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Y/N yelped, suddenly airborne as a pair of hands easily wrapped around her midsection. Large enough to span her waist completely, as she was easily placed on the cool countertop.

The female froze, wide eyes staring up at her kidnapper-Konig, he’d insisted- in front of her, his eyes crinkling underneath the hood of his mask. He shifted to lower himself, Y/N’s heart in her throat as she cautiously raised her arms as he moved in.

He pressed his face against her stomach, large arms, capable of so so much more than just lifting her as if she was a feather, wrapped around her back ever so cautiously. As if she would break at the tightest squeeze.

Y/N swallowed thickly, trembling arms lowering, hesitating, before she placed them on his head and back. Konig melted underneath her touch, shuddering as Y/N petted the top of his head.

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Sir, that's the whole bakery

⇢ Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

⇢ Length: Oneshot

⇢ Synopsis: You love all of your boyfriend’s aspects, especially one specifically.

⇢ A/N: Warning for fluff, fluff, absolute nauseating toothrotting domestic fluff with Simon. Genuinely not a shred of hurt in here.

Simon has many aspects that make him a perfect boyfriend. Big strong muscles, to sweep you up in a hug after he’s back from a grueling mission, lifting you like you’re weightless. A neat stubble that you can sometimes feel scratching at your skin from underneath his mask after he’s gone some time without a shave. A low, hoarse voice that always knows the right thing to say. A mischievous pull at the corners of his eyes (with a matching grin, no doubt), when he’d whisper something in your ear that makes your face flush as you attempt to shove him away, chuckling at your pitiful attempts. A tall, toned body, that shields you from the wind, the rain, the creeps on the crowded train that bump too close for comfort. 

But perhaps his best asset of all- would be the one tauntingly staring you in the face right now. Your nails dig small crescent marks into your arms as you sit stone still on the kitchen barstool, a mental war within your mind as you force yourself to remain in place, brows furrowed in deep concentration. 

Simon isn’t helping the matter, moving back and forth as he languidly cooks dinner, your eyes intently following his backside as it shifts left and right, and left and right, right in front of you. Two big, plump cheeks that strain against the confines of his fabric, bouncing with every step. 

You swallow thickly, crossing and uncrossing your legs as you try to draw your gaze away, focus on the slow ticking clock on the wall, the small potted plants in the windowsill, the bubbling pan on the stove, anything else. But you’re no better than a dog, eyes slowly slinking back as Simon passes by, a slight breeze that follows his large form. (Well now how could you *not* marvel at it when it’s right in front of you?)

The dam of your concentration breaks as Simon pauses to reach for something on the tall shelf above the countertop. With his advantage in height, he has no need to drag over a stepping stool like you do. But he does need to strain slightly to grasp it, arms stretched out, heels lifted slightly. Buns perked up. 

You blink. It stares at you, tantalizingly in front of your face, hardly a foot of distance. You swallow, tense yourself, you won’t break- it jiggles slightly as Simon grunts something at you. Your hand is in the air before you can even process it, whipped back for maximum impact. 

“Babe,” Simon groans, finally clasping the container of salt that kept tipping away. “Could you-“ 

SMACK

The silence that follows is deafening. 

You’re bolting from your seat before he even processes it, socked feet slipping on the tiles as Simon whirls around. You shriek as he lunges, large hands slamming into the counter space a hair’s width behind you as you round the corner just in time. 

Simon rises to his full height, intimidatingly silent as you balk and scramble for the stairs. Nothing could save you now- nothing but a closed, locked door, the only ones available on the second floor. 

You're halfway up the stairs when a warm shackle lashes at your ankle, yanking it backwards as you grapple for the bannister, all thoughts of freedom ripped from your hands as easily as Simon catches you. You slowly, slowly turn your face upward, catching sight of your boyfriend’s impassive expression, eyebrows raised in question. 

Your attempts at negotiation, a sheepish raise of your hands and tumbling excuses and apologies are broken by your shriek of laughter as Simon’s face finds the crook of your neck, his warm breath tickling the sensitive flesh as you try to writhe out of his grip. His hands only tighten on your waist, fingers pressing into soft spots that make tears spring to your eyes as you babble apologies through unbroken laughter, smaller hands desperately trying to unwind his hold. His grin into your neck says it all as you pant for breathe:

You’re not getting out of this so easily. 

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birfday :)

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Lads I might’ve cooked too hard this time. My wrist is in agony whenever I try to take notes now.

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This definitely isn't what I normally post but I was watching some Dead by Daylight gameplay and wanted to draw a quick drawing of my version of Ghost Face without his mask >:)

Photo is enhanced a lot because my camera sucksssss

(Text: "Don't worry, locking windows won't keep me out. :D")

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hurry, before the eepys take me--

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i write for myself not for comments but dear god getting comments does so remind me of the joy of writing and sharing something

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[Valentine Special!] Be Mine, Valentine

⇢ Pairing: The Other/Natalie

⇢ Length: Oneshot

⇢ Synopsis: Valentine's sucks. Pair that with trauma from a certain horror fest and you've got yourself a great concoction. It'll be fine though, a certain someone is here to make sure Natalie isn't alone this Valentine's!

“I’ve got a Valentine’s gift for you ;)”

Natalie blinked down at her phone, a wry grin stretching at the edge of her mouth at the text from Brooke. She snorted before she sent back a thumbs up, pocketing her phone and returning her focus on the dull lecture. 

The brunette wasn’t ever quite a fan of the holiday, first reminded of the crushing fact she was constantly single, too busy juggling her scholarship, classes, and a job, then later grimacing in distaste at the obvious marketing ploy and overpriced goods with a heart stamped onto them. 

But, Brooke had always been the more romantic of the two of them and Natalie wasn’t about to rain on her parade. Especially when it was supposed to be a holiday she’d celebrate with Quinn, before- 

She swallowed thickly, gripping her pen tighter and ducking her head, forcing her attention to the scrawled words on her papers. 

It’d be best to leave the thought, nothing that could be done anyway. 

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By the time Natalie was shuffling up the stairs of their apartment, fumbling for her keys in her bag, the darkness had crept in, only a glimpse of the sun’s rays remaining over the tops of the buildings. She hopped up the remaining steps, muttering a few words under her breath as the keys clattered away from her, jingling tauntingly at the bottom of her bag but stubbornly out of reach each time she felt around for them. 

Glancing upwards, Natalie blinked at the realization she hadn’t even needed to bother, the front door slightly ajar. She frowned, hesitantly pressing her palm against it to swing it open, creeping a half step closer to scan the dark interior. 

Brooke had been just as jumpy and paranoid as Natalie after the night, maybe moreso considering she’d been nearly gutted, helplessly splayed out on the floor in front of the killer, unable to do anything but plead for her life. The female crept in, tense, acting more akin to an intruder than the fact she was entering her own home. 

There was no reason for Brooke to leave the door unlocked. 

Natalie stopped, straining her ears for any sound, hardly daring to breathe in the whispering silence. 

Or maybe she was overthinking it. Brooke might’ve left it open intentionally for her, knowing she’d be home soon from her classes. 

