her face, or in her words, or in her body language, didn’t mean she didn’t have any emotions. (If she’d been like any of the other girls at school – weeping and screaming and laughing and whispering secrets to each other over lunch tables or between school lessons – she would have been called trivial and childish and ridiculous. In reality, a girl can’t win when it comes to a boy’s opinion of her. She’s too cold or too emotional. Too distant or too clingy. She cares too much about her appearance, or he wishes she’d care more about her appearance. She’s too smart for him, or she can’t stimulate him intellectually. She’s too real, or not real enough. She’s too much, but not enough.) 

Wednesday Addams cared. Plain and simple. It just took a while for it to manifest in her own unique way. But didn’t that make it all the sweeter? It was easy to befriend Enid or Eugene or Bianca (once you got past the Queen Bee schtick), which wasn’t to say that their friendship was less meaningful or less powerful, but didn’t it feel like a victory to win over Wednesday Addams? Surely Enid felt that way when she finally cracked the icy surface of Wednesday’s demeanor and found a cold (but living) heart underneath. And Eugene must have felt some type of pride at having Wednesday Addams be the second member of his club. And, really, Wednesday almost felt a little proud herself, having found two people who were willing to break through her defenses and stick around long enough to get to know her. 

How could she not care when they’d done so much to care for her?

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #14 (Five Nights at Freddy's)

Word: Masking

Pairing:  Steve Raglan/William Afton x Reader (slight Spring Bonnie x Reader)

Warnings: Reader is a furry. Author may also be a furry. Jury’s still out. Allusions to William being manipulative. AU kinda?

You couldn’t count the number of times you’d helped William get the costume right. From the height of the ears to the plushness of the fur. It took a lot of time, patience, and money to make sure the yellow Bonnie suit was exactly how he wanted it. There were dozens of discarded half-models of the suit that William came to affectionately call “Spring Bonnie,” due to its springlock structure – of which you were quite wary. 

But it felt like everything finally came together one night when you watched with bated breath as William tried on the finished suit. You were nervous for more than one thing: you wanted this to be the last time you had to work on this suit, and you were praying the springlocks didn’t malfunction (as they had in previous iterations of the golden fursuit). William grinned at you, towering above you with the large suit. 

“Ready to see Bonnie come to life?” he asked, picking up the head. 

“Yes,” you said, crossing your fingers. There were no springlocks in the head piece, but you were still worried. There were electronics to make the eyes glow, and a speaker to allow Spring Bonnie to “speak.” You’d convinced William to use an alternate voice for the animatronic rabbit, since his voice was far too low and intimidating for such a friendly face. You didn’t want him scaring any children at the pizzeria. 

William fit the head into place and the eyes flickered to life, electricity running through the suit. You could hear the soft whirring of mechanics, the gentle clicking and hissing of Bonnie’s pneumatic joints moving. 

“Well?” he asked, his voice changed to one much higher, much friendlier. 

You stared into the eyes of Spring Bonnie, bright and almost alive. For a brief moment, you forgot that it was your William in a suit, and not a living animatronic. 

“Is something wrong?” he asked, tilting the head to the side. He reached up to remove the head but you grabbed at the thick, soft arms to stop him. 

“No. It’s perfect.” You grinned at him, staring up at the face you’d taken so long to get right. Taking your hands off his arms, you reached out and adjusted his purple bow tie. “You look great.” 

“You really think so?” 

“I do. How does it feel?” 

“It’s comfortable. I could stand a little more airflow, though. Remind me to add another fan in here.” 

“Can you move okay?” You stepped back to give him some room to experiment. He took a few cautionary steps back and forth across the living room, footsteps heavy and solid. He turned at the far end of the room and looked back at you. 

“It’s a little awkward at first, but it’s not too heavy.” 

“Could you wear it all day at the pizzeria?” 

“I think so, once I get another fan in here.” He walked back to you, tilting his head to the side again. His unblinking eyes locked onto yours, and you wondered if William really could see out of those eyes, or if he saw out of some hidden gap in the yellow fur. “I have a surprise for you.” 

“You do? What?” 

“Wait here.” 

