[Don't Forget The Past.]
A/N: get flashbanged
CW: whumper-turned-whumpee, mentioned past torture, murder, implied multiple whumpers
DYNAMICS:
Rayan Hyacinth (he/it) — Whumpee
Cora Maguire (past Rayan) (they/them) — past Whumper
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Cora grinned, finishing the final knot in the rope tying their victim up. They no longer cared about how pretty the rope was or how secure it was, or even how their victim looked. No; all they had to do was satiate that hungry voice in the back of their head wanting, needing, pleading for just one more kill, just one more stranger's blood on their hands.
They didn't even waste time, quickly ending said strangers life with a knife to the heart. Cora hated the fact that, most likely, this person — this innocent person they'd just murdered — had a life outside their pathetically small basement; perhaps children, or a loving partner, or just— something worth living for. And Cora had just ripped them away from the living world without a second thought.
They hated it; but they ignored that part. Whatever they had to do, they'd do it. Just to shut up that fucking urge to kill.
The urges to kill had gone with time, for the most part. Now that Cora— Rayan, now that Rayan had learnt his lesson, that stupid fucking "voice" had diminished an exceptional amount. Sure, he slipped, but he was getting better.
Well, he was getting better outside of Foster's basement, that is. Everyone's basement really.
He had also become known during his killing spree all those years ago. Oh, how young and naive he was, giving into little urges as quickly as they'd come to his mind. Now he was thirty-five — or, forty, he didn't know; ever since the "incident", as he'd deemed it, he'd stopped aging past thirty-five and had just given up celebrating his birthday and doing all the math — he quickly regretted murdering. Because now, Cora's victims who had either ran away with their lives or they spared, were hunting for him.
It was like a game of cat and mouse; Rayan, obviously, being the mouse — who else would it be? — that was running from the metaphorical cat, that being The Survivors. Each time they'd try and keep him in the basement, he'd escape with new wounds and new reasons to fear for his eternal life. This had gone on for.. what was it now, years? He didn't even know. At least Zayn and Ivy were nice to him, taking care of him when he needed to be tended to and staying awake with him on nights he could hardly sleep.
He knew he deserved it, and yet a small part of him was convinced he didn't. He was an ex-serial killer, he'd harmed and hurt so many innocent people and families, and now he'd finally reaped what he had sown and gotten what he deserved. But, this torment had gone on for so long. He could hardly squish in a moment of peace in his otherwise tense day to day life. Was it really necessary to continue?
Well, his opinion didn't matter. The Survivors only saw him as a feral creature, something to lock up from the outside world until it wilted like a pretty flower and became docile. But, Rayan wouldn't dare to give into The Survivors. Not until they'd harmed him to the point he could hardly function — though he hated to admit they were close anyway — until not even his immortality could save him. Then, he'd give in.
He hated that there was only a matter of time until that would become a reality.
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lol at the moffat haters going "oh he made a good point and wrote a good ep this time I guess" babygirl it's okay to admit you've been holding on to an incorrect opinion from 2012 tumblr discourse. go watch the 12th doctor and be free
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