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@loyalwclf
Character Questions #016: Make Your Character Choose #002
egoxistic:
mornings or nights? mornings summer or winter? summer dance or running? dance beach or hiking? beach coffee or chocolate? chocolate pink or blue? blue ink or pencil? ink painting or writing? painting bar or restaurant? restaurant cars or bicycles? cars cake or pie? pie cats or dogs? cats trains or buses? trains roses or cacti? roses
i’ve always been prepared to die —— that doesn’t mean i ( want ) to.
angel || the weeknd
ALLISON:
most of them start out as dreams. then, as if a switch was flipped in her head, they turn into nightmares. they shift and change, the monster in the dream always winning. she ends up dead or someone she loves ends up dead. for a brief but fleeting moment – her mother is her mother again. there is no visitation to a grave that only makes her feel more hallow. in the dream, her mother is tangible and is not the person who tried to kill someone innocent. in an instant, her mother is no longer her mother. she is someone ruthless and cold, someone willing to kill her own daughter for sport or to prove a point about allison not being strong enough.
the nightmares are why she barely sleeps. why dark circles have become a frequent experience for her and why she forces herself to stay up for days at a time. she clutches coffee cups as if they’re life rafts and lets the fear of closing her eyes keep her awake. she’s been awake for forty-three hours when she falls asleep this time & maybe that’s why the nightmare is worse. as if her own mind was making up for lost time.
she sleeps with ring daggers under her pillows. there’s a crossbow by her bedside table and inside her bedside table, she has enough weapons to get herself out of the room if someone were to attack her. there’s no weapon in her entire room that can help her fight against her own head. in her nightmares, she’s defenseless. weaponless, terrified of the person coming after her ( her mom, kate ). she hears someone shouting her name & she’ll blame the fact that her fingers instinctively found her dagger on the nightmare.
derek’s voice and the pressure of his hands on her shoulders pulls her out of a nightmare & for a second, she’s grateful. for a second, she feels relieved until she sees the blood on his shirt. she pales, eyes widening before she’s moving away from him. of course the person she hurts is someone who already doesn’t trust her. someone who more than likely will think that she did it on purpose, even if she looks seconds away from having a panic attack. ❛ i’m so sorry. ❜ she doesn’t have anything else to say. no explanation for why her first instinct is to attack. she swallows the lump in her throat before letting out a breath to keep herself steady.
( a nightmare that lead to her breaking her own code was bad enough. she didn’t need a panic attack too. )
her own words come back to haunt her this time. how am i supposed to help people when i’m like this? her hands are shaking and she feels too vulnerable. more vulnerable than she ever wanted to be around derek. ❛ are you okay? i didn’t i didn’t mean to. ❜ she probably doesn’t need to explain that she was having a nightmare. she’s sure that part was obvious. ❛ don’t tell them. about the nightmares. they don’t need to think i’m crazy. ❜
the pain isn't the worst part, it's the smell of her fear. because he knows it's not the nightmare anymore, it's him. she's scared of him and he watches her scramble out of reach with a rising anger born of pain and resentment. it's a feeling he's lost control over, claws and fangs extending, eyes glowing. taking hold of the dagger's handle in a white-knuckled grip, he pulls it free of his stomach in a quick jerk. his other hand coming up to apply pressure and stem the tide of blood. he can see the claws, hear the growl low in his throat, knows somewhere that this is a terrible response, but he'd been trying to help and she stabbed him. it's the small tremble in her voice that pulls him back a few steps from the edge, allowing the reality of the situation time to sink in, to dilute the saturation of hostility. she wasn't attacking him, she wasn't afraid of him, she was afraid of herself. that was a feeling he knew well. his body was already beginning to heal, not as quickly or efficiently as when he was an alpha, but the tissue was mending, the blood clotting. a few steps from the bed and he's rolling his shoulders, the shift back to his human appearance taking just a moment. ignoring her in favor of controlling his emotions, his eyes scan over her room. he'd been in other parts of the argent's apartment, but not in allison's room, and it wasn't what he'd been expecting at all. it looked like the bedroom of a teenage girl, and while he knew there were probably more weapons stashed where he couldn't see them, it still wasn't what he'd thought it would be. he wants to run from the sudden sensation that he's INVADING her privacy, treading on ground he shouldn't, seeing things he had no right to. the distraction of looking around welcomes a guilt into his chest and he busies himself with pulling off the bloody shirt and using it to mop of the mess left against his skin. don't tell them. the plea freezes derek in place. don't tell them about the nightmares. don't tell them I woke up screaming and stabbed you with the knife I keep in bed with me. don't tell them that there's nothing's healing, that death still has a hold on me. he finally meets her eyes, the shadows ringing them makes that guilt in his chest ache.
