Oh no, this has gone terribly wrong. A knot tightens in his stomach as he watches Anton get angrier and angrier. His heart pounds in his chest as a crippling sense of unease straps him in place. He could only sit with his nerves swirling around his guts and stare at the vein in Anton's neck protruding, jaw becoming tighter, eyes ablaze with a wildlike fire. The tent seems to shrink, only holding the space for Anton's anger as the heavy tension in the air continues to press down on him, making it harder to breathe.
He wants to say something. He wants to bravely stand up and put himself between Anton and Madame Zara. He wants to calmly explain to Anton that he was the one telling Madame Zara what to tell people. That the fear he feels is not because of Madame Zara's scams, but from the flashes of the future that have been plaguing him recently. He had to warn people to stay inside, but it couldn't come from him.
All he manages to do, however, is quietly stand up from his seat and take a step towards Anton so he's stood behind him. When Anton turns to address him, Rainer swallows thickly. For a beat or two, he simply stares. Then, meekly, he repeats himself: "You need to tell people to stay inside."
One of the heavy velvet curtains flanking the entrance of the tent is pinched between two fingers as Gaspar holds it open. "Rainer." A stern and sharp voice, cutting through the thick air that has amassed between the group. Immediately, Rainer grabs his bag and starts putting on his jacket.
"Do we have a problem here?" Gaspar's gaze glides from Rainer, to Zara, to Anton, then back to Rainer, knowing that his younger brother tends to cause problems for himself. "N-no. I'm ready to go," Rainer replies.
Then, his gaze shifts to the older man, partly looking for some clarification and partly to see if he was the cause of Rainer's upset. "Anton?"
The curtain shifted, someone else entering into the already too-crowded space. Anton took a moment to look around the room, false mirrors had been placed to give the illusion that magic was at work here: it wasn't.
When he noticed that familiar voice calling his name, Anton barely glanced at Gaspar, the new tension only adding fuel to the smoldering fire in his gut. He was still focused on Rainer, trying to make sense of his words. "Stay inside? Excuse my French, but what the fuck are you talking about?" Anton's voice was low, gravelly, but not as harsh as it had been towards Madame Zara. No where near, he attempted to soften it further — even if he hadn't exactly been successful.
"Gaspar," Anton said in the way of greeting, his head dipping into a nod — it was the only thing he could muster right now when he was looking at Rainer. He'd truly rather be in Jo's company right now, and that was saying something. "Do you have any idea what your brother's talking about?" confusion tugging brows into a deep V, as he attempted to make sense of the situation. He was so obviously distressed.
And the one thing he didn't need...and then, of course, she opened her mouth.
Madame Zara slowly, with her croaky old woman's voice, said " Maybe I can do a group reading for you all...figure out the tensions."
"...Ma'am, kindly shut the fuck up." turning his gaze back to Rainer. "Alright, Rainer," he said finally, throwing his hands up in the air -- he just wanted to go now. So much for trying to help someone, aye. "I'll bite. What do we do now? Why don't you tell me about it outside with Gaspar? I'm sure the crackpot needs to bleed few more people dry before she can sleep peacefully at night."
In truth, speaking to him this harshly brings her no joy. No catharsis after the valuable time wasted, the years drained from her life in pursuit of something she no longer believes in. He'd taken that with him, too.
Unfortunately Jo finds no other recourse when confronted with his looming presence in this town. Kindness and amicability would only serve to open doors he made damn sure to close when they mattered most. Leaving her claustrophobic and stifled in the hallways of their dead end relationship until she crawled, seemingly half-insane, out of a makeshift window. Rather than open the barriers between them and beg to power through together, Anton twisted the metaphorical lock behind her. It fucking hurt.
At least now she understands that the house was always burning. Love between a hunter and witch, even a non-practicing one, only ever ends in flames.
So she chooses the blade on her tongue with empty eyes to match; regards his memorized face coolly from a distance.
A quiet part of Jo wonders if said branching out is in search of other people. The green in her eyes flashes a little deeper at the thought, much to her personal displeasure. "Is that what you think we are? Friends?" He doesn't have many of those either.
“No,” he said quickly. “I just… I want to make amends. I want to find some way to—” he didn't even have the words he was looking for. Every time he was in her presence since the end, he'd felt like a leper, as much want for him as when his father had been alive and his mother had left.
There seemed to be a common denominator in all of those things: him.
Anton winced at words that had been weaponized into something as sharp as a blade, designing pretty patterns into his skin to leave their mark, as he'd done to her once upon a time. Friends. The word cut through him like a jagged piece of glass, over and over. As much as he didn't want to admit it...Jo was right; he didn’t have many friends. Never had, except for one. Not anymore. Not since he’d allowed the self hatred to swallow everything good in his life, including her. Especially her.
"When did you stop caring, huh?" a humorless laugh, a thinning of his lips. Voice rough and strained, searching for an answer to stop the stirring pain inside of him. "I'm...uh -- " he scratched his head, mind begging not to say it, the lie perched on the edge of his tongue. "I'm actually on date." He knew how desperate he sounded, but he couldn't help it. He lied through his teeth, in hopes that he might get to stab back — just once. But the reality of it all was that he didn't want Jo thinking he'd met someone else. Because he fucking hadn't. It was sad, really, that music was more of a partner to him than he'd ever been for her.The memories of nights together, of dreams shared and futures planned, haunted him. They were all he had left now. Memories, like an old projector, he was scared one day it'd burn, and he'd forget them forever.
He wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, that he could change, that he would do anything to make it right. But deep down, he knew she'd see right through it. Because she knew him so well and always had. He hadn’t changed. Not really. And maybe he never would.
So naïve, so... Mundane... And that voice? That poor thing saw no love; not from above and certainly not from below. If she had any heart in her, perhaps she'd have felt bad for the woman, alas, Vivienne was so much better than that. Besides, Elaine certainly didn't deserve anything, except perhaps a one-way ticket to reality.
She could consider it a gift from Vivienne for that dirty look she threw.
"We go way back?" The witch pouted at Anton, pretending to care for whatever it was he called them. "This is exactly why girls like that think they can steal you away from me." Another pout, before she fisted his shirt in her hand and pulled him closer, brushing her lips gently against his. "You promised me, so I hope you're going to fulfill my every desire."
She very much doubted that, of course. If anything, Anton felt like he was a scaredy-cat at the best of times. Though today seemed to be proving there was yet some potential to see. Vivienne kissed him for just a little bit longer, watching as Elaina disappeared within the crowds and only then did she separate.
Anton still needed some work, for sure.
"If you were a better man, you wouldn't need saving." She said, rolling her eyes. "What are you trying to play here? You say yes only to dread it later? Everyone one knows about Elaine. Stop trying to play a knight in shining armour, Tony." Instead of going towards the Love Tunnel, Viv started to head towards the new rollercoaster. That was more fun for now, and she wanted to keep the Love Boats for the special ones.
She turned to see that Anton was still where she had left him a few seconds ago, so with a grunt she walked back, hooked her finger on the back of his shirt and once again steered him in the correct direction. "You'd like it if you were in love, too. You're such a narbo."