You did as you were told, waiting in the living room while William – still in the Bonnie suit – disappeared to another part of the house. A few minutes later, he returned dragging something behind him. He laid it out across the couch and stepped back for you to see. It was another suit, similar to Spring Bonnie, but smaller and made in a soft lilac color. Instead of a bow tie, it had a spring green bow at the base of one ear. 

“William … what is this?” 

“It’s yours. You didn’t think I’d go through all this trouble and not make you something, did you? Try it on.” 

You could hear just how excited he was, and how hard he was trying to restrain himself. You’d tried on the suits a few times to help William out. Sometimes it was just easier to see the suit up and walking around on another person in order to diagnose the problem. You hadn’t realized how much William liked it when you wore the suits until he’d confessed it to you one night. That was also the night he’d offered to wear one of the early versions of Spring Bonnie’s head in bed. You hadn’t admitted to him how much you liked that. 

Carefully, you stepped into the lilac-colored Bonnie suit. It fit you perfectly, which was surprising. You had never gotten measured for a suit before. The Spring Bonnie suits – and, really, every suit – had fit you because you were smaller than William. He must’ve been taking notes all along about your height, your weight, the width of your shoulders … 

Sometimes you wished you could catch a glimpse inside his mind. And sometimes you were a little frightened at what you would find there. He was brilliant. And he noticed everything. 

You turned around, holding the lilac head in your hands, a difficult feat since you had the Bonnie gloves on. 

“Put it on,” William instructed. He wasn’t forceful, but he could command anything of anyone. Especially you. 

You put the head on, adjusting it until you heard a click. A fan immediately started whirring inside of the head, cooling you off. You could hear the whirring and humming of electronics and mechanics coming to life. Straight ahead, you were looking through the mesh screen of Bonnie’s eyes, which were glowing a pale blue. It was impossible to see out of your peripheral vision, but you had no trouble seeing Spring Bonnie in front of you. 

Even though all the animatronics had roughly the same expression – a friendly, approachable neutrality that put kids and parents at ease – you could almost see pride in Spring Bonnie’s eyes. In William’s eyes. It felt like this was the closest you’d ever been to him, and you were separated by two fursuits. 

I get it now, you wanted to say. I get why you do this. I understand. But the words wouldn’t come to you. All you could do was stare across at Spring Bonnie. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Good,” you said. You jumped at your own voice echoing in the head, layered over with a high-pitched, extremely feminine voice coming out of the suit’s mouth. “What is that?” 

“I gave you a voice box, too. Just in case. Do you like it?” 

“I do … What’s her name?” 

“I haven’t named her yet. Go on, try walking. See how it feels.” 

You followed the same path that William had just a few minutes earlier, going back and forth across the living room while he watched. The suit was heavy, but the mechanics helped propel the legs forward. You never once felt like you were going to topple over or get stuck somewhere. It felt safe. It felt right. 

You turned and smiled at William, forgetting he couldn’t see your face. “It’s perfect. I love it.” 

“I hoped you would.” 

You took several large steps toward William, placing your gloved hands on his suited chest. You looked up through the mesh screen of your Bonnie’s eyes into the glowing eyes of Spring Bonnie. How lucky you were, to have someone who loved you and trusted you in this way. Who wanted to share his interests with you. Who continually surprised you with his ingenuity and selflessness. 

You leaned forward and kissed William. Or, rather, your Bonnie kissed his Bonnie. It was hard to tell if the fursuits' mouths were lined up for a real kiss or not, but you didn’t care. Your eyes fluttered shut and you felt the strong, bulky arms of Spring Bonnie wrap around you. The interior fan whirred quicker, a response to your rising body temperature. William released you and stepped back, placing his hands on your shoulders. 

“Are you happy?” 

You beamed behind the mask, “Yes. Thank you, William. It’s perfect.” 

Even though he still wore a mask, you could sense William smiling, too.

[sufferthesea]

TRAP (2024) dir. M. Night Shyamalan

[sufferthesea]

pov of my sugar daddy picking me up from work and taking me out to dinner before he fucks me in the back seat of his Mercedes. 💅

[sufferthesea]

Tuunbaq, ripping the Royal Marines to shreds:

[sufferthesea]

Benicio Del Toro as Alejandro Gillick in SICARIO (2015)

[sufferthesea]

Para mi si