Because I’m sick, I really don’t have the brain strength to hammer out a full-length shortfic like I usually do.
BUT as we’ve seen over the last few days, I can DEFINITELY do little prompt-story-things…
SO WHILE I WANNA WRITE MORE STUFF… PLEASE GIVE ME PROMPT SUGGESTIONS FOR LYRA/CURZE SHIT (preferably NOT too NSFW because being sick my brain can’t nsfw)
A small thing I wrote last night while I was exhausted
I don't usually post my writing here so uh surprise
Fierce comes back from her job, though is so low on sanity it begins to bring back memories she wanted to forget, along with those that she never even experienced
Tw for a bit of blood and an implied want for sewerslide
Fierce stood at the foot of her bed, the warm rush of blood trickling down the side of her head was oddly soothing. It was cold inside. The chill air brushed against her bare skin. She had a long, excruciatingly painful day at her job; it made her wonder if it was even worth it to stand here. To breathe. To feel the exhaust of living. Rain crashed against her window, the only illumination being the first quarter moon in the sky.
She didn't know she was crying. It had been so long since the last time she even shed a tear.
Little Fierce had only forgotten to sweep the floor. That thin layer of dust seemed nonexistent to her. It was made known when glass met her shoulder. Amanda’s screaming wracked her eardrums.
A small sting emerged. She had received those cuts years ago. An entity must have opened them back up. Fierce winced, her vision blurry with tears as she slowly - almost regretfully - stumbled out of her room. The florescent bathroom lights stabbed her eyes, and it felt like death had finally made it's way over. She would see the light. See the god that nearly got her sacrificed. Though the shape of the mirror finally took place, and instead of colorful blobs she could see the girl on the reflective surface. Purple seeped through her shirt. Blood. Purple on the side of her face: like face paint. Like a small child had used her as a canvas. It made Fierce smile weakly, imagining the times where she was innocent.
What innocence?
The innocence of not understanding when something is wrong. ‘its only discipline, stop your crying bullshit,’ Amanda would say, carelessly throwing another glass container over her shoulder. Fierce covered in blood, the white dress she was forced to wear was rather magenta. Was she in the wrong? After all, she hadn't reorganized the gun cabinet like she was told. ‘It is simply being taught a lesson, Harper. You need to learn your place.’
The imagery morphed into the one person Fierce desperately needed right now. He couldn't stand her disorganized living space.
Dee has never said that. Yet she couldn't stop seeing him. He was behind her in that mirror. Holding her gun. The gun she had once protected him with.
‘You’re pathetic, Fierce. Always too quick to trust. I find it sad.’
Something was so terribly wrong about his voice. It was like a mismatched pair of socks. Something so obviously incorrect, yet why bother to fix it? You will never find that missing piece.
“Leave me alone.” Her voice shook, her nails digging into the surface of the sink.
‘I don't think I want to.’
Dee held the gun to her head, yet she didn't flinch. She didn't even look scared. She looked expecting, as if she desired to feel a bullet penetrate her skull.
In the mirror, Dee looked uncanny. His expression was so sinister, yet so devoid of feeling. Mocking. His finger grazed the trigger, but didn't pull. It was a cruel tease. Holding Fierce’s life over a cliff by a loose thread.
“You won't leave until I’m dead, huh?” She laughed, with no intent to please. Her grin was forced. She knew it wasn't him. It couldn't have been. Though maybe it was. She'd have to turn around.
‘You don't want to view me for who I really am. You’re too scared. You know you are.'
The gun pushed against the side of her head. Right where the blood is. His other hand grazed her scar ridden shoulder, making her freeze with disgust.
“I asked you to leave me alone.” Fierce repeated, the tears beginning to well up again. The mirror was distorting, laughter rang through, purple dripped onto the sink, and she wished she was dead. Why let him have the satisfaction. She should take it for herself. Take her life for herself.