The kiss turned Anton Devlaux into a statue, body freezing, every muscle locking into place except his lips which, through shock, responded even if it was only brief. Momentary. Gone just a second later — staring at her before he had to bite down the laughter that threatened to burst out of him. "Every desire, huh? That's a lot of expectation to put on a single man."
And while many people loved a challenge, not Anton. Nah, he wanted the quiet, he wanted to be left alone.
And just like that, Elaine was gone from sight completely, and he was free.
"A Narbo? Really? That’s the best you’ve got?" He fell into step beside her, hands digging into his pockets, while his long strides matched her shorter ones — even if already had the urge to tell Vivienne to walk faster. "And for the record, it's not about playing a knight in shining armor, as you call it. I mean...It's about... I don't know, not being a complete asshole?" which, noted, he'd never been very good at. It wasn't like he actively tried (not always, at least). "Complete asshole or not, I let her think she had a chance. That’s on me. But...I mean, come on, she's not exactly subtle, is she? I should've run while I had the chance."
He grunted, knowing she was technically right, but unwilling to admit it. The distant sounds of children laughing and adults screaming on the rides filling the space as they got closer. Anton rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. "Right, sorry, uh? Vivienne." looking away from the Love Tunnel with an arch of a bushy brow. This woman was...something else. One minute her lips had been on his, she'd berated him for his choices, and now she was taking him away from hell: he'd have to find a way to thank her.
The rollercoaster loomed ahead, all the more thrilling—or terrifying, depending on one’s perspective. At least it didn't have any fucking pigeons, because funnily enough, that was where he drew the line. Witches? Fine, hated them too, but pigeons? Mortal, or immortal fucking enemy.
Anton couldn’t deny the infectious nature of her enthusiasm, even if rollercoasters weren’t exactly his thing. “You know,” leaning against the metal railing, “if you’re trying to scare me to death, there are easier ways.” A hint of humor lacing that otherwise monotonous voice. One thing he did know was that Vivienne was the kind of woman to keep a man of their toes, and enough fear of losing her that they'd never make a move to give her reason too.
Which meant she was dangerous. Little did he know the actual danger that lay behind beautiful eyes.
The line moved quickly, and soon they were seated in the front car, strapping themselves in with a cord that looked like one pull too much and it might break, the safety bar pressing down on their laps. Enough to have him settle. Taking a slowed minute, Anton glanced at Vivienne. "Ready?"
The Cursed: Self Para.
Flashback: His 21st birthday.
For a moment, it quietened, eerily so. Something in the air was different.
Some liked to say this day was akin to hallows eve, the way it was worshipped by their people, the way the ascension rippled through the earth, a living, breathing thing. Made before the others had ever terrorised the earth. Embedded into the soil, into the rock, infecting the earth with its power. It waited, and brewed. The witches rose, from dirt and ash and elements. Fire, water, wind, earth and spirit: they were to wield and ascend — to become their most powerful self.
But what happens when that power becomes too much?
Rushing, racing and consuming. When it entered their veins, that power, into their very being it was as if their first self was lost. The magic was so strong, it took a hold and squeezed, it tested and tried; if the witch wasn’t the right fit…
They ceased to exist.
As if they’d never been, the magic returned to earth as the soul ascended.
“Are you nervous?” A laughable question, coming from a man that‘d never cared. Why would he now? It was questionable, at best. His power could be used in small amounts, if that. And he hoped his father, Marshall, wasn’t power hungry enough to drain him or make him…
He couldn’t bare that thought, not yet.
“About being powerful? No. Being like her? Yes.”
Anton Devlaux didn’t know what to expect. All he knew was what his dad's hunter friends had told him over the years. Never his father. That was a step too far. Nothing Anton did was ever good enough. Had never been. Even now, on the cusp of achieving what few ever could, he could still hear the derisive comments, feel the sting of disapproval.
"Why can't you just be happy for me? Support me? Isn't that what a father is supposed to do?" Anton asked himself, though he already knew the answer. His father wasn't like other fathers. He was a tyrant, a true manipulator — not in the way that the others were, but a hunter who was brutally unforgiving, a man who saw emotions as weaknesses and emotion as chains to be yanked at his whim.
He couldn’t help the urge to dissect every word that left his mouth now, as Anton grew older he’d become aware, able to analyse the way his father slurred when he spoke, or the smell of alcohol that constantly lingers on his breath.
Water rushing, heavy in his ears, suddenly had brows bunching together. What the fuck. Startled, his face flushing a furious red, gulping thickly as he tried to get a grip of himself, of this reality. He knew of these flashes, he’d heard one may experience this phenomenon just before an untethered ascension: and he could feel his father's eyes on his.
That loathing. The detestment. And while he understood it, had seen it in his kind, and had felt the abandonment at one of their hands — Anton wished he could change it, but he couldn’t, so he’d done everything he could to be just like his dad. Until he saw through him. Human he may have been, but his soul was as rancid as the Satan witches worshipped.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, boy.” Marshall sounded like he’d smoked fifty a day for forty years. The cough that followed told aching bones, a grunt ripping from his lips. He ached from a recent hunt, as much as Anton wished that would have deterred him from looking too much at his son. For once, he craved for the avoidance of his gaze, pretending he no longer existed. However, when he heard a clink of his alcohol bottle, one that Anton hadn’t previously seen, it clicked.
Marshall Devlaux didn’t care, he was just drunk.
The potentially biggest day of Anton’s life, and he was to do it alone. He could feel it creeping in, it was something his father had promised. That when the day came, regardless of their indifference, he’d find a way to see him through it. Those promises had been made so long ago, he now realised that it was a promise he’d no longer keep. Anton was to do this alone, and there was nothing, and no one, who would be there with him when his life changed forever. An abomination in the hunter's eyes, and a traitor amongst witches – he fit nowhere, he never had. Not even in his own home.
The rasp of knuckles on the wooden framework of their home drew both heads in the general direction, a grunt beckoning from between his father’s lips. They didn’t need to look to know who that would be at this time of night, Wesley often found himself at Anton’s home, and while he never questioned it, a part of him knew it was to escape whatever was going on in his own home. There was an unspoken rule between the two lads, that they didn’t discuss home life. Their time together was about freedom, and forgetting the hell holes they both came from. Outcasts, wallflowers, the fucking invisible kids. There were so many nicknames that could describe them, and yet, no one noticed.
While some prayed to spare a few moments in quiet and peace. Those two boys craved to be seen, to be heard. Anton didn’t stay around to hear the grumbles of his father, nor did he bother to check if he’d protested when he walked away. Swinging open the flimsy oak door, his ginger, slightly rounded friend stood there with that cheesy grin he’d had since he was a young lad. Not that they were much older these days, somewhat wise, more all the more immature at the ripe age of twenty-one, or Anton would be at midnight. He knew little of what he’d go through tonight, just that something bigger than himself would consume him and deliver him as whole: a full witch. He thought it a dirty thing, to be riddled with a power he didn’t want. But some small part of him, the young boy who still wished for his mother, hoped that he might be able to do some good with the so-called gift he was about to receive.
