#act iii.

[facepeeled]

@eladead | plotted starter.

SLASHERS ARE SUDDENLY EN VOGUE AGAIN, CRICKET'S NOTICED. the vast majority of the screenplays her agent pushes on her involve her playing a dead teenager (or would be dead teenager) getting chased around by a MANIAC with some kind of melee weapon. hacksaws, axes, machetes. one featured a katana. but she only takes the jobs with the biggest number of ZEROS attached at the end.

which is how she ended up here, on set with the vampire lestat. (she wouldn't have taken the job had she known she'd be upstaged by this guy, but as they started working together she found she actually kinda enjoyed his company.) cricket's heading back to her trailer for her lunch break, pulling off the dowdy brown wig they forced on her-- to cover her dyed blonde curls and really un-sex her. to make her a convincing, VIRGINAL FINAL GIRL. she hates seeing herself in that wig. it takes her back to the old days. the cricket farrow days. unglamorous, white trash, impoverished. she's living her second act now, and she doesn't like being reminded of the first.

she's so concerned with the wig she's wringing in her bony hands that she flat out TRIPS over what's laying on the backlot outside the stage door. it's only when she pushes herself up from the pavement and realizes her hands are STICKY and CHERRY RED that she realizes what the speed bump actually is.

A DEAD BODY. the bloody, pale, eviscerated corpse of-- wait, that's the guy playing the stoner archetype. one of the actors, dead on set. staring up at her with dilated pupils and a slack jaw. cricket doesn't know what to do, but her feet seem to. they carry her all the way to lestat's trailer and bang on the door.

"you've gotta come out and see this," she calls, frantic. she's not stupid enough to accuse him (hell, there's way too much blood left at the scene for a vampire to be responsible) but she doesn't know who else could've done this. it sure wasn't HER. she doesn't shit where she eats. "some psycho left us a present out here."

[imwonkaesuriahhh]

[dennace]

@bugdown​​​, season 14.

         ‘ what is that? ’

dennis makes the climb to his boiling point a little differently these days: instead of meeting each checkpoint with increasingly high-pitched expressions of displeasure, he corks it until he’s all the way there, until it’s physical, until his teeth and his throat ache with the effort of keeping quiet. all at once, he’s unpinned—his gestures are too big for his misery. he’s a deflating inflatable car lot guy.

         ‘ you’ve been giving me that look since i sat down. what is it, is there a problem? ’

[ygconfessions]

I know it’s totally not necessary for GD’s solo but please everyone support GD solo comeback, it must be super hard to stay on stage and smile for us in times like this, even though Top is better. So let’s support him, because the lyrics of his album clearly show Top isn’t the only one who struggles and suffers from an aching heart. VIP’s love you!

[facepeeled]

@clownfile | continued from here

his own unsteadiness doesn't do much to ease the knot in her stomach. yeah, there's no way they're making it out of the rink without a broken bone each. a busted up face. missing teeth. "come on, houst, you're the big strong man here. gotta help me stay on my feet if i lose my balance," she reminds him. she may not be paying him for this particular outing, but she still expects him to protect her. that's what she keeps him around for, right?

she considers his question. "i have, actually," she says, a small smile playing on her lips. roller-skating: that was a fond memory, back when she was a child with skinned knees. she had beat up a more well-off neighbor girl for her bright pink skates that were just cricket's size. she'd been a natural at that. maybe it would translate. "you think it'll help?"

[facepeeled]

@predatorymaniac | plotted starter.

cricket had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. she'd stumbled, piss drunk and semi conscious, down the alleyway outside the dive bar she'd been frequenting, only to discover a grisly sight. a large man, easily six foot five and extremely muscular, standing over the mutilated dead body of a much smaller man. she quickly hid behind a dumpster, peering out to get a look at the guy.

murder didn't scare her, she'd done it before and she'd do it again. (in fact, seeing this act of violence played out made her itch below the skin like crank bugs.) she needed to take a life to satiate this sudden urge. but this man was intimidating to say the least, with his weapon drawn and blood streaking his handsome face. that visage burned into her memory. it was an impulsive decision, but as he walked away, she followed. she tried to stay far enough behind as to not arouse suspicion.

it was hard to go unnoticed with such a famous face, though. a gaggle of tourists got between her and her target. she lost him somewhere in times square, when a camera flash blinded her and a few drunk men demanded autographs and photos. she strained her neck to see the direction the murderer had gone. but he was nowhere in sight. still, she couldn't help but feel as if he was out there somewhere, watching her.

once she ditched her fans, she barreled forward, trying to catch his scent. but it was no use. the only way she was going to find him would be if he returned to the scene of the crime, or if he was perched like a sniper somewhere above, watching her. "where'd you go..." she mumbled to herself, finding her way into a different alley, piled with trash and reeking of urine. "come out come out wherever you are," her voice was sing-songy and intoxicated. begging someone, anyone, to make a move. she wanted to unsheathe her knife. she was bloodthirsty.

[dennace]

@bugdown, call.

the wobble starts in dennis’ wrists, which is manageable by way of shaking them out and pretending not to have restarted his task more times than he can count. he sighs into the mirror of his en suite, waits until he figures himself steady enough to continue, then lifts his arms only to find that he’s trembling right up to the shoulders.

         ‘ mac. ’ pathetic, he thinks, and clears his throat to make damn sure he sounds strong(er than he feels) when he calls out a second time. ‘ mac? i need you to finish dyeing this for me. ’

[facepeeled]

💋!

CRICKET CRACKS AN EYE OPEN AT THE SOUND OF A BIRD CHIRPING. jesus, how much did she drink last night? enough to knock her out cold, not an easy feat. she rolls over, eyes adjusting to the morning light as it streams in from the slit in her curtains. the sun bright white and dulling zach's electric blue hair to robin's egg. she reaches out and runs long nails through the tousled mop. "mornin' baby," she says, and it feels strange on her tongue. she's not usually so damn loving. something about zach brings it out of her. and there's no going back to friends with him after everything they've been through. everything he KNOWS. surprisingly, she might be okay with that. she leans over and kisses him full on the mouth. her lips chapped from alcohol and her morning breath be damned.