Natalie quietly shut the door behind her, shrugging off her backpack in the foyer, still waiting for any sound. 

“Brooke?” She hesitantly called out, wincing at the raw fear bleeding into her voice. She shuffled over to the light switch, blinking abruptly at the sudden brightness before her eyes were drawn to the scattered rose petals on the floor, leading a decorative trail that disappeared into her bedroom doorway. 

Natalie’s shoulders slumped in relief as she snorted in amusement, carefully sidestepping the flowers to pad to her room. Of course Brooke would go the extra mile, Natalie really should’ve expected as much after being her best friend for years. (And, maybe, it was a way to mask the grief for the holiday, for Brooke to expel her attention onto Natalie instead of the boyfriend who she should've been with today). 

Natalie paused at her doorway, squinting into the dark room, tensely waiting for Brooke to jump out at her. When nothing happened for several seconds, she leaned in to flip the switch on, glancing around cautiously. The rose petals were there of course, scattered all across her room (Natalie was definitely going to make Brooke help her clean up the mess she’d made), and a heart shaped box of chocolates nestled on the edge of her bed beckoned her over. 

Natalie shuffled closer, glancing it over. Definitely bigger than she’d been expecting for such a goofy joke. She leaned in, hands extended to pick it up before the smell hit her, nauseatingly sweet and overbearing, assaulting her senses. Natalie swore, straightening abruptly as she clasped her hands over her nose and tried not to gag. She finally noticed the red peeking out from under the box, staining her comforter as she grimaced then rolled her eyes. 

If Brooke covered her bedsheets in strawberry syrup, she was going to be the one scrubbing at it until it came out. Natalie steeled her nerves, mentally sighing as she left one hand clasped on her nose and the other to nudge the top of the box off, the flimsy cardboard falling alongside it to reveal its insides. 

She froze, skin prickling in discomfort, needles stabbing into the back of her neck at the sight of a- a mass of red, the covered scent of iron slamming into her nose. 

She stumbled back a step, breath hitching as she couldn’t tear her eyes off of the innocent, red box, knees trembling hard enough she wasn’t sure how she wasn’t on the ground yet. 

A heart. 

A red, blood bathed, human heart. 

She was a Nursing major, she damn knew what it looked like-

“Br-“ Natalie gasped for air as the iron invaded her mouth, coughing against the tinge coating her tongue. “Brooke!” She called, scrambling out of the room, stumbling into the doorframe as she lunged for the hallway. “BROOKE!”

She slammed into her door, gracelessly coming to a halt in the middle of Brooke’s room, her labored breaths echoing in the stifling silence. She’d missed the light switch in her haste, leaving the room bathed in darkness as her eyes desperately adjusted, scanning the space. 

Nothing- nothing, she wasn’t there. 

Natalie wasn’t sure to feel relieved or horrified, slowly backing out as her brain flipped through every scenario, through every possibility, through each location she knew. 

Where was Brooke? She wouldn’t-

Natalie’s thoughts came to a stuttering halt as a broad chest pressed into her back, wide arms curling around her frame and hugging her close before she could even gasp. She froze, tense, trembling, as the figure nosed at her neck, flinching at the warm breaths blowing across the back of her neck. 

She didn’t want to turn around- didn’t want to acknowledge the only person it could be, the killer she’d left splayed out, wounded and bleeding out on the floor. Actually- she doubted she could, not with how numb her body had gone, trembling uncomfortably against her will, nor with the way the male pressed herself against him, without a gap of space left. 

A flicker in the corner of her vision and Natalie snapped to it in a panic, heart threatening to burst from her chest at the sight of what the killer held. A knife? One from the kitchen, they didn’t leave them locked, there’s been no reason to. An axe like the one he’d slashed at Brooke with, a syringe like the one he’d killed Asher with-

She blinked. 

A card. A small, dainty card held in a large hand, unfitting for his size, slowly coming to rest before her. 

Natalie stared at it with wide eyes. It was a store bought one, covered in eye-gouging pink and red even in the dark, with too many hearts and overbearing cute images, cupids holding bows and blowing kisses. He’d obviously added his own touch, a red liquid splattered in random sections with a message in a messy scrawl, topped with a heart. 

The killer pressed her impossibly closer, inhaling her scent as Natalie traced the words until they blurred in her eyes, trembled in his grasp, and couldn’t feel her own legs. 

Be Mine, Valentine?

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Y/N yelped, suddenly airborne as a pair of hands easily wrapped around her midsection. Large enough to span her waist completely, as she was easily placed on the cool countertop.

The female froze, wide eyes staring up at her kidnapper-Konig, he’d insisted- in front of her, his eyes crinkling underneath the hood of his mask. He shifted to lower himself, Y/N’s heart in her throat as she cautiously raised her arms as he moved in.

He pressed his face against her stomach, large arms, capable of so so much more than just lifting her as if she was a feather, wrapped around her back ever so cautiously. As if she would break at the tightest squeeze.

Y/N swallowed thickly, trembling arms lowering, hesitating, before she placed them on his head and back. Konig melted underneath her touch, shuddering as Y/N petted the top of his head.

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Worldbuilding/Info dump

Right! claps hands a little bit of info dumping!

Mer are intelligent creatures, but they’re driven by animalistic tendencies and instincts just as much. 

As I said before also, they stay in the deep. You really won’t catch sight of them from shore unless you’re as unlucky as Meg. 

Danny, as we know tho, doesn’t much care for the rules. He’s a solo traveling mer in search of his own territory. He picked Meg’s beach due to a section of jagged rocks nearby, easy for him to ambush prey or predators from. 

Meg really just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Danny might consider her cute (maybe, possibly, he certainly wouldn’t admit prior to their first meeting) but he’s hungry after all of his travelling, and her blood staining the waters will warn humans and other mer from imposing on his territory. 

And then the unthinkable happens, Meg, a land-dweller, both wounds Danny and escapes him! Now mind you- Danny has never lost his prey nor a fight prior to this. And in the cut throat ocean where survival of the fittest means everything, well, Meg has just proved herself to be equal to him. And as I mention- Danny’s never lost a battle, not even one of courting!

(But maybe you should let Meg know- Danny she’s terrified for her life over her, Danny she’s hyperventilating, Danny let go-)

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The Ocean Is My...

⇢ Pairing: Mer Ghostface/Meg Thomas

⇢ Length: Multi-chapter

⇢ Chapters: (1- Home) (2 - Grave) (3 - Drug) (4 - Cage)

⇢ Synopsis: The ocean has been Meg's home for as long as she can remember. But the tides have shifted with a new mer appearing, and now Meg has to fight to keep her head above the waves left in his wake.

⇢ A/N: Side-eyes the failed dual update promise. In my defense, it's finals season. How was I supposed to know?

Meg shifted, burying her feet in the sand as she shuffled nervously in place. She grasped the board underneath her arm tighter, clasping it with both hands in a strained grip. Was this the same woman who used to stride on the sand as if she were floating above it? Who used to carry her board slung under an arm as easily as if it weren’t there?