Wesley knew about his magic and had three years into their friendship. And not once had he treated him any differently. He was exactly the kind of friend that Anton had needed while being stuck with his father. His own family becoming like his own, he’d never felt a place so filled with love and warmth. Kindness. It was seen as a rarity in the life he’d led, and still, they’d bestowed it upon a boy who had known little manners or social etiquette. They’d treated him like he was one of them.
“You know, every time I see you, you get skinnier.” Wesley said, brow lifting. Most would’ve seen it as rude, such an off-handed comment, but he meant every word he said with love. It was true. Eating had never been his strong suit as a boy, often forgetting. Whenever he was over Wesley's, his parents piled his plate as high as they could mount it: like they were trying to put meat on his bones. Anton had never said it, but it was those times around the dinner table that had meant the most to him. Quiet moments when no one would speak, or loud boisterous laughter that filled every corner of the room. It’d filled him with love, and it was a memory he’d hold on to the rest of his life. He often revisited them, playing them over and over when he felt lonely. When he remembered what he’d come to lose.
Being a witch was something he’d never wanted, forced upon him simply for being alive…but it’d taken the most.
“The old man asleep? Or are we gonna’ go and do this thing.” Wesley prompted, causing a boyish grin to spread across Anton’s youthful features, tugging at the corners of his eyes as they crinkled. Such happiness, and childish wander that hadn’t yet been beaten out of him.
“He’s awake, but…swaying.” mimicking with a choke of laughter, which he quickly bit down when the sound of his father grumbled in the car not too far, Wesley matching it, as he knocked his head in the direction of the dirt path of his home. They lived in a farmhouse, some two miles down the road from Wesley. Between were fields, and woodlands. As boys they’d spent many days exploring, tree climbing and playing make believe with each other.
“Then what are we waiting for,” using his arm to gesture. “Let’s go, Ant.”
It didn’t take them long to close the door behind them, the two in tow with each other as they talked nonsense.
“I heard Elaine has a crush on Timmy Martin.” Wesley said, a loud snort following. Anton cast a weary side eye to his friend at the mention of Elaine, a woman who was notorious for having a new boyfriend every fortnight.
“Wasn’t it Luke Brunt…like a week ago?” Anton questioned, hands buried deep in his pockets. He felt nothing yet, no sign of change within his body or a surging of magic coursing through his veins. He felt the same, normal. And just for a moment, he thought maybe it was blown out of proportion. Maybe he was the exception.
“What can I say, the girls got a hungry appetite.” dropping his voice to a whisper, as if there was anyone else out there. “Did you hear that someone posted a note through her locker that said ‘Elaine the stain’” It didn't take more than a second before Anton’s eyes were bulging out of his sockets.
Laughter quickly followed, the clock ticking closer to midnight every second.
One hour has passed.
Then a second.
And then the final hour.
Stood in a clearing, he began to feel the change. At first, it’d felt like something akin to a whisper. There, but never truly heard or seen. Like he was being called to some invisible force. Only minutes later did he truly feel the weight of what was about to happen to him. Searing hot, like cast iron being shoved deep into his chest, he was brought to his knees. He felt completely untethered.
And just like that it was gone.
Panting, braced, Wesley stood just a couple of feet away, his hand came to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
“...Are you done? Was that it?” Wesley asked, unable to keep the excitement from lacing every word. In his eyes, something that Anton might have even called proud remained. And as he looked at his friend, he thought of how he would’ve never wanted anybody else with him at that moment.
“I think I might –” his words cutting off, choking on smoke.
But he wasn’t done, and the moments that followed would destroy who Anton Devlaux was forever.
That fire from moments ago spread through his fingertips until it embedded itself into his nail beds, coursing through every vein and artery until it seared its mark. The fire element.
Next came the beginning of a cool breeze, air. Cooling where the fire had once been, licking his skin as if there were physical wounds, wrapping and compressing. Until the breeze thickened into gusts, leaves and debris whipped through the air with no sense of direction or coercion.
The ground beneath him, the grass in which his feet stood planted to the ground grew, died and re-grew: as if he was generating the cycle of life itself, twisting and turning, roots forming beneath his feet, wrapping and ripping soil. Destroying, to create something new. Earth, mother nature, she went by many names, began to infect him too.
In this wind, whispers, intelligible voices spoke, multiple, incohesive and growing louder as the wind only intensified. The ghosts of previous witches, his father had one told him when he’d asked as a young boy. The spirits had come to see him, untethered, spiralling, unable to control the power that was free flowing through his blood. Unbond, he was falling, faster and faster – if he hit rock bottom…he’d succumb and explode. Power scattering, and him with it.
Anton took a minute to find Weasley, crouched to the ground with his hands over his head. Fear replaced where pride had been not long ago: and he wondered if this would change it. Would he be terrified of him now? Would he hate him?
And finally came water. At first the ground beneath his feet became sodden, squidgy, quickly forming into something close to quick-sand. No longer able to concentrate on Wesley, he tried to focus on one spot, to root himself in for whatever was coming next. It was the most powerful of them all. Water consumed him whole, turning his very blood to the liquid in his veins, flushing out every other element, as if pathing a way for its future. Rushing towards the finishing line.
It cleansed Anton, until he felt the calmest he had through the whole process. Time had been forgotten, unsure of how long he’d been in this state of being: an ascension to becoming a full-blooded witch. A man, as his mother had once said to him as a young boy. And an abomination as his father had called him in the following years. It ripped through him, once more, like a tidal wave finally crashing back to land, caving in on itself. Anton’s head fell backwards, mouth ajar, as a wholly unnatural sound broke free from between his lips, choking, gurgling, fighting from the bottom of the ocean floor to keep his head above water.
Control it, he heard, like your ancestors did before you.
The ghosts, the spirits, his ancestors.
Anton had spent so long hating his mother for leaving, the idea of his ancestors watching over him had never crossed his mind. And just for a moment, he believed he might survive this. With a final push, like he was kicking up to the surface, Anton pushed through the drowning and pushed it outwards. Away from himself. Anything to get away from the drowning that was attacking his body. The water would not consume him, not today, he chanted.
He pushed, and pushed…until he sucked in a gasp of fresh air, eyes opening to find the storm finally calming. Settling as if the worst of the weather was open, a horizon finally appearing.
He took another breath.
And then another.
His hammering heart began to slow as he looked up to find Wesley staring at him, wide eyed, and stunned. It was like he didn’t dare move, until he noticed the small flowers that had grown and wilted around him stood vibrant and beautiful. Like a welcome gift had been presented.
Anton had survived the ascension, a laugh breaking from between his lips.
And Wesley opened his mouth to respond, until he choked. Once, then twice, hands coming up to claw at his neck.
“Wes…” Anton’s wary voice called out, taking one step, then two.
Water flew out of Wesley’s mouth, like someone who’d drown in a lake and was brought back to life after CPR. But this water came out in bucket waves, over and over. Wes was trying to gasp for a breath. And Anton, aware if he used his powers would age, stood completely still. Unmoving, eyes wide.
Watching as his best friend fought against the very thing that had almost killed him moments ago. Anton knew that when he’d pushed that power off himself, he’d flung it onto Wesley and now…there was no stopping.