‘ what if I had been lydia? or stiles? ’ a pounding starts at this temples, all the wrong words trying to pile up in his mouth. she has to know this can't stay a secret, but trying to force her hand was only going to make her push him away too. ‘ you're a liability like this. you want them to come in here one day not knowing? ’
GIRL:
as he steps forward she moves back, three easy steps that beg more for the comfort of space than out of any true FEAR of the man in front of her. she’s faced bigger. meaner. the consummate survivor, she’s come out on top. the knife in her hand glints in the ugly orange glow of the streetlight at the mouth of the wide alley. his tone does nothing to set her at ease, though she senses no lie in the smooth, deep roll of his voice. but his words set her on edge, hairs on the nape of her neck standing on end and skin crawling with apprehension. I WAS SENT TO HELP.
nobody wanted to help her. she’d learned that the hard way. yoren had, in a way, a last favor to her dead dad. but after him? everyone just wanted her for ransom if they wanted to get her to safety. and everyone else wanted to hurt her, to use her, to kill her. HELP he says, and it’s not a lie but it’s not the whole truth either, wariness ratcheting upwards tenfold, body poised to run. she’s quick. knows these streets well. she could lose him easy, she thinks.
knucklebones show white, knife and knuckledusters yet hidden by her sides. her chin tips forward, gray eyes narrowing upwards at the face now drenched in orange light. he’s not from boston. mid-west accent. shadow around his jaw. close cropped hair. worn clothes ; not expensive. worn boots ; good leather. a man that takes care of himself and his belongings, though she can’t say just yet if it’s pride or necessity. if it’s necessity, he’s a man that most likely lives paycheck to paycheck, or close enough. and maybe he’s got pride too. self sufficiency is an important tool of survival, something she knows intimately. but it’s her own survival she’s most concerned with now.
‘ tell me who paid you to find me. ’ the first of many questions, framed as a demand. there are still names on her list, and if it’s the one at the very top, the one she whispers last every night, she’ll just have to do a better job of disappearing until she can cross that name off. ( though the second question sits ready on her tongue with a few others: how the hells did you track down a ghost? ) ‘ do you even know who i am? ’
she doesn't trust him, and for a moment he takes a certain pride in that. she was taught well. taught by someone who knew that there were a handful of people in life you could trust, and half of them could probably be bought. derek knew that from experience, people in his line of work ( or anywhere near it ) made piss-poor friends and even worse partners. trusting anyone with money involved was practically asking for a knife in the back.
the three small steps she took away from him settled her into a twilight between the bath of orange light from the street lamp and the dense grip of the shadows. she looked younger there, more the little girl in the photograph, the one that had made him FORGET that he knew how to do this job. she's balancing his words on the edge of a sword, weighing them out in the sharp confines of her mind, and there's no doubt she's left wanting. his simple statement just isn't good enough. smart girl. the sound of the skull-cracker's boots scuffing the pavement is half a block away at the most when her voice finally joins the noise. the questions settle UNCOMFORTABLY along the edge of his shoulders, his wasn't a business where names were traded lightly. hell, he'd taken jobs ( for the right price ) from men and women who never gave him a name. the whole world was wired together now, like veins snaking below the skin, it was too easy to trace even pseudonyms back to their source. he takes a step to the side, not nearer to her, wouldn't pay to have her bolt, but rather out of the alley's opening. ‘ there are three men about to come around that corner, hired I'm guessing, by someone who doesn't want to help. ’
A stubborn enough person can survive just about anything. Rage is a hell of an anesthetic.
Zaeed Massani (via desaparecidos)
halederek:
So tell me now, where was my fault, in loving you with my whole heart?
melisica:
(by atomic turquoise)
Get the hell up. You have not lost everything while you still have your life.
Beau Taplin, The truth bomb. (via ironarmored)
briarsmythe:
This love is not what you want; This heart will never be yours. This love is be-and-end-all; This love will be your downfall.
actualanders:
i love angry characters
i love characters who are open and vocal about their anger– whether it is directed at a toxic system, person, or at an event or circumstance unique to them
i love angry characters because i am sick of anger being seen as something that is uncouth and something that should be restrained, kept quiet, never acted upon
i love angry characters because i am angry, and anger isn’t always rational, but it is real and deserves to be acknowledged –people and characters should have the right to be loud and angry and for it to not constantly be shown in a negative light
If I told you what I was, would you turn your back to me?
Imagine Dragons, “Monster,” Album: Smoke + Mirrors (via iindiscriminate)