Who could blame her though? 

Meg forced a deep breathe in, holding it as she slowly counted in her head, then released it. Just the way Claudette always coached. 

She forced one foot in front of the other, a step forwards, and then another, gaze glued to the sand. 

Claudette would kill her if she knew what she was doing. So Meg had left the voicemail for Dwight instead. He was never up early, she’d be back by the time he’d be awake enough to listen to it. 

And by then it’d be no issue, because she’d be at home safe and sound. And if she wasn’t.. Then they’d know where to look first. 

Not to mention- Meg glanced up for the umpteenth time to make sure they were still there- it wasn’t as if she was completely alone. Another swimmer was further out, dark hair a stark contrast against the water as they dipped in and out of the water with an ease that made Meg’s chest tighten in jealousy. 

Mers wouldn’t attack a group, not when they typically hunted solitary and could risk being dragged onto shore. The only reason it’d happened last time was because she was stupid enough to be alone. Stupid enough to not even consider the possibility and be caught completely off guard. 

Meg stilled as she realized she’d reached the edge of the ocean, shoving her heart back down as it tried to leap upwards when the waves nudged at her feet. She gripped her board tighter, an old comfort. A reminder of her wondrous memories before, a life saving grace in her time of need. There was no possibility she would’ve been able to escape in her exhausted state without it. 

She had no intentions of surfing again, of peering into the abyss of the ocean and having it stare back. But she was comfortable enough to finally wade in. To let the water reach higher than her midsection. And the redhead would prefer to do so with an old friend. With a shield if necessary, and an aide to cut through the water faster to return her to shore. 

Meg took a final deep breathe, and with all the conviction of a man stepping off the plank, waded in. 

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The water was warm. Meg gripped her board in a death grip, knuckles flushed white, as she let her feet float underneath.

The current had pushed the wooden board further out, but she could still reach the bottom if she straightened. For a moment, she let herself rest her cheek on the board. Feel the sway of the water surround her like a featherlight blanket, the gentle rocking of the board slow her heart from its jackhammering pace.

The water lifted her and Meg felt weightless.

Of course, everything had to go wrong then.

The redhead jolted upwards at the sound of frantic splashing, feet slamming against the sand as she braced herself, twisted her torso for the shore. She threw a desperate glance over her shoulder, ready for fins and sharp teeth, for webbed claws, for tentacles that wrap and wring. 

There was nothing. No Jaws style fin jutting out of the water. No suckers to entangle around her legs and yank her back. 

Meg’s heart slowed from where it’d tried to leap out of her chest. She shoved against the waves to keep wading back to shore. Another splash and she whirled around, holding her breathe as she craned her eyes and ears, scanned the peaceful horizon intently. 

Nothing. Just her.

She turned back, the prickle on the back of her neck shifting to needles jabbing into her spine. The shore was within reach, there was no need to stay any further in the water, she’d achieved what she came here for.

The redhead stilled suddenly, twisting back around to scan the water as an image of the morning flashed in her mind. The figure in the water- her heart thundered, eyes darting to each shift in the water- the dark spot of color against the blue- Meg’s heart crashed like the waves against the rocks as a head lurched above a wave, hands desperately paddling and gasping at water, before they went under again. 

Meg’s body knew the motions before she did. By the time she blinked, she was already crouched on the board, hands slamming against the water to paddle to the deep. She may be a coward, but she wouldn’t let someone drown. 

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The swimmer was further out than she’d expected, likely caught in a riptide and dragged deeper than they could manage. In drowning, panic is always quick to dart in and cloud the mind, give no rational thoughts other than STAY ALIVE and seize control of the body. 

Meg is ever grateful for her board, a floatation device for the swimmer to cling to without dragging her underneath as well. She can only hope a passerby on the shore can notice the situation from a distance, it’s not as if she has the chance to call for help. 

Meg’s faster to the person than she expects, her body on autopilot, limbs finding their familiar rhythm as she pushes them to points she hasn’t touched in weeks. 

She inhales the salty air and forces her mind to clear. There’s already one person panicking, it won’t help if she starts to too.

She can make out more of the swimmer’s features from the closer distance as they shove their head above water again, coughing up mouthfuls of water and grasping in her direction. 

A male, pale skin, dark hair, and piercing eyes that lock with her’s for a moment.

And then he’s gone.

She curses and lurches forwards, nearly diving off her board as he dips under again, hands splashing above his head. But even that's sinking quickly, and Meg worries if she’ll be able to reach him a moment later, see him in the persistent waves. 

Meg gives a final, powerful propel and dives her arm into the water, gripping her board securely with the opposite. 

She can see him! She grabs for him- to pull him up safely- and her hand drifts past, fingertips skirting his skin.

No!

The redhead slams her eyes shut, inhales, and forces her arm further in, head splashing into the water as she stretches as far as she can reach. She nearly wants to cry in relief when clammy, cold skin meets her palm, grasping onto it immediately and yanking upwards. 

Meg doesn’t release him until she slams his palm onto the board, feels him grip onto it and heave himself up higher. She gasps, heart threatening to give out from its adrenaline fueled dash. 

Her hands shake as she reaches upwards to wipe the water from her eyes, a mix of the nerves and exhaustion finally reeling their heads, her body pushed to limits it hasn’t even considered since the incident. 

A relieved smile peeks at her lips as Meg blinks, drawing her hands away. It’s alright though- it’s all alright! She’d managed! He’s fine and she-

Meg freezes, hands in midair as she stares down at the figure splayed on her board. The mer’s ear fins playfully splayed out as he rests his upper body on her board. 

Her breathes still completely, horror freezing her veins, skin suddenly cold as he reaches upward to grasp each wrist with terrifying claws, easily encircling each one. He pushes himself upwards with the help of his lower limbs, sharp teeth flashing in a wide grin as Meg feels something wrapping around her legs. 

The redhead doesn’t turn, doesn’t need to even glance to know exactly what’s winding up her ankles. 

The mer- the damned octopus mer with dark hair and darker scales and tangling tentacles- pushes himself up higher until he’s level with her. 

He gives a cheeky, excited grin as he chirps, ear flaps fluttering, soulless golden eyes drinking in every detail of her face. Meg doesn’t dare blink. 

He seems to find what he was looking for anyway as he tilts his head and lurches forward -too quick for her to even gasp- face pressed into her neck as tentacles lope around her back. They squeeze her closer to his frame, press her flush against him as a low rumble starts in his chest, a purr that shakes Meg’s bones. 

Meg trembles in place, held fast with his tight grip and ensnaring tentacles, weighed down by her own exhaustion. 

The ocean laps at her knees and nudges at her board like an eager dog, welcoming her home.

A/N: Danny had full intentions to eat Meg at first. But dw! He doesn't anymore :)

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JedMeg my beloved/beloathed. You never fail to bring me pain <3

It probably wouldn’t last long, but I’m imagining Danny whipping out his Jed Olsen persona to fuck with the survivors. Make them think he’s one of them before shoving a knife in their throats

OUGH I've actually talked about this kinda thing before with Blob in regards to the JedMeg AU but also imagine that this was how Danny got all his stalking intel from the survivors, by just putting on his stupid nice guy persona and walking to the campfire and the newest lowly survivor.