Finally a scream broke through as his legs began to work again. Feet pounding into the sodden grass. The water, finally stopping, gave him momentary hope before he began choking again. “Wesley – Wesley,” what was he going to do? Tell him to fucking breath. Oh god, he was drowning, literally before his eyes. “No, no, no, no, no,” Anton began begging. But who would he ask? God? Satan? The mysterious ancestors who’d guided him….
Or had they known?
“Is this part of some sick plan?” Anton screamed, Wesley dropping to his knees with a thud. Still clawing, still fighting. And just like that…the lights went out as he slumped forward, head smacking against the earth as he lay bloated and motionless.
There was no sense in hiding the amusement she now felt, surely her features indicating such. Tapping the pad of her fingertip to his nose, she grinned, smug but without her usual edge of condescension. “Yet you chose to use them only moments ago to describe me. I’ll just chalk it up as being related to the other indications that I make you nervous.” Prudence followed him toward the curtains that separated the tent from the rest of the fair, their thick material shrouding out any source of the lights displayed en masse steps away. “Either that, or you just have some sort of unchecked hostility toward psychics, which I find to be quite obtuse.” It wasn’t as though she was now avoiding his gaze, but she definitely took her time in finely examining the psychic’s tent. One thing was for certain, all these hacks had awful taste in interior decoration, the whole tent looked like a crystal shop stall in the dark corners of a swap meet.
“I certainly don’t buy this crap, but we hadn’t even gotten to the best part yet. Shame you had to go and ruin the fun.” Cocking her head to the side, her gaze flickered up and out between the slice he had created in the curtains. Prudence could have just bid him farewell and sent him on his merry way before settling back in with the psychic, but it wasn’t like she was in desperate need currently. She was always rather gluttonous and never went long without nearly drowning herself both on the inside and out with the blood of her chosen victims, some thought out and others verging on pure recklessness, but always just outside of any level of detection– like a traveling carnie psychic. Pru questioned her own sanity for just a moment before following him.
“You speak as though I was manning that charade. I have seen enough of Salem and the world outside of it for this lifetime and the next. I’m tired of seeing.” Prudence walked in step beside him, the faint glow of neon lights creating a distinct haze over the fairgrounds. “I want to feel.” Trailing her fingers along each of the railings that separate the attraction lines and the walkways, she pursed her lips. “Nothing is exciting. Not anymore. I want to feel something.”
"Intriguing hypothesis -- I, however, prefer to think of it as a healthy skepticism, which, unlike believing in psychics, is actually supported by evidence." such an easy retort, even as a smile threatened to tug at the corner of that otherwise monotone expression he'd worn that evening. He couldn't shake off the creepy crawlies on his skin, just at the proximity to the...fake witch. And still...something was different.
Anton found himself unexpectedly (and he hated that) caught off guard. It was rare for someone to throw him off balance, and here she was, doing just that. Sharp, unapologetic, he was usually so carefully constructed. And yet, he stared. If only for a moment before he diverted his gaze. And a profound 'what the fuck' rang through his mind like a church bell. He wasn’t used to being read so easily, especially by someone who seemed as disinterested in him, as he was everyone else in his life. Who the hell was this? And...
He had no words to describe her, not thoroughly.
Anton, however, was glad to be out of that sweaty, little tent.
“Feel, huh?” a short, humorless laugh followed, settling beside her in a slow walk. “Around here? This place is literally in a place where witches were tortured and burned. The only reminents of that is the hatred of the curses they sang that day, and the uncivility of those who thought death by fire would save them from judgement day." Not that he truly cared, he wished they all had. Then he would've never been born into this miserable exsistence. Where a mother found power more inviting than her son "And...feelings? They’re as manufactured as Madame Zara's bullshit.”
He wondered if she was simply playing a game with him, each of her movement, her word selections had him wondering if this was a facade that she was manning. Her own. "Most people come here to escape reality, not to confront it.” Anton, he internally scolded, but didn't listened, even to his better judgment. “Look,” brows furrowing into a v. “if you’re looking for something real, this carnival isn’t the place. It’s all smoke and mirrors. But if you’re serious about wanting to feel something, maybe you need to start by being honest with yourself.” voice dropping into a whisper, condescendling so. “Why are you really here?”
Carnival season was a bit of a mixed bag. This year featured some new rides that piqued Luciana's interest--The Ghost Train in particular--and the food featured at such attractions also happened to be one of her biggest weaknesses. Unfortunately, years of shutting herself in dwindled her list of friends somewhat, and too afraid to contact anyone to apologize for her absence, the witch simply began to do things by herself.
Unfortunately, the shine of new activities and her favorite junk foods quickly wore off, leaving Luciana on the precipice of too overwhelmed to really enjoy herself. The last straw came when a gaggle of teenage boys in ripped jeans and dirty band t-shirts collided with her, causing her to dump what remained of her funnel cake into a mud puddle. Stuck somewhere between screaming and crying, Luciana stared at her soaked funnel cake as the boys continued on their way, and only as an afterthought did she send a quick, pointed gust of air to trip the little group of them, but they were too far gone to think much of it aside from perhaps uneven footing.
"Fuckers," she murmured as she picked up the now-dirt-covered paper tray and the remnants of her funnel cake, then turned to find the nearest trash can only to smash into someone else and drop the thing all over again.
"Stop MOVING," she snapped, half to herself and half to whomever had the misfortune of standing too close to her.
Anton stood awkwardly to the side, looking ever the bit out of place as he felt. In all honesty, he wasn't quite sure why he kept finding himself in situations where he didn't want to be. Alas, every time, much to his own discersion, found himself in another unwanted conversation. He couldn't win, and it was only by fault of his own. It was like trying to blend into the backdrop of the carnival. Loud noises, or faked enthusiasm for something that really didn't deserve the hype, but here he was, trying to enjoy it for reasons he still didn't quite understand. (to impress her, he thought with an internal mock)
Tonight couldn't get any worse, he thought, until Luciana crashed into him -- and it was reaffirmed, once again, that he should've stayed in that dark basement listening to repeats of old comedy classics. Anything was better than...crushed funnel cake and a pissed off brunette.
Fucking hell, someone, anyone, give him a break. He wished he could've screamed to the skies: what had he done in a previous life, and how'd he fucked up so badly that this life was a constant stream of bullshit. To say he was pissed was etched into his features. He didn't mean to be such an asshole...that was a lie, batting the thought away quickly. It was a great way to deter people.
"Great, just what I needed," he muttered, looking down at the muddy mess that had once been a funnel cake. "I was just thinking this place, and I needed more sugar on the ground." the ground out sound between his mouth wasn't pleasant. He glanced at Luciana, noting her frustration.
"You know, the trash cans are usually stationary. Easier to hit. And they don't....move" His dry tone barely masked a flicker of sympathy. After all, he could relate to feeling out of place.
Who: @thecursed-starters
When: 31st of May, 1989
Where: The Carnival, Game Stalls
"It's not rigged, you're just not in the right mindset."
If there was one thing that Juliet Bishop loved, it was a damn good carnival game. Whether they were of chance, skill, or strength, the category hardly mattered when she could indulge in some truly mindless entertainment for a few hours. Juvenile? Maybe, but there happened to be a little girl she'd promised a giant unicorn to and like hell was the witch going back on her word. Kid tears were the worst kind.
