taurus tattoos&piercings horror obsessed angsty plots and dark themes lover as well as vampires creatures of the night witchcraft semi-lit music smoker uni life twelve years of rp third person discord or tumblr photoshop & moodboards multimuse ` dms and asks open to anyone! `
fandoms pirates of the caribbean x-men lord of the rings stardust blue exorcist twilight dune inkheart narnia buffy the vampire slayer prince of persia maze runner the walking dead resident evil soul eater the vampire chronicles realm of the elderlings supernatural jjk american horror story teen wolf hunger games the vampire diaries fullmetal alchemist blade shadowhunters monster high
music third eye blind blink-182 blur system of a down bring me the horizon the smashing pumpkins lenny kravitz gorillaz the 1975 alexxistar green day lil wayne soundgarden pantera incubus linkin park chief keef alice in chains korn zyrtck flyleaf laura les oasis massimo pericolo my chemical romance arctic monkeys 100 gecs ethel cain ketama nickelback paramore the fray
generalities: class of 2006 , he/him , serial killer , dark brown hair and blue eyes , 6’ 2’’ (188 cm) , rugged americana wear , obsessive and manipulative personality , abusive childhood , violent and aggressive , disaffected outcast
background: has an older brother (liam), incarcerated at the moment for the murder of both their parents , considered to be white trash during high school , insanely obsessed over his high school crush , college student and anarchy-cultist , weaponizes his rage against a society he believes is destined to be devoured by his ancient gods (tezcatlipoca and huitzilopochtli)
likes: mma , extreme sports , impulsive and thrill-driven experiences , horror movies , gore , motors and muscle cars , guns , raw meat , dead animal corpses , ancient mythology , anarchy theory and anti-establishment manifestos
dislikes: being challenged and underestimated , anyone who looks at her , authority , being pitied , being called out by his real name , losing control over already planned situations
strenghts and skills: reading people , fearless , physically imposing and trains to fight , operates well under pressure and adrenaline , knows her better than anyone
flaws and weaknesses: his own rage , abandonment , his brother's shadow , paranoia , the obsession with his gods , her
music taste: pantera , slayer , metallica , nick cave & the bad seeds , hank williams III , ghostmane , insane clown posse , johnny cash , alla xul elu , acid bath , eyehategod , vinnie paz , 16 horsepower , coil
favorite movies: martyrs , hereditary , natural born killers , no country for old men , blood simple , apocalypto , the proposition , texas chainsaw massacre , death race 2000 , rabid , planet terror , death proof , bone tomahawk , two thousand maniacs! , mandy
The radio had been acting up for the last twenty minutes.
That was the thing about mountain passes — the signal didn't care how many times you'd driven this stretch of Route 550, didn't care that you knew every curve and guardrail by heart, didn't care that you were already running late and soaked to the bone just from the sprint between the house door and the truck cab. The signal did what it wanted. And that night, it wanted static.
Morgan Fisher — Mo, to everyone who mattered — drove with both hands on the wheel and one eye on the ancient dial of her truck's radio, a prehistoric thing that predated Bluetooth by at least a decade and had the nerve to crackle right in the middle of Diamonds on the Inside. She tapped it once with two fingers, the way her grandmother had shown her. It crackled louder. She tapped it again, harder this time.
«Come on» she muttered under her breath, leaning forward just slightly, just enough.
The thud was the kind of sound that doesn't have a name, because no one wants to give a name to a sound like that.
It came all at once — a mass, a shape, a body — rolling up over the hood of the truck with a horrible, hollow percussion, clipping the windshield and tumbling across the roof with a sound like a bag of wet sand dropped from a second-floor window. Mo's foot hit the brake before her brain had finished processing anything at all. The tires screamed. The truck fishtailed on the slick asphalt, the back end swinging wide before the whole vehicle shuddered to a stop diagonally across the empty lane, headlights cutting two pale yellow columns into the rain.