Sure, you may never see Jed and Ghostface in the same trial together, but there's a lot of survivors and a lot of killers which means there's hundreds of combos...plus, it's not like Jed doesn't get called for trails periodically. It's just that no one takes note of which side he's on when they're trying to avoid getting flayed on camera.

The Entity's gotta give her special guy a bit of enrichment now and then. This is his version of going to doggy day camp.

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I Don't Think This Was A Term In The Waiver Agreement

Just because the scare actors were allowed to touch you in this section of Hell Fest doesn't mean they're allowed to butcher your friends and leave you bound on the floor. Wait, what do you mean that's part of the fine print?

Yippee! Here's a Hell Fest fic I wrote months ago and never posted for...no reason actually lmao. God, this movie was so, so close to being perfect for us slasher x final girl fans (all 7 of us). I had to take it upon myself to give it the ending interaction it deserved.

Word Count: 6.4K

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The haze of brief unconsciousness loosened its hold on Natalie, regrettably allowing her senses to return to her one by one in the awfullest of states. Mindless bliss was first interrupted by the realization of how she struggled to breathe, her airways clogged with blood from a surely broken nose. The metallic taste lingered in the back of her throat so that even when she took deep, shuddering inhales to counteract the suffocation, all that filled her lungs was coppery air. She had to be dying, God, it sure as hell felt like she was dying.

A few more gasps helped pull Natalie further out of the void, much to her displeasure. All too quickly did she become aware of the agony that throbbed across her face in tandem with her heartbeat, radiating from her busted nose to the back of her eyes and down the roots of her teeth. Sticky blood was smeared uncomfortably over her mouth and pooled under the cheek pressed into concrete, enough so that she involuntarily coughed until she could gather enough saliva in her mouth to spit out the bitterness coating her tongue. It wasn’t until she forced her face to relax from its grimace in an attempt to ease the ache of her cheekbones did she realize how tightly she still had her eyes shut.

With as much strength as she could muster, Natalie pushed through the Herculean task of opening her eyes, almost instantly squeezing them closed again when the barest of light seeped through her lashes. She groaned, enduring the stabbing sensation in her temples as she slowly made her eyes flutter open to a squint. Her vision swam in doubles, triples, before swirling back into a single image of near blackness. For a moment, she was unsure if perhaps her eyes were still closed as there was hardly anything to see. As the darkness thankfully adjusted into something that didn’t make her want to rip her eyes from her sockets, she was able to blink away the remaining haze clouding her sight.

White blobs looking down at her sharpened back into the shape of expressionless paper mache masks, a red overhead light catching the edge of their silhouettes, tilted at a dizzying angle. Natalie would have jolted at the idea of so many people staring at her with blank expressions, but her rattled brain hadn’t quite rebooted back into working order after being knocked around her skull. Right, these weren’t real people, they were just a bunch of dummies cloaked in fabric for a cheap scare. They wouldn’t hurt her, but they wouldn’t be able to help her either.

…help her from what?

A scream echoed down one of the maze’s many corridors outside of the room Natalie was in, all but yanking her the rest of the way out of her daze and into harsh reality. Hell Fest. Her pictures. Gavin’s texts. Taylor, Quinn. The Other.

Brooke.

…

Brooke!

Like she had just been drenched in ice water, Natalie was scrambling to pull herself up off the floor. Frustratingly, her limbs refused to cooperate with her sense of fight or flight, almost as if she was piloting a body that didn’t belong to her. While the fresh shot of adrenaline coursing through her veins did wonders to clear her mind, it did little to motivate her still aching muscles into moving how she needed them to. Her headache was worsening by the second, certainly a concussion, probably some broken cartilage at least and a fractured skull at worst, but thankfully her face had settled into a more manageable buzz of pain. One less thing to worry about in the moment, even if her eyes wanted to pop from their sockets to relieve the building pressure behind them. 

Rolling from her stomach to her side very nearly caused her to gag at the sudden wave of nausea. Coagulated blood trickled down her throat at the shift in position, forcing her to roll back onto her front as she retched again to avoid choking on any potential vomit. A part of her was grateful she hadn’t eaten more of the overpriced pretzel Gavin had given her, though another part chastised her as those carbs could have been soaking up the copious amounts of alcohol still sitting in her soured stomach. Either way, she would have been stuck with the miserable feeling of needing to puke; it was simply a matter of whether it was better to not have to worry about drowning on her own blood and bile or if she would actually feel better if there was something substantial to purge.

Natalie clumsily pulled her arms up in an effort to brace them against the floor, hoping to elevate herself that way when…she came to the conclusion that she couldn’t. 

It wasn’t that her reactions were delayed by head trauma - although that still couldn’t be ruled out amongst other things - it was that there was something quite obviously preventing her from doing so. Hindsight mocked her for not realizing the predicament she was in sooner – how had it only now come to her attention that her arms were immobile from behind her back? To which she argued back that the fact she was only seventy percent sure her face hadn’t been split open by the blunt end of an ax was a perfectly valid excuse for her lack of awareness. She rolled her shoulders and tugged her arms to either side of her body once more, straining against the unseen binds that bit into the crooks of her elbows. Her hands were free, but utterly useless when they could only stretch forward enough to graze her hips.

Confusion was giving way to panic in her already heightened state of anxiety. During her incapacitation, The Other had left her tied up and helpless on the floor before presumably going off to finish his rampage. He could have killed her, he should have killed her, seeing as he had no problem before when it came to snuffing out whatever lives were unfortunately caught in his grasp. 

But not with Natalie. 

No, he seemed to take sick pleasure in drawing their game of cat and mouse out for as long as possible, like he was teasing her with the chance she’d ever be able to win. Ax in hand, Natalie sprawled on the floor, it would have been too easy to declare himself the winner by spilling her brains.

Instead, he left her, bleeding and unconscious, yet ultimately alive. Bound, so that she couldn’t go anywhere before he returned, because he would be coming back for her once he had taken care of Brooke’s loose end. Was he saving Natalie’s death for last, his final prize of the night? Did The Other want her to experience the full scope of her earned punishment after she had poked fun at him earlier in an attempt to look brave to her friends? Or had this always been a part of his plans; rope or cables or whatever the hell was securing her arms having been stashed away in his hoodie pocket, just waiting to snare the perfect victim?

A second scream snapped Natalie out of her aching head, making her heart freeze its desperate pounding in her chest. It sounded too raw, too primal to be a soundtrack jumpscare triggered by one of the maze’s sensors. The guttural terror made every hair on the back of Natalie’s neck stand on end. There was no doubt about who it could have come from. Brooke wasn’t going to be able to move fast enough to fight off her attacker with that gash on her thigh. If she was going to survive then Natalie was going to need to find a way to get to her before The Other had a chance to finish what he started. 

And then it was quiet.