Besides, all of the random sounds and music of the evening meant wearing her headphones a little less and gave her overused walkman a temporary reprieve. Win-win. "Look, watch and learn, okay? They don't call me the Skeeball Queen of the Eastern Seaboard for nothing." Nobody called her that.
"Oh, sure." Anton muttered, hands deep in his pockets as he stood awkwardly beside her.
The carnival was loud, bright, and teeming with people—all things Anton usually went out of his way to avoid. When there was a Carla Bley record waiting to be played back at Silky Smooth. But there he was,, hoping to catch a glimpse of his ex-girlfriend: for what, he wasn't yet sure. It was sad, pathetic even, and yet, it didn't deter him even if he knew it was for his mind. His ego. "You know, I’m sure the carnival staff are trembling in their boots at the thought of your high score. Truly terrifying," he added with a smirk. Sometimes, who he was slipped through because it was impossible to hold that mask always, but he tried damn hard.
"And by the way, if your idea of a good time is trying to win an overpriced stuffed unicorn by throwing balls into holes, well, who am I to judge?" He leaned back, crossing his arms. "It’s not like these games are designed to rob you blind or anything. Definitely not rigged."
He was cynical. Always, it'd been who he was since he'd been left in his father's care. And as much as he tried not to be like him, many parts of him were. Crafted, moulded, and shaped by a man who was now six feet under, and someone he'd spent a good portion of his life hating. There were some parts of his past he'd never escape, and he'd learned to live with that. Or at least, he hoped.
"Please," Rainer begged quietly, desperate for someone, anyone, to believe him for once in his life. "You have to tell them."
Flashes of a full moon, a ravenous uncontrollable beast, frantic cries that chilled the night sky -- it'd plagued him for months without end. It had nothing to do with him. It had nothing to do with Gaspar. So why? He tried everything to make it stop because this wasn't like the other times. The dark, sinking feeling bore roots in his bones and made a home out of him. He felt sick. So, Gaspar allowed them a trip to Salem for the carnival, where Rainer could tell Madame Zelda to tell the people of Salem not to leave their homes in three weeks time. Even if it meant intruding on someone else's palm reading.
She didn't believe him, though. They never did. And why would she? His own brothers didn't take him seriously. But at least he could try.
When Anton suddenly appears in the tent, Rainer keeps his head down. A hand reaches up to cover the side of his face and fingers press against his temple. The Louvats were raised isolated from the rest of the covens in Ipswich, distrusting of everyone besides themselves. They kept their true identities hidden, even to those of the same ilk. But everyone knew of Anton, the witch turned hunter. And, whilst Rainer knew he'd stuck to the rule -- never use magic in Salem -- he grew paranoid if Anton had sensed the use of magic in the air.
Then, he hears Anton addressing him, and he supposes he couldn't avoid the guy forever. "It's--... It's not nonsense," he says timidly, softly clearing his throat as he finally lifts his head up to barely make eye-contact with Anton. Then, back to the human: "Stay inside. Don't leave your house."
If Anton was pissed off before, he was furious now.
That fire, a raging inferno, twisted inside his gut. He was shifting from a man trying to save a customer from utter devastation from the look on his face: a lion defending its pride, locked onto the so-called witch. This was all for show, fake, and it only wound that rope tighter with each passing moment. He didn't know the man, but the fear etched on his face fueled Anton's anger. One step, two steps closer, fists clenched at his sides.
She was ripping him off, and causing distress. He hated witches, but he hated this more.
"What did you say to him?" a low growl filled barely restrained fury. "What do you gain from scaring young men with your lies? Everyone you see, you place false theories in their heads. Get a grip" The faux-purple-wearing-witch flinched but didn't respond. She knew best not too, Anton's glare could've cut through steel. Every muscle in his body tensed, but he held himself in check. Cricking his neck as he turned to the man once more.
"Dude...are you okay? You look like you're about to pass the fuck out" he asked, voice softening. Even as he felt the need to get him out of here, there was something he'd said to the woman that had him thinking, just for a moment, before he shook it from his mind. It wasn't his business what false stories she'd been feeding him, what mattered was getting him away before those lies began to feel real. They had a way of getting into people's heads. Tricks. They read people for a living.
As much as she abhorred children, Daphne knew the Network wanted that golden shot of the perfect nuclear family, right here in Salem. A sign of the times, perhaps. All she knew was that if she had any hope of making the producers see how much better she'd be at reading forecasts and tracking storm systems, she needed the numbers, the can-do attitude, and the legwork. If only it were about actually having good legs and not begging simpletons for an interview she could actually use! Where was Vivienne? She’d nail this.
Locking eyes with a family of four, Daphne put on her winning smile and waltzed over to them. The sound of irregular breathing followed her; she'd taken Ron's puffer earlier. She'd give it back later, but right now it was the only way to ensure he was following without having to twist her neck to check. "Hi there, are you--" she was cut off. The father eyed her camera and then her dress suspiciously, as if it were handcrafted by Lucifer himself. Not this one, sadly. Turning around, she made a cut sign to Ron, but a man's voice caught her attention.
Daphne smirked and shot back, "Well, lucky for me, I specialize in making brick walls crumble. Contempt's just the first crack." She briefly turned back to Ron, shooing him with a simple sentence: "Go take a break." Then she walked over to the man who definitely had her attention. "You wouldn't happen to have a more interesting story for me, would you?" It could be on or off the camera with those luscious eyelashes of his.
She'd been in Salem for little over a month now and despite a few unwanted attention from a couple of audio technicians at work, she'd yet to find a specimen of interest. Where had this man be? Tall, dark, devilishly handsome? She could feel the magic beneath her fingers prickling to ignite. A spark? Perhaps. She was definitely curious to find out.
"Oh, look at that.. I don't have another cross till-- well, let's just say I've got a good hour before I have to try and round up the human equivalent of Garfield. Do you have any suggestions of anything I might've missed? I heard the Slideshow is actually good this year..." She would have nothing to compare it to since she hadn't been at last year's one, but maybe that was a good thing. "Oh and I think I heard someone mention the Fun House.. what does that involve? I'm not going to have to get any kind of fake cob webs out of my hair am I?"
Anton wasn't one to jump to talk to people, although, recently, he'd been finding himself involved in more conversations than he'd otherwise liked. Come to think of it, why the fuck was he here? He could leave, he knew that. And still, he found himself caught off guard by Daphne fucking Brooks. And it pained him to think of his conversation with Jo about his attendance. The absurdity of it. He'd come here in hopes he'd see her, as foolish and weak as that made him.
Daphne's sudden shift in focus towards him had a groan he should've silenced. However, he had little luck when it slipped past his lips, eyes shutting. He wasn't good at this. People, conversation, trying to pretend he wanted to be here when he really didn't. Her energy was unmissable. She was beautiful; the man wasn't blind. But it was...overt, too much for him. A lot of...her. There was no explanation. Still, he fashioned his features as quickly as possible into something akin to constipated (He was trying to smile.)
He could see why she was good at her job, even if her tactics were unconventional — eyes sliding to Ron with a look of 'I'm sorry you have to deal with this, dude' before finding Daphne once more when the man scampered off to god knows where.