Silence.
Except for the static on the radio. Of course the radio worked fine now.
Mo sat completely still, both hands locked on the wheel at ten and two, knuckles white as chalk. Her breath came in short, high stutters that she barely noticed. Her eyes were very wide and very blue and fixed on the road illuminated ahead of her, which was empty, and the darkness beyond the beam of the headlights, which was not.
She was going to throw up.
No. No, she wasn't. She was Morgan Fisher of Ouray, Colorado, and she did not throw up over things. (She was absolutely going to throw up.)
The rain drummed steadily on the cab roof. The wipers swept back and forth. The radio crackled out something that might have been the opening bars of a Zach Bryan song, which felt deeply inappropriate for the moment.
Mo's eyes tracked slowly to the rearview mirror.
There — just at the edge of where the truck's taillights bled red into the dark — was a shape on the road. Crumpled. Still. Human in the way that a heap of laundry is almost human, all wrong angles and collapsed edges.
«Oh God» she breathed. Then, louder, pointlessly, to the inside of her cab: «Oh God».
Her hands let go of the wheel finger by finger, like she had to consciously negotiate the release of each one. She grabbed her raincoat from the passenger seat — the ugly yellow one her grandmother had bought her three Christmases ago — and shouldered open the door into the cold, wet dark.
The rain hit her immediately. It always did. Mo had always liked rainstorms, liked the smell of them, the weight of them, the way they turned the mountains into something primordial and enormous. She did not like them right now.
She moved around the back of the truck on legs that felt borrowed, her boots loud on the wet asphalt, the yellow slicker catching the red glow of the taillights and making her look, vaguely, like a very small, very frightened lighthouse. She pressed one hand flat against the truck's tailgate as she rounded the corner, as if she needed something solid to hold onto.
She could see the shape more clearly now.
A person — young, she thought, though it was hard to tell in the dark and the rain. Pale. Impossibly pale, the kind of pale that made her think of the powdery undersides of leaves, of things that didn't usually see the sun. And their hair — white. Not silver, not platinum, not old-person white. White like fresh snow, white like something wrong.
Mo took a step toward them. Then another. Her heart was doing something medically concerning in her chest.
«Hey!» she said. Her voice came out small and strange, not like her voice at all. She cleared her throat. «I'm so sorry, I didn't — the rain, and the radio, and I —»
She was rambling to an unconscious person. An unconscious person she had hit with her truck. On a mountain highway. In the rain. Where there was no cell service, because of course there wasn't.
She made herself keep moving.
She was maybe ten feet away when the figure moved.
Mo stopped.
They moved again — a slow, grinding motion, like something working out the memory of how limbs were supposed to function. One arm pressed flat against the asphalt. Then the other. The head lifted. White hair fell forward, plastered dark and heavy with rain.
They were getting up.
Mo stood in the rain with her mouth open and her yellow raincoat dripping and her heart doing its best impression of a snare drum.
She had hit this person with her truck. She had watched them go over the hood of her truck. She had heard the sound — that sound, the one without a name — and she had stood here counting the ways she was going to lose her driver's license forever, and this person was getting up.
The figure rose slowly to their feet. They swayed. They didn't fall.
Mo stared.
They turned around.
And in the pale wash of the taillights, Morgan Fisher looked at the whitest, most diaphanous face she had ever seen on a living person, and thought, with the very last of the rational part of her brain that was still operating: they don't look like they're from around here.
The moment stretched between them, thin and strange.
Mo stood in the rain, looking at a boy who had — by every law of physics and common sense — just been hit by a truck, and who was smiling at her like she'd knocked his coffee off a counter. I'm sorry I didn't see you there. The words turned in her head, refusing to settle.
He was sorry. She was the one who had been driving.