Natalie strained her ears to listen past the drumming in her skull for any further sign of Brooke, hoping to pick up a whimper or fainter yells or the exit door triumphantly slamming open. Distress was a cruel thing to wish for, but it was the only sure sign she had that her best friend was still alive. She couldn’t lose Brooke, not like this, not when they had already lost so much in a matter of mere hours. They were going to go to Spain–!

“Brooke!” Natalie called out, hoping her voice would carry down the changing hallways. When only ambient music responded, she tried again. “Brooke!”

Nothing. Silence. No, no, Brooke had to be hiding and unable to give away her position to respond. She had to be too far away. She had to have already escaped. Natalie refused to accept there were any other alternatives, not if she wanted to cling onto what little sanity she was afforded in this moment. With renewed vigor to save Brooke from a brutal end, far more concerned for her than her own safety, she fought against her restraints until she was able to gain enough footing to scooch herself forward on her belly. It was a humiliating position to be in, literally writhing on the ground like an insect waiting to be stepped on, but it was better than rolling over to expose her underbelly and wait for The Other to gut her accordingly.

She didn’t have much in mind when it came to a game plan, all her ideas having been bashed out of her head when she was knocked out. There was little she could do without the use of her arms, much less when there wasn’t a way to pull herself onto her feet without toppling over the rest of the standing mannequins. She thought about shimmying herself up the doorframe to help her get on her knees before the sight of the discarded ice shaving knife caught her attention from the corner of her eye. 

Well, there was no reason The Other needed to dual wield two blades, she supposed, likely having dropped it during their brief scuffle. But if he wasn’t going to use it…

Grunting, Natalie pushed forward as well as she could, relying on her legs to scoot her along the filthy concrete, further soiling the once white top she had borrowed from Brooke – I’ll wash it, I’ll bleach it, I’ll buy you a new one, I promise, Brooke, I promise. Her right knee throbbed every time she bent it to wiggle further, the bruised joint not taking too kindly to the extra strain after having just been kicked by The Other. She should consider herself lucky that he hadn’t managed to dislocate the bone or she’d really be in trouble, though perhaps she should focus more on the fact she was still alive and not decapitated rather than gripe about a bum leg. 

It felt like she was running a marathon with the amount of effort she was exerting just to move a few feet to the left. Natalie liked to think herself to be in relatively good shape, maybe not exactly toned as there was hardly a muscle to flex on her lithe body, but her labored breathing said otherwise. Even with the adrenaline shifting her instincts into overdrive, giving her tired body its much needed second wind, it didn’t change the fact she could hardly breathe through her bloodied nostrils and that her weight was fully resting on her diaphragm. Coupled with a blinding pain that still threatened to make her hurl if she moved her eyes too fast and it was no wonder why she felt as worn down as she looked. 

There was plenty of fight left in her. All she needed to do was get a hold of that knife, blindly fumble with it behind her back while hoping she didn’t slice a finger off on the serrated edge, and saw through her bindings. Rope, hopefully. Predictably. If it was something thicker, stronger, like cable or nylon, her plan would already be massively screwed before she had the chance to–

A yelp escaped her lips before she could contain it, flinching back when a steel toe boot stomped down on the hilt of the knife less than a foot away from her. Ideally, she would have scrambled a good pace away from her sudden attacker, but all she could manage was to duck her head into her shoulders and hopefully avoid getting curb stomped by his other foot. Brown eyes were blown wide in shock, helpless watching as her one salvation was caught under The Other’s sole and kicked far, far out of her restricted reach. In her current state, he may as well have launched it outside of the fairgrounds, because there was not a chance in hell she’d be able to sloppily crawl for it while the killer was looming overhead.

Her breathing hitched in her throat, not having expected him back so soon. How long had she initially been knocked out? How long had she truly spent regaining her senses and wriggling around? Had she wasted a precious hour without realizing it, or could he truly be efficient when he wanted to be, when he had grown tired of toying with a bunch of college kids? Despite her head pounding in protest, Natalie rolled over onto her side and dropped onto her back, unable to bite back a pained whimper as her migraine worsened. In this position, she could at least brace on her forearms for a bit more control in moving backwards. Better than relying solely on her legs skidding on concrete. 

It took a terrifying moment for her new perspective to stop tilting, adjusting to the blood now pooling towards the back of her head rather than dripping from her nose and mouth. She worried her sudden drop in blood pressure would cause her to blackout again, at the literal worst possible moment with a serial killer hovering by her side, completely at his mercy to hack and slash her vulnerable body.

Who was she kidding, she was already in that exact predicament, the only difference being that she had the unfortunate pleasure of watching her execution in all its painful glory. As much as she didn’t want to, she needed to keep The Other in her sights, needed to see what move he was planning to make next. Whether it was better or not to know what was coming was debatable, but the last thing she wanted was to be caught off guard in her final moments, missing something that could have been the perfect defense.

The red light that barely illuminated the cramped room was horrifically artful in the way it reflected off him. Muted shadows blended into his dark clothing, making him appear larger, all encompassing, while the crevices of the faux rotted mask pulled into more sinister expressions that hid his own underneath. Inky splotches reflected off of his hands still tightly gripping the ax’s handle, splattering up to the cuffs of his hoodie and streaking over his knuckles when he flexed his fingers in anticipation. A sickening feeling settled heavily in Natalie’s stomach as it became apparent his exposed skin, his only exposed skin, was drenched in blood that surely wasn’t his own. Not only that, but the dripping red liquid continued its gory trail up the length of the ax all the way to its head, glistening crimson and thirsty for more.

It was much more blood than had been on his new weapon of choice before, far too much to have been caused by the single slice he had gotten on Brooke’s leg. Too wet. Too fresh. It was damn near coated in viscera, impossible to pinpoint whether the blood splattered outward from the blade or the blunt hilt. Maybe he had partially caved in Natalie’s head when he slammed the end into her face – the brain was capable of functioning in plenty of wild circumstances, like a metal rod through an eye or a bullet that lodged between the folds. She must be lying here with half her brain hanging out without realizing it, the blood on The Other and his ax primarily belonging to her impressive head wound because…because if it wasn’t…

Then that would mean Brooke, she…she couldn’t…she’d be…

It all hit Natalie in that moment, yet she couldn’t process a single thing, too overcome by a tidal wave of emotions to be able to experience them individually. Her mind desperately tried to rationalize what she was seeing, convince her otherwise of the obvious evidence that dripped at her feet. There was no body, there was no proof. The blood on his ax was copious, sure, but nowhere near a lethal amount. Excluding whatever backsplash was soaking into his clothes out of sight. Excluding the ever growing puddle that was sure to be spreading from the bone-deep wounds. No, no, no! No, she refused to accept it. 

This wasn’t what was meant to happen! They were meant to escape together, a bit worse for wear but alive in each other’s arms! They were meant to have a fun night out with friends and boyfriends to make up for lost time! 