He cleared his throat, composing himself, voice low. "Fun House, huh?" Anton's gaze shifted in the general direction of where it was located, neon lights flickering sporadically. "Well, if you like disorientation, it's right up your alley. But no, no cobwebs. Not unless they’ve added new decor since last year." it wasn't like the carnival didn't have the budget for it.
"You've got about an hour, you say? If you want something of substance," he scoffed, "you might check out the historical reenactment over by the old courthouse. They do a terrible job of portraying the witch trials. Now that, that story I'd watch. Puff pieces do nothing for talent." It sounded condescending, because it was. He couldn't help it. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "I'll walk you there if you promise to give your honest opinion when you report it..." It was testing her boundaries as he took one step towards the old courthouse, his brows lifting. What was he doing?!
He didn't want to hang out with her — but she was...hot. And if Jo saw... "Come on," A smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And I promise, no secondhand embarrassment there. Just don't expect any laughs, either."
get to know me meme >> Favorite Male Characters [26/?] Marcos Diaz (The Gifted)
The X-Men chose us for a reason, and it's not 'cause we can kill. If we wanted to kill people, we would have done it a thousand times already, but we didn't. We have to be better than that.
There had always been something about carnivals that drew Prudence in. Whether it was the breathtaking dance of the lights adorning the rides, their fuzzy beams protruding through the thick layer of clouds that lay overhead, blanketing the moon; or if it was the abundance of bodies, mortal souls ripe for the taking. It was practically a buffet for a two hundred year old witch and if there was one thing she was certainly known for, it was her indulgence. Unfortunately for her, she’d only come across families, cherubic faces of children stained with the sticky remnants of cotton candy and caramel apples beaming up at her every which way she turned– it was awful. Prudence had grown up an orphan and it was a sacred rule of hers to never bore the same fate upon another child. Sure, she technically orphaned herself, but what was one to do when their parents are thrusting kitchen knives in their chest? Part of her had always resented them for not bothering to even use the good cutlery.
Prudence twirled a lock of her dark hair around a finger as her chin lay rested in the palm of her other hand, an amused grin splitting her lips. Tarot cards, palm readings, fortune tellings, they were some of her favorite things. In the two centuries that she had roamed this earth she had come across but few that possessed any true gifts, turning tricks to make money to support a nomadic lifestyle. Prudence had even once considered it herself, if only to wear the flashy garb that was accustomed to psychic aesthetic. It was part of what always drew her to their tents and small shops in strip malls, she would typically allow them to woo her. She was nothing if but a talented actress, her features feigning surprise and shock at whatever bullshit he or she churned out, usually basic things that could be picked up by anybody who took the time to pay attention to minute details like body language. It was always entertaining and when the time she’d granted them to play drew to a close and she began counting down the moments until they realized they were cornered, prey to the predator. It’s not like anybody missed the neighborhood carnival psychic, please. She was rather miffed when she sensed the curtain had opened behind her, her head only cocking slightly to eye the man who’d walked in.
From what she could tell, either he seemed rather familiar with the psychic, or he was painfully cocky. When he asked her if she wanted to get out of there, she decided it was painfully cocky. While she was rather disappointed that she wouldn’t be staving off the hunger that lingered in the pool of her gut, a hunger that could hardly compare to that of which mortals and beasts alike felt for sustenance; what Prudence claimed was power and she found that devouring the very souls and being of mortals and beasts alike was a gateway to such power, or so she’d been told. Huffing out a sigh, she shrugged and flicked a few bills down on the table as payment, despite their session being interrupted. “Pray tell, what gave you the impression that I’m normal?” Prudence rose to her feet and grinned, her eyes low, “or good?”
"Normal? Good? Those are usually words people use when they can't handle character." it slipped out before he could stop them, an involunary response, and one that he'd grown to use to doing when he was surrounded by idiots on a daily basis.
Sigh, she wasn't going to be an easy one. Was she a loon, too?
Anton met her gaze, initial irritation melting, instead he came face to face with a woman he'd never met before. In truth, there was no one like her, he'd ever met. Sharp eyes, and elegant features were masked with a cool indffierence he wasn't used too. In fact, it was enough to have him taking a step back when her eyes found his. A depth, a power that flickered in her eyes, not magically (or as far as he was aware), but enough for Anton to know when he was stepping over boundaries that was not his place to be. Yet, that'd never stopped him. His deflection was in the art of sarcasn challenging him. He hated challenges.
Maybe he'd fallen into a comfortability over the years, of being able to pull himself away from the crazy, away from the noise of this place. Jo was right, he hated carnivals, in fact, he hated people -- period. So why was he trying to play the knight saving the girl? Especially when she so obviously didn't want to be saved. For a moment, he forgot he was in some make shift shack with a crackpot dressed in purple, and shitty makeup. Even the smell, his nose scrunched, swiping his gaze around the room before finding her again. Out of place, he thought, that was how she looked.
"You don't seem like the type who buys into this crap." He glanced back at Madame Zara, whose inscrutable gaze had never left them, burning into him like he might set on fire. Good job she wasn't a real witch, because they hated that shit. Himself included. Even if he renounced it, there were some parts of being a witch that stuck to the soul. The fake witch's presence was starting to irrirate, and offend, an uncomfortable reminder of the world he was desperately trying to leave behind.
A world he wanted no part of, and she profited on.
His movements deliberate, yanking the curtain back until the neon lights of outside shone into the tent. "Being good, ah, well, let's just say that's a relative term. And not one I'd typically associate with anyone in this....grotty establishment." using his chin he gestured outside again. "There's far better than this piece of theatre. You're in salem, for christ sake." He gestured towards the outside with a lazy wave of his hand, families curling in and out, childish laugher. Far away from this. "Shall we? I promise, the world outside is far more interesting out there, than stuck inside here."
Was that it? The best he could do? Some feeble attempt at nonchalance, as if her eyes weren't boring holes into the side of his skull from the moment she spotted him. Subtlety was an art and she didn't feel much like Picasso today.
The first instinct that crossed her mind was to bite back on how he had no business using such familiarity after all this time. After what he'd done–– after what she'd sacrificed to be with him. All for naught. As if that weren't a bitter enough truth to swallow, Anton still had the absolute gall to keep hanging around as a reminder. Wounds couldn't properly heal over if someone constantly ripped at the scabs.
Minor detail being that Salem is his home, too.
"What are you doing here?" Josefine didn't spark conversation with others terribly often, but her responses were always straight to the point when approached. Even more so now without the rose tint of their relationship to cloud her judgement. "You hate carnivals and crowds."
Shoot him? Was there a person around here with a gun? Put him out of his fucking misery.
Anton flinched involuntarily at the slap that came from Jo's words. The straightforwardness he'd always admired and love now stung like a scorpion's sting. She'd always known how to use them like a well-honed blade, but to feel it at his throat — she might as well have gutted him where they stood. It was obvious, he thought, about how he felt.