Just before she could feel the hope of relief, a loud drum beat echoed down the hallway from her bedroom. It continued, with the guitar. The vocals she knew and loved. The laughter turned into lyrics. Her raging migraine temporarily subsided, for the bass took over. Dee slowly faded into the scene around her, the last sound being a scream that sounded like it was being chopped.
Everything was gone. Her mirror was blank. Only her reflection. No more voices, no more weapons. And the only thing left being the music accompanied with vibrations coming from her phone. Fierce felt where the gun once pressed, the blood lingered. It made her remember what truly happened today. The music stopped, starting back up again just as quickly. Her phone. It finally clicked. Whoever was calling her was desperate.
Fierce slowly exited the bathroom, her blood staining the white carpet just a bit. She'd have to clean that later. Before Amanda sees. That woman wasn't even home yet. Fierce felt sick to her stomach all over again. Shaking, she stepped over the various objects on her floor and with trembling hands reached for her phone. She just barely pressed the receive button before the ringtone could stop again.
“Fierce?”
It was Dee. His real voice. The slight crack from her phone didn't change much. It was no longer that distorted, unsettling version. Though it still hurt inside. The mirror. The gun. The wishes of demise.
“You didn't pick up, are you okay?-”
“You wouldn't pull the trigger, would you?”
Silence. Half a minute of no response. Fierce sniffled, the tears running free for the third time that night. All this crying, all this peril. It reminded her yet again of her younger years. Praying she'd have dinner that night. Praying she'd be able to sleep. Praying to what? Absolutely nothing. It felt as though her god was dead.
“What.. Trigger? Angel, seriously, you’re scaring me. You weren't here all day and I need to know that you’re alrigh-”
He stopped talking the moment he heard her crying. It was quiet, a bit hard to hear over the phone, but it was clear enough. Fierce kept seeing them. The laughter came back. Dee’s now panicked voice over the phone was nothing but a jumbled mess to her ears. They were ringing. Her room was spinning. The migraine returned. All her mind was filled with were the begs for relief. Begging for something she didn't even want.
“Please let me go-” Fierce choked out, her breathing rapid and unsteady. Dee was quiet by now, horrified. Fierce was fighting with nothing. Nothing but her past. Her job didn't even cross her mind anymore. Her open wounds were simply paper cuts, weren't they? It didn't matter. She's a professional. She knows what she's doing. She isn't weak.
Dee had hung up. He was moving on autopilot at this point. Thunder rumbled just a mile away from his house. Loud. Treacherous. One of his biggest fears. But right now, it didn't matter. Nothing did. He had to get to her. He didn't care how he would.
It was freezing. His thin white jacket didn't provide much. He had gone out his window again like usual, scaling the roof and nearly slipping due to the rain. Thunder again, he was drenched. It made him cringe every time he heard it. He wanted to slink away and cry. But he couldn't do that right now. It'd be a betrayal. Dee soon reached Fierce’s home. From the outside, it looked run down. He was used to it. No vehicle in the driveway. That meant she was alone. Dee exhaled through his nose, stepping up the driveway with his phone as a flashlight. It was pitch black.
Locked door. Dee cursed under his breath, nearly crushing his phone in his hand from the sudden frustration. Every little thing was stopping him from helping her. That was until he saw her window. Her room is on the second floor, but he was willing to climb up. The vines tangling around the house served as a makeshift ladder. They had been growing for so long it'd be near impossible to simply rip them off.
Fierce stayed on her floor, her knees tucked to her chest. She tried to block out the pain. She wanted to think of something happy. To feel a sense of joy again. Futile. Her once comforting room filled to the brim with her favorite band was like a massive torture device.
Her window made a creaking noise. She jumped subtly, slowly turning her head, only to see Dee standing there. He had attempted to be as quiet as possible, though he couldn't have been silent. He just stood there. So overwhelmed with feelings that he didn't know which one to act on. Though before he could speak, Fierce backed away and screamed with fear.
“NO! I'M SORRY! PLEASE DON'T KILL ME I'LL CLEAN THE BLOOD STAINS! I WON'T DISSAPOINT YOU I PROMISE!”