It was all Natalie’s fault. She should have been a better friend, taking a break from her studies to accept Brooke’s invitations for a hangout rather than brush her off. So many extra memories they could have made together if Natalie hadn’t been too absorbed in her own world to the point of distancing her best friend. Maybe then they wouldn’t have felt the need to go so big at Hell Fest, instead sticking to more local bars and pop up houses. Maybe she and Gavin could have shared their first kiss earlier. Maybe she and Taylor could have properly buried the hatchet from their schooldays and become real friends. Maybe she wouldn’t have felt so guilty for canceling going out as a group on tonight since they had would have just seen each other earlier, then maybe the rest of the group never would have become targets by proxy for The Other, then maybe they’d all be alive because Natalie hadn’t stupidly teased a dangerous man into committing a very real murder in front of her. Fixated on her. Obsessed over her. 

She sobbed, unable and unwilling to hold back the ugly emotions in her chest. Her vision was blurring, this time from tears that rapidly cut through the blood on her cheeks to make streaky paths. Her sinuses burned, amplifying the pain already accompanying her broken nose. God, she must look like an absolute sight; helplessly rolled over on her back, struggling to crawl backwards in a vain attempt to keep distance between herself and the killer, face filthy in blood and sweat and tears. All she wanted to do was curl up in a corner and hide her face, hide her shame and her self hatred, and wait for the big scary monster to go away and leave her alone. These kinds of things weren’t supposed to be real. And when it was real, it was the kinds of things that happened to other people, for her to later hear about on the news and think to herself wow, how awful, thank God that wasn’t me. 

“Please,” she whimpered. It was difficult to find balance with her arms angled near sideways behind her, causing her to scoot too far and slip fully on her back with a wince. She didn’t let it deter her, opting to ignore how her elbows dug awkwardly into her spine while kicking her legs to inch backwards as quickly as she could. “Please, please, I’m sorry!”

Sorry for making fun of you, sorry for trying to beat the shit out of you with a prop on two separate occasions, sorry for invading your hunting grounds, you’re scary, you’re scary, you’re so fucking scary–

The Other tilted his head at her pitiful display and Natalie choked on another sob. It was like he was mocking her, feigning consideration for her blubbering apology as if it would be enough to soothe the bloodlust she fueled. The meager few feet she had managed to put between them was undone in an instant when he stalked towards her with slow, deliberate steps. Heavy boots sounded like gunshots cracking in her ears, signaling he was coming closer, closer, ready to seal her fate with his deadly intent. No matter how fruitlessly she struggled to keep moving backwards, it was impossible to make more distance than what he was already closing. Her doe eyes were locked fully on him, regrettably resulting in the misdirection she was crawling backwards towards. 

Wobbly mannequin legs stopped Natalie in her meager tracks. A couple of the figures, still off balance on their stands from the fight earlier, tipped and fell around her like masked dominos. She flinched, yelping at what she briefly thought were additional assailants that further caged her in with their black capes. Instead, they only served to further halt any escape by blocking all directions but forward, directly towards The Other, knowing she wouldn’t be able to scramble over their uneven bodies without the use of her arms. Like a fitful child, she tried to kick and jerk her shoulders to shake the swaddled figures off of her, but it made little difference besides nestling her deeper between them until her back was against the wall. 

Trapped. Game over.

She was hyperventilating now, a poor combination with a blocked nasal and tight throat. She was suffocating, unable to hold a breath long enough for it to be any use before it left her as a strangled cry. The Other was practically on top of her, trapping her between his legs while he stood above her at her hips. Even if she were to try and kick up at him, she knew she wouldn’t be able to hit anything, only further sliding herself down on her back and giving him the perfect vantage point of her neck. Perhaps it would be in her best interest to bear her throat to the wolf’s teeth in hopes for a swift ending, but she doubted her stalker would let her escape him that quickly. Not after he had spent the entire night in her shadow, always lurking, never pouncing, wanting to savor the chase as long as possible before digging in.

“Please don’t, please,” Natalie begged again, her hysteria building the longer he toyed with her inevitable end. She didn’t want to die, naturally, but God, she didn’t want it to hurt either. She didn’t want to watch herself be hacked into little pieces for an hour, feeling every muscle be ripped apart and the bones splinter under her skin. His fist trembled slightly at her incessant pleading from where it held the neck of the ax, clenching the wood hard enough to make it creak. The Other was just barely restraining himself, his willpower failing seconds later as he shifted the ax to be weld overhead, poised to strike down.

She had always heard in these situations that people suddenly find themselves with immeasurable strength or that their life flashes before their eyes. Neither of those happened to Natalie; she wasn’t able to miraculously rip through her binds and she didn’t experience twenty-two years of memories in an instant. All she felt was pure, unbridled terror squeezing her heart, threatening to crush it before she had the chance to feel her head being caved in. The ax came hurling down at impressive speed, a testament to The Other’s strength hidden beneath the baggy folds of his hoodie, gunning for the poor girl’s skull. Her arms nearly pulled themselves out of their sockets in the instinctive need to shield her head from the blow, as if that would protect her from an already gruesome end. If anything, it would prolong the attack.

Instead, she screwed her eyes tight and turned her head to the side, shrinking into herself as every muscle wound itself up like a spring. Tears flooded down her face, almost wiping her cheeks clean at this point, save for the runny mascara that now mixed with the remaining pink tracks on her skin. There were no last words to utter. No final beg for mercy. Nothing but a pained shriek for her killer to remember her by, assuming she was worth remembering at all. What was hell on earth for her on this one night could be nothing more than the average Friday to him. 

Natalie heard the impact of his ax. She had felt the air woosh over her face as it arced down. She could smell the sickening odor of gore even through the drying blood clogging in her nostrils. But, strangely enough, she could also still feel her pulse thrumming in her ears, her skin feeling electrified to the touch. Still breathing. Still alive. In pain, yes, but no more than she had been seconds prior. There was no rush of warmth spilling from her head or neck to coat her in her own fluids. Hesitantly, she cracked open an eye to see if she would be immediately greeted by the afterlife, or perhaps to check if a chunk of her brain was sitting in her lap and blissfully unaware she’d been lobotomized before The Other finished the job.

The bloody head of the ax was the first thing she saw, less than an inch away from the tip of her nose. She squeaked in surprise and jerked away from it as if it would grow teeth and bite her. It was not, in fact, buried into her tender flesh and eager to rip out chunks of her with each frenzied hack, rather it stayed embedded into the mass of fabric and wooden torsos underneath that had once been a part of the room’s attraction. If it weren’t for the thick layer of gore covering the blade, Natalie would have sworn she’d be able to see her reflection staring wide eyed back at her. 

The Other had…missed? 

No, that didn’t seem possible, not with his unrelenting prowess. He had avoided carving her face off deliberately, just as he had spared her the first time he had her on the ground and under his ax. Perhaps he wasn’t done playing his game after all.

Her terrified gaze followed up the length of the handle to see the killer at last relinquish his hold on the weapon, effectively disarming himself yet still as dangerous as ever. He could rip her apart with his own two hands if he wanted to, Natalie was certain of it. And there was still a chance that was exactly what he had in mind, too, something more personal and intimate saved just for her. Another whimper had found its way out of her chest when The Other shifted his weight where he stood, from engulfing her in his backlit shadow like a giant to lowering himself down to a crouch. Not quite eye level and much too close for comfort. He sat back on his haunches, arms resting on his knees while Natalie remained sprawled under his legs.