He had nearly forgotten her directness, which had always served as a refreshing contrast to the evasive language he had grown accustomed to from those he had been obligated to be around while his father was alive. Her eyes had once been warm, inviting. Now she regarded him as if he was just another person she'd seen in the street — that they hadn't once laid under the covers at night and spoke about their life. Their future. And while she had every right to be wary, he missed her like a person with their asthma, missed their inhaler after they'd ran a mile.
He’d given her no reason to think otherwise. Not in the time towards the end of their relationship.
“Yeah, well…” trying to muster the right words. "I thought maybe I'd, fuck, y'know... give it another shot, try to branch out a little...." It sounded weak even to his own ears. He mentally kicked himself for the pathetic excuse. He was pathetic, this whole thing...pathetic. "Maybe I was hoping to run into an old friend." — he wished he was in a basement listening to She's Like The Wind.
Who: @thecursed-starters
When: 31st of May, 1989'
Where: The Carnival — General Area (place her anyway).
"OH MY GOD! COME ON, RON!" Daphne groaned inwardly. Ron was the bane of her existence, with the finger dexterity of an arthritic patient. His clumsiness meant the difference between capturing Leslie Dutton on tape, throwing up as she got off the carousel, or missing the shot entirely.
"News Watch sees you, Leslie D.," Daphne muttered to herself. Leslie Dutton may not have been anyone of real importance, but she had made Daphne's life hell last week by pointing out that she had 12 items instead of 8 in the express lane, leading to Daphne being openly shamed by the remainder of the lane and told to join the other's in the cart lines.
With a toss of her hair, she approached Ron and grabbed his polo shirt by the collar. "Look, Ron," she said firmly, her voice laced with urgency, "if you don't hustle like you're trying to get to the front of the queue at a Twilight Zone marathon, you'll regret your small…" She glanced down at his seemingly flat cargo pants, "…existence." With a tap, tap of her fingers against his chest, she returned to her original spot. After fixing her hair back into place, she smiled and waited for Ron to count her in.
"Well, Chris, it's quite a sight, I can tell you that," Daphne began, addressing the camera with a grin. "You might hear those screams coming from behind me? I can assure you this isn't the premiere for Pet Sematary again, but the new roller coaster making its debut this year." She paused before a laugh trickled out in response to Heather's suggestion she put Ron on it. "I would if they made the carts big enough." Another roar of laughter escaped Daphne's lips before she refocused, a new mission at hand. "How about we hear from some of Salem's own locals on how they're enjoying this year's show so far?"
With her microphone held high, Daphne approached a group of carnival-goers, her smile warm and inviting. "Hello! YES, you! You're live with Channel 7's News Watch right now. What has been your highlight from the carnival so far?"
Anton wanted to be anywhere else, but if there was some form of entertainment that wasn't screaming 'cheese' — he was going to take it. That's what he'd hoped for when he spotted a mass of blonde hair, bounding . Give me something good, something of substance. Please be intelligent. Watching from the sidelines. He wasn't one for the limelight, and never would be. He preferred his basement, where everything smelt kinda damp if they spent too long down there. In the darkness, he'd always felt the most comfort. Was that his mother? Alive within him, even if she was pretty much dead to Anton. The flashing lights, overtly loud noises, laughter that seemed to get more boisterous — it grated on his nerves. He kept asking himself why he'd bothered. But he knew why, her name chanting through his mind like a record in the shop that was scratched. He hated people who mistreated their records. To him, they were his babies.
Daphne's energy, even from a distance, had him almost stopping in his tracks. She seemed...a lot and the poor guy, was his name Ron? He seemed like he was close to wetting his pants. That kind of women? Could eat him, and every man around here alive...not literally. That was reserved for the very thing he hunted. Anton, on the other hand, stilled like a statue when he saw her approach a family, raising a tensive brow.
Not the macdonalds...no — his eyes closed. Second hand embarrassment he knew was coming.
one...two...three...
"We don't speak to the news," the man said through gritted teeth, and the cameras were rolling...how she was going to recover, he didn't know, biting down on his bottom lip to stop laughter from bursting out...but even he struggled with self control. Laughter bursting through his lips before he slammed his hand over his mouth with an apologetic glance in Daphne's direction.
Anton glanced at Ron, who seemed to have finally gotten the hang of the camera. The tension in Ron's shoulders easing with every passing second. The success of the broadcast depended on each of them doing their part, even if some needed a firmer push than others. He didn't know a lot about it, just enough to get by.
"No point," He called out to Daphne, "Man's been anti new technology and tv broadcasting since it was introduced — you'd have better luck talking to a brick wall than getting an emotion besides contempt out of him."
WHO: @josefinerichards
WHEN: 31st of May, 2024.
WHERE: The Carnival.
Like spectral will-o'-the-wisps on this cool Salem night, it should've been beautiful to look at, flashing lights and bright things everywhere. It was a child's heaven. For someone like Anton, though, it was like being dragged to hell, where he'd be forced to live in Satan's presence. That thought could've made him hurl on the spot: because his mother had chosen Satan over her family. And not in a figurative sense, either. No. She'd walked right into the fiery pits of hell, and had smiled while doing it. He often wondered why he didn't trust people, couldn't bring himself to want to either — and as his mother's face flashed before his eyes, so did another.
Except hers was real. Jo.
"I absolutely hate this town." A laugh, self-deprecating, a wholly Anton response. "And could they play some decent fucking music?" Yes, he was talking to himself, and as the passerbys' brows furrowed, his cheeks redening, offering a look of apology.
Pulling his coat tighter around himself as a futile attempt to make himself seem smaller, to become invisible amongst the clamouring groups of people who swarmed and dispersed just as quickly. What he'd give to be tucked into the corner of Silky Smooth, a record between his fingers, that faint crackle filling his space. Most unnecessary noise irritated him, but not that. It could never. Music was his food for the soul.
Too many people, too much noise. It reminded him of why he preferred the comfort of his own space. And while He'd known Jo would be here. It hadn't stopped him from coming. Maybe there was some hope there that he'd see her here alone...was that selfish? That he cared who she was with, when the reason Jo had walked was because of him? Maybe that selfish part reared its ugly head, because while he liked to pretend he wasn't a jealous man, when it came to her, he sure as fuck was.
Jo, with her bright eyes and that infectious laugh that would pull him in even when he tried to hold back. The only woman, besides his best friend, that had been able to read him like a damn open book. Anton may have been a witch by birth, a vampire hunter by trade, but he'd never been good enough for her.
And her family knew it.
"Jo." shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he was forcing himself to resist the urge to reach out, to touch her. Not anymore. He didn't have that right. "Fancy seeing you here."
Was this what people wanted these days? To glide along the water, sat close together while watching the twinkling lights pass them. Romance, they called it, which was fine. It made it a whole lot easier to seduce, made it a whole lot easier to get what she wanted (not that it was hard to begin with). Matty, her latest prospect, would have died at the thought of gliding through such a spectacle together with her.
Too bad he suddenly felt sick. Poor baby.
It was then that the music finally reached her ears, The Bangles, a song which had been playing on repeat since its release in February.
Close your eyes
Give me your hand, darling
Do you feel my heart beating?
Do you understand?
Vivienne started to swing her hips to the song, closing her eyes momentarily, allowing herself to be seduced by the song for only a moment. Call it a guilty pleasure, but music always did something to her, now add a man to that mix and...