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
Up close, he was somehow stranger than he'd seemed at a distance. The white hair was plastered flat across his forehead, and his skin — already pale — had taken on something almost translucent in the headlights' wash, like the underside of something that had never grown in the sun. She found herself cataloguing him the way she'd learned to catalogue things during her volunteer shifts: quietly, without making the subject feel watched. He was young. He was drenched. He was looking around at the road and the mountain walls on either side like he was trying to rebuild a map from nothing.
«Route 550» she said carefully, answering a question he hadn't fully finished asking. «Four miles out of Ouray». She took a step toward him, hands half-raised the way you raised them at a spooked animal. «Are you hurt? You went over my hood».
The headlights of another car crested the bend before he could answer.
Mo turned, raising one hand against the glare. The car slowed. Stopped and the window came down.
Mo blinked.
Of all the people. Of all the nights.
August Craig.
She knew that voice the way you know things filed under high school and left mostly alone — across a robotics workbench, over the low hum of a soldering iron, on the afternoons when the club ran long and everyone was still decompressing over bad vending machine coffee. He was a few years older than her, which at sixteen had felt like a significant gap and now felt like the kind of thing you forgot about until it showed up on a mountain road at eleven at night.
«Auggie» she said. It came out with more relief than she intended.
She recalibrated. Fast.
Because relief was premature. Because her roadkill was watching Auggie's car with an expression she couldn't fully read but which landed somewhere between unease and something more physical, more urgent. Like an animal calculating which way to bolt. She could see it: the almost imperceptible shift in his posture, the way his eyes moved. He was telling her something without using words, the way a person only could when they were desperate enough not to care about being obvious.She looked at him. He looked back at her.
Whatever passed between them in that half-second wasn't language exactly. But she understood it anyway.
She turned back to Auggie and took two steps toward his car — planting herself between him and the boy with the white hair, not quite deliberately, not quite accidentally.
«Everything's fine!» she called, and the cheerfulness in her own voice was so aggressive it almost made her wince. «I just — you know how this stretch gets in the rain. Thought I heard something under the truck». She crossed her arms against the cold, which was also useful for occupying the visual space between the two of them. «You really don't need to stop, Auggie, I'm fine, seriously».
She was talking too fast. She'd always talked too fast when she was lying, which was part of why she'd only done it three times in her life and remembered every single one of them. This was shaping up to be a fourth.
The rain came down between all three of them — steady, indifferent, useful. Mo held Auggie's gaze and smiled with the particular conviction of someone who had grown up in a small town and understood, bone-deep, that there was an art to making people feel reassured enough to leave you alone.
edit: @riottsrph – thank you so much for the tutorial and tips! tried my best; hopefully i'll be able to make it look better in the future xoxo
dividers: @diviniyae
generalities: class of 2007 , she/her , human , cashier , born and raised in ouray colorado , redhead and blue eyed , 5’ 2’’ (157cm) , western wear , bubbly personality , active member of her community
background: only child , raised by her now blind grandmother (jean) who she’s taking care of , graduated in 2025 , working as a full-time cashier by the local fruit and vegetable market , her ultimate ambition is to study forestry and wildlife to become a colorado park ranger , wishes to apply for international research programs or government conservation jobs in norway
likes: rainstorms , volunteer work in her local community , vegetarianism , homemade pies , antiquing , collecting mugs , baseball , road trips , country swing and line dancing , the comforting hum of a diner
dislikes: being lied to , loud noises , jump scare movies , basketball , cats , silver jewelry , sticky fingers , kids
strenghts and skills: loyal , authentic , home-grown and grim adaptability
flaws and weaknesses: self-isolation , fear of abandonment , lack of supernatural knowledge
music taste: thirty seconds to mars , eagle-eye cherry , noah cyrus , zach bryan , colter wall , the lumineers , orville pack , phoebe bridgers , audioslave , counting crows , the killers , chris isaak
favorite movies: bridge to terabithia , black stallion , all dogs go to heaven , the neverending story , we bought a zoo , fried green tomatoes , tangerine , hope floats