For a moment, he simply stared at her. Studying her. Waiting to see if she was going to make the first move or if she had finally learned her lesson of staying exactly how he wanted her. Her stalker knew all the worst ways to trip her up when she refused to cooperate with his advances; corralling her in the bathroom stalls and swinging his ax opposite of her hiding spot when they had entered this room together. Natalie was too petrified to do anything but tremble and hold back the cries that threatened to overflow from her eyes. A good answer, it seemed, because he hadn’t wrung her neck until every vertebrae snapped yet.

His right arm shifted to reach for her slowly, with the bloody fingers splayed like he were coaxing a feral cat. She didn’t have the feline advantage of needle-like claws or baby fangs to ward off the encroaching predator, nor could she find the courage within herself to hiss and yowl like it might deter him. Nine lives wouldn’t be enough to save her, so Natalie was going to have to make do with what little she had – which, to be clear, was jackshit. All she could do was jerk her head to the side in an attempt to keep him from touching her face, though even that proved to be a fruitless endeavor. 

Before she had the chance to fully look away, his open hand lurched forward to grab her by the jaw and stop her in her tracks. She cried out in surprise, unable to resist when he forcibly turned her head back to face him to avoid the risk of a broken neck. His nails bit into the bruising skin of her cheeks, thumb digging to the gap between her sets of teeth and nearly cutting the inside of her mouth on her molars. So badly she wanted to close her eyes and block out the sight of his hideous yellow mask, pretend that he wasn’t there and when she’d open them he’d be gone. But her body refused to let her look away any longer, almost as transfixed on him as he had been with her all night. He was closer now, leaning in far enough that Natalie feared he might try to kiss her through his mangled faux lips.

The black holes of The Other’s mask offered no hint of emotion that he concealed behind it, not even a peek at what color his eyes were. A void; soulless and ready to swallow her whole if she dared to break what she assumed was eye contact again. He wanted to see her, and she was going to see him whether she wanted to or not. Well, she hoped he liked what he saw: a frightened girl barely on the cusp of adulthood in the midst of a panic attack and covered in too many people’s blood, probably with a deviated septum and two budding black eyes to boot. How appealing, certainly how Natalie had always envisioned herself to be remembered as – utterly pathetic. A lackluster final girl.

His thumb that had been previously pressing into her mandible eased up slightly to move across her face, now settling above her cupid’s bow. Natalie hissed in pain, automatically flinching back but not moving an inch thanks to the steeled grip The Other had on her chin. In an instant, he lifted his thumb off her upper lip entirely, giving her a brief moment for the ache to subside before his touch returned. It was lighter this time, gentle, the rough pad swiping under her nose like he was trying to wipe away the mess of blood he had caused in the first place. Of course, it wasn’t like his gesture was doing much to help give how much blood had dried down into a tacky consistency, nevermind the amount of viscera he was transferring from his own hands onto Natalie’s face. 

Though she appreciated (in a weird sense) that his touch was softer, it didn’t change the fact her bruising skin still pulsated under his fingers, burning red hot. She grimaced, focusing on blinking back her tears rather than think about whose gore not Brooke’s not Brooke’s not Brooke’s was being rubbed over her mouth, dangerously close to be tasted and surely the final straw to make her retch. 

If she didn’t know any better, which one could argue she didn’t as she was battling physical and mental trauma to the head, Natalie would almost think the killer was trying to convey an apology of sorts. As if he was sorry for the short term punishment he felt he needed to give her, certainly not caring about the repercussions for everything else however. Or he was merely admiring his handiwork in a perverse sort of way. A pretty girl covered in her pretty blood, begging to be drenched in more of it just so he could get his rocks off.

Mercifully, his hold loosened and Natalie sucked in a gasp, unaware she had been holding her breath the entire time. It felt like she deserved some sort of reward for not immediately flinching away again when his fingers ghosted over the apple of her cheek. She had been trained well, a quick learner. His hands were warm and rough and sickeningly slick with red, yet so impossibly light in the way they just barely touched her skin in passing. As if these weren’t the same hands responsible for countless deaths and agony, knowing they could decide to gouge out her eyes on a whim. She dared to let her gaze drift from his mask to follow where his deadly hold was traveling next, cringing when they tucked into several strands of hair that had been matted against her face from her bloody nose. Carefully, The Other tugged the hair loose and brushed it behind her ear.

Dirty fingers buried into her locks, uncaring how he soiled them. To be fair, most of her curls had already fallen out and the frizzy ends were likely a mess of tangles, caked in blood and sweat. It was only a small relief that he didn’t go grasping for her scalp, much like how he had tried to grab a hold of her in the bathroom to tug her upwards. This time, he combed his hand down the full length of her hair, stopped by a few knots that he tugged free along the way. It should have been soothing, such a sweet and loving act, even being done with a tender touch, but all it did for Natalie was make her stomach clench in anticipation. The other shoe was bound to drop at any moment. In a flash, his docile facade would be replaced with a blade shoved up to its hilt in her kidney, and she refused to be caught off guard.

When he reached the ends of her hair, he curled them around his fingers, letting the strands slip between his knuckles before twirling them back into his hold. The Other was mesmerized, fascinated, like he was experiencing the luxury of playing with someone’s hair for the first time. 

Long and mousy, just like her’s. Not as silky, though, needed to be straighter. Nothing a good conditioner couldn’t fix. One that had a faint coconut scent, just like he used to be able to smell whenever she tucked herself under his arm– 

His obsession unnerved Natalie more than usual while he was in her personal space, heightened by the uncertainty of his current behavior. Even if her arms were free, she wasn’t sure she’d have the gall to shove him away while he was so pacified in her presence, a stark contrast to every other encounter. It was a miracle how quickly he could be subdued when she wasn’t clawing at the walls to escape his presence, like it was her fault in assuming he meant her horrific bodily harm given the track record he demonstrated all night. Really, that possibility still wasn’t entirely off the table. 

She just wanted a bit of breathing room, wanted him off of her to collect her thoughts before she either spiraled into a nervous breakdown or died of an aneurysm then and there. Crowding her space like this, Natalie could hear every exhale muffled by the mask, see his shoulders rise and fall in tandem, smell the blood that clung to him tinged with just the slightest hint of cologne, pick out all the individual bumps and divots of his mask.

It was like he was sizing her up in the boarding school haunted house again. Before she had given away that poor girl’s hiding spot, stupidly assuming it was all part of an act, when she thought The Other was nothing more than a harmless actor trying to get a rise out of her and her friends. She supposed it worked in the end. He had more than proven his point. If she hadn’t called him out, would he have ignored her in favor of hunting down his target without a second glance? Or would she still occupy his thoughts and spurn him to track her down all the same, equally enamored despite only seeing her in passing? Was there ever a chance she would have been safe no matter how he caught sight of her, would there be significantly less bodies in his wake if she’d just let him corner her in a bathroom stall and play with her hair for a bit?