Hearing a voice answer, her eyes immediately opened, and she turned her head to look at the two creatures by her side. The woman was pretty, not as pretty as her, of course, but she'd seen worse. It was the way she was looking at him that made her compelled to intervene.
"But you promised." Viv let out a small pout as she took a step closer to him, her hand going immediately to his. "You're going to let me ride this alone? What if something happens to me? Sure, it's a love tunnel, but it's a tunnel, nonetheless." It was only then that she looked at the woman, shooting her an apologetic smile, one she didn't mean. "You're so kind to bring him to me. He does tend to get lost. You can go now."
If there was a face he couldn't deny that he was glad to see, it was Vivienne. Dark hair, luscious lips and eyes that — was he fucking staring? The lights from the carnival highlighting features that made the woman next to him pale in comparison. Poor Elaine. To be stood next to this woman was like asking for a death sentence. Her hand, intertwining with his, small and delicate had him raising a brow.
Go along with it, his mind begged. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. Not Satan, not him. Never.
That voice was enough to have Anton sighing with heavy thanks, a wave of relief washing over him like cold water on a hot summer's day, and while the fleeting sensation of escapism flooded his senses, it quickly turned into momentary guilt. "Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling—unless you’re Elaine, in which case, let's keep both eyes open and hands to ourselves."
The second the words left his mouth, the regret etched into his features. He wasn't a mean guy. In fact, he avoided people for that very reason: he never knew when to stop talking, especially with her standing right there...But right now, he was ready to take any escape route offered. Elaine's face fell, her hopeful eyes clouding. Was it hurt? Because if so, she might want to talk to the other three guys prior to him that he'd bore witness to. She had a reputation, poor thing. He almost felt bad until the thought of enduring another minute of her nasal whining became too much.
"Elaine, this is Vivienne. We, uh, go way back. She's right. I did promise her a ride." The lie slipped out so effortlessly, it surprised even him. He wasn't usually so quick to lie, but desperation had a way of sharpening the mind. And he really, really didn't want to be stuck in a love fest with a woman who only wanted him, so she wasn't lonely.
But wasn't that why he'd accepted to come? That loneliness is enough to cripple someone.
Elaine's expression hardened, blue eyes narrowing into angered slits that almost looked...amusing, eyes sliding to Vivienne as he raised a bushy brow in response. Great, he was about to get chewed out.
"I see," taking a slow step backwards, jaw tight as she death glared Viv. "Well, don't let me keep you, then." She practically spat, turning on her heel and stomping off to the group that had turned her down only moments prior.
Finally blowing out a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding.
"Thanks for the save," he muttered, not waiting any longer to see if Elaine the Stain was watching them, or contemplating their murder, his hand closed around hers, yanking her into the love tunnel. "Before you comes back for seconds -- I'm not in the mood to be dealing with...that." knocking his chin in a general direction. "Hope you actually wanted to ride this..." his features scrunching as he took in the decor. "because I sure as fuck didn't." the music changing, as The Pointer Sisters began to play.
Looks like you're lookin' for trouble
And I'd say you found it
You found it
You'll have to come right through
The swans came into view seconds later, as he came to a stop. "Uh, this looks like someone in love threw up on itself and tried to make it look pretty. People actually like this? Truly? WHY."
WHO: @thecursed-starters
WHERE: The Carnival — Seer of Truths.
WHEN: 31st of May, 2024.
Having been born a witch, there were a few things that he'd come to know: one...fortune tellers were just crack pots who liked to wear purple clothes, preaching spirituality while pretending that they could be one s...he didn't want to say it. How could anyone wish to be something so monstrously inhumane? For power they could rarely use. A carnival was meant to be a happy place, but Anton had never been the type. He detested everything about that "gift" that lived inside of him. What most believed from the TV or fiction books was a lie to turn the human's blind eyes from the truth: Because they couldn't handle it. Society was such a fragile thing, always on the cusp of greatness or crumbling down.
The entrance, with its false sense of cryptic symbols, flickering candles and a sign which proclaimed, "Madame Zara - Seer of Truths." With a snort of derision, shaking his head, hands dipped into his pockets with a heavy sigh. He would've usually avoided it all together, but maybe it was the sight of Jo elsewhere or the fact that his eyes kept finding it. Why the fuck not?
However, when he burst through the curtain, he realised his mistake: someone was getting a reading, hands raising in apology as that haggard old voice from the so-called mystic spoke.
“Welcome, Anton,” she said, her voice smooth, which was oddly out of place against the leathery look of skin, folded and creased in ways he'd never seen before.. “I’ve been expecting you.” Madame Zara beckoned, her finger bony and thin.
She could fuck right off, and shove that bony finger up her ass.
Anton’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt that,” and still her words unsettled him. Distrust immediately setting in like the ugly doubt that had been with him since he found his gifts, or...exploded with them. "Sorry for disturbing," he said to the other seated person as he turned to look at Madame Zara. "They seem like good, normal people —don't feed them this fuckin' nonsense."
When: 1st June, 1989
Where: Carnival, The Love Tunnel
Who: open
With her head tilted back, Vivienne stood in the middle of the heart-shaped arched, obviously blocking the way for anyone who wanted to pass it, and focused her eyes on the flickering sign. It was pretty, yet the giggling couples who made their way through surely slipped some poison into their cups. It was their giggles that rang in her ear.
"Daph is going to love this." She said, not intending for anyone to hear, but not caring if they did. That, or she was going to make them wish they were all dead. Viv really hoped for the latter, because at least that would add some more colours to the tunnel walls.
Anton would have preferred to be anywhere else in the world rather than stuck in a swan boat with a woman he had no interest in. Elaine Hopstead might have been stunning—any sane man would think so—but her incessant googly eyes made his skin crawl, like bugs had embedded themselves into his skin and riggled...furiously. It wasn't her looks that repulsed him, no he wasn't blind: blonde hair, blue eyed...anything that was different from Jo. Eyes instantly closing as he internally berated himself for thinking of her, and being stuck here with...this. Her, that wasn't nice, he thought, brows furrowing. It was her voice, whiny, nasal -- could it be both? Must be, because it grated on him. Teeth gritted as they walked towards the fucking 'Love Tunnel' -- was that a euphamisn? It sure felt like one. Every word made him want to cover his ears and beg for his Walkman. Cry out for it.
"Should've brought a book," he muttered almost inaudabily.
"What was that?" Her shrill, grating voice forced him to fake a smile that didn't reach his eyes, lip twitching as he made himself hold it, even if it was soured. He'd only accepted her invitation because she had asked three other people first, and none had wanted to go. He was begining to understand why. She was fucking handsy. And there was nothing like being someone's last choice. But here they were.
"Nothing, uh, should've brought your ticket..." He regretted it immediately as her smile widened. Being her third choice was bad enough, but being her first was unbearable. So, when another woman nearby started talking, he jumped at the distraction, eager for an escape. Anything to give him a break from Elaine the stain.
"Not sure I want to risk it, either." The words tumbled out before he could stop them, as Elaine took a sharp, gasp of a breath and his eyes closed instantly. Oh fuck.