Her sudden loudness caught him off guard, and he panicked within seconds. He hadn't even processed what was happening that well.
“WHAT?! What are you talking about?! I wouldn't- what blood?!” He tried to get closer, but she only moved farther. Until she was in the hallway leading into that dreaded bathroom. “Please- I beg you. Not now. I'm not ready to. I'm not ready to die- I can't do it.” Her voice was completely broken, that one shout burning her throat already. All she visualized was him holding the gun. Him aiming at her. It wasn't even him anymore. It was a mix between Amanda and whatever her mind saw fit.
Dee saw the crazed look in her eyes. It reminded him of himself. The way he stared in fear at his father while being berated and mentally tortured. Glam standing over him was horrifying. Dee then realized he was doing the same thing. He was standing over her. “I won't hurt you.” He'd repeat those words as many times as he had to. Dee slowly lowered himself to the floor, avoiding looking her directly in the eyes. She had slowly gone silent, still tense with fear but rather observing. She looked exactly like those patients in the backrooms.
Low sanity.
Lack of almond water.
Her bag caught Dee’s peripheral vision, and it made him think again. She always told him about how almond water quite literally saves lives in that hellhole. As carefully as possible - as to not startle her again - he reached for her bag, still avoiding eye contact.
All Fierce did was watch. He kept morphing into other obscene creations done by her own brain, but she didn't make a sound. There was nothing she could do about it. She'd have to accept her fate at some point. If there even was one. Dee was beginning to feel hopeless. If there was nothing of use in this bag, he wouldn't have a way to comfort her. At all. He wouldn't be able to go back home knowing he can't save her. Knowing she'd be suffering the rest of the night.
But then, as if by miracle, the familiar face on the bottle struck him. There it was. There was around half of the drink left, which should be enough for her. Dee took it out, slowly moving the bag out of his way. How would he give this to her? She was already completely wrecked in the brain, but he'd have to try.
“I'll leave this here. I won't touch you. Please take it.” He spoke firmly, carefully setting the bottle down and backing away. She wouldn't move.
Tears welled up in his own eyes, he couldn't bear to see her expression. It killed him inside. “I'll turn around. I won't look at you. You’re safe. You won't be hurt.” He kept saying those words, turning around and staring at the wall, his hands raised to show there was no weaponry. He had set his phone down to make sure he was unarmed.
Fierce hesitantly moved forward. Very slowly, as if she were being dragged through quicksand. Dee didn't move a muscle. He held his breath, his eyes shut tightly. She knew she had to take it, she had enough of a mind left to tell her almond water was safety. Almond water was relief. The bottle was in her hands, the print itself beginning to warp her feelings.
She slowly drank from it. Bitter. Absolutely disgusting flavor. But the relieving factor was present. The bad taste in her mouth began to distract. Her wishes to be ended slowly faded into nothing, and it felt that for once she could think clearly. Amanda was a mere thought, and Dee was clearly in view. The bottle - entirely empty now - was dropped to the floor, and Fierce coughed a bit. There were no more strange images, the world was at peace. It was simply dark. She could view all her posters quite clearly now, and she slowly stood up.
“Dee..? Why are you here so late..?” It had a weird effect on her. She didn't remember anything. She only thought of the bathroom. The gun was a very hazy additive. Upon hearing her like normal, Dee whipped around and almost fell to the floor himself.
“You’re.. You’re okay..” He was breathless, as he had really been holding it for that long. “Well.. Yes..? Of course I am, I-” the memories flooded back in. They weren't controlling her anymore, but they were certainly present. She couldn't even wrap her mind around it.
Her head was throbbing again, and by now the small wound was closed by her own body. There was just dried blood on the side of her face. The cuts on her shoulder had done the same, leaving nothing but a purple stain in her shirt.
She felt arms around her. She was a bit too dazed to notice that Dee had walked closer, let alone that he hugged her. Until just now. He felt terrified. The fear that