Fuck, she hoped he wasn’t going to reveal himself to be one of those serial killers that wore their victims skin and was simply fantasizing about what a great wig her scalp would make.

Natalie swallowed to wet her hoarse throat, hoping her voice would be found. It took a few tries before she was confident she could make a sound that wasn’t simply a miserable whine. “What–” 

She couldn’t stop herself from recoiling fast enough when The Other snapped his attention back to her face. His breathing faltered, only for a beat, the single indicator that he had been equally startled by her sudden conversation. All eyes were on her now, eager to hear what she had to say. She hadn’t talked to him in a while – screaming and crying didn’t count in his book. The killer was obviously not a man of many words, not while he donned his murderous persona anyways, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t pleased to see Natalie initiate a conversation all on her own. It was well worth being shaken out of whatever daydream he’d temporarily lost himself in, especially for her if it meant chasing away any musings he could be having about the best way to peel off her skin to make a belt. He tilted his head, urging her to continue.

“What…wh-what do you want?” She finally squeaked out, cowering under him in case that was all he needed to fly into a bloody frenzy again. It was hard to say if she was truly expecting a response, a verbal one anyways. Who knew if he even could give her that much, if his mutism extended beyond his haunted house hobbies. 

Deep down, she knew what the answer was, and she knew he knew it, too. It had been obvious from the start, The Other had made no effort in hiding it from anyone.

He wanted her and now there was nobody left to stop him.

[unnamed-blob]

[in the context of The Ocean is My... Drug]

(I have many thoughts about Meg- her thoughts and actions and state- but augghh- it was so hard to put into words.)

Meg you idiot (affectionately). Nearly drowns and breathes not a word of it to her friends. 

Of course though, she has her reasons. I forgot to mention but mer are an established species (otherwise Meg would’ve been much more confused on what she was seeing in the water). But they don’t come this close to shore. Mer attacks can occur, but only in the deep, they don’t come within view of the shoreline. They don’t like the risk of being dragged onto the sand. 

Meg herself isn’t fully confident what happened to her. Maybe she got heatstroke? Maybe she hallucinated an octopus or a shark as a mer? If she can’t say… how would her friends believe her? (Which- they would. Meg, darling, you’re being an idiot.)

Additionally, she’s incredibly headstrong and independent. Meg already beats herself up for what happened. Sure- mer attacks close to shore are basically statistically impossible, but she should’ve been prepared. She should have known better, kept a closer eye on the water, known the warning signs. 

Meg blames herself and she fully expects her friends to too. She Doesn’t want them angry or walking on eggshells around her. She doesn’t want to be glanced at from the corners of their eyes and treated like glass. She’s fine. 

It’s easier to bury the trauma than admit it. It’s easier to move on and not dwell on why her hands shake at the sound of crashing waves. That a place that used to be her safe space is suddenly stained with her blood. 

[unnamed-blob]

The Ocean Is My...

⇢ Pairing: Mer Ghostface/Meg Thomas

⇢ Length: Multi-chapter

⇢ Chapters: (1- Home) (2 - Grave) (3 - Drug) (4 - Cage)

⇢ Synopsis: The ocean has been Meg's home for as long as she can remember. But the tides have shifted with a new mer appearing, and now Meg has to fight to keep her head above the waves left in his wake.

⇢ A/N: The calm before the storm.

A seagull cried in the near distance, accompanying the familiar sound of waves crashing against the sand. 

Meg wrapped her arms tighter around herself, wound uncomfortably taut, staring at her feet. 

“Come in,” the water whispered, lapping at her toes. “Come home,” it whined, pulling away before lurching forwards to ensnare her ankles in the sinking sand. Meg made no motion to move, blinking sluggishly as if she were watching through someone else’s eyes. 

She wriggled her feet in the sand, watched them sink deeper until she couldn’t see the top of them anymore. Deeper… deeper… like the ocean swallowing her whole- 

A splash from a distance away, a flash of scales in the morning sun as a fish leapt upwards. 

By the time it hit the water again, there were only indents left of her presence, sand thrown hastily from running footsteps. 

⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡⪢⪡

It’d taken a month for her to step out onto the sand again. A month after she’d failed to show up to her work with no prior notice. 

Her friends -(and Meg could never quite put into words how grateful she was for them, past the lump that would swell in her throat and make her eyes water)- had sent themselves on a manhunt for her. 

Jake found her, limp in the sand, unresponsive. When Meg had finally opened her eyes, she’d been greeted with the eggshell blue ceiling of Claudette’s clinic. 

The shorter female had kept a close eye on her from that moment onwards, chiding her each time she’d grown restless in the sterile bed, constantly reminding her of the dangers of secondary drowning. The redhead couldn’t find it in herself to be irritated at the infantilized treatment, at how constantly her vitals were checked every few minutes. 

Not when Claudette’s hands kept shaking, giving her difficulty with inserting the IV. Not when Dwight had raced over as soon as he was informed she was awake, panting from the oppressing heat and the ill fitting tie and button up shirt he’d run in, sacrificing his lunch break. 

And not when Jake had hugged her silently, tight enough for her ribs to ache. (She hadn’t said a word, not when she could feel the tremor in his body, how he pressed downwards to hear her heartbeat. How the tenseness in his shoulders slumped once he could feel her breathes and he held on tight, as if death itself would have to fight him first.)

When her vitals had stabilized, and Claudette had kept her bed bound for several days after to ensure so- Meg finally received the all clear. The water had left no lasting injuries (none physical anyway), and she’d returned to work easily. 

But her schedule was wrecked. 

Meg’s body still rose on its own before the break of dawn. She’d tried to counter it with everything: morning swims in the pool before her lessons started, stroke after stroke after stroke until she’d lost track of her laps, until her arms threatened to fall off. 

She’d filled the bathtub, settling slowly into the cooling water to just.. sit. And stared blankly. 

But that had done nothing. And weeks later, nearly two months after the incident, she’d found sand clinging to her feet again, the wrongness in her bones shifting slightly. 

Of course, Meg was no idiot. 

She found herself a new spot, closer to an oceanside town. An extra 30 minute drive but it’d rewarded her with dog walkers greeting her as they passed. With joggers giving her a passing glance and an occasional swimmer or surfer bobbing in the water. 

Her surfboard was left abandoned, collecting dust in her garage as Meg learned how to step into the shallows without scrambling backwards. Without a tightness in her chest and a burning in her lungs.

Exposure therapy, Caludette would say, if she knew what she was doing. Learning how to live again, how to swim when it had been as natural as breathing before, Meg would call it. 

Every shift of sand against her feet sent her heart racing, she eyed floating seaweed with a wide berth, and if anything so much as brushed against her, she’d be out of the water like a rocket. 

Swimming had felt freeing before, like soaring. Now, it seemed to only make her chest tighten in panic, to chain her feet to the ground. 

A/N: I have many thoughts about Meg

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Currently swamped with coursework. I’ll make it up with a dual update next week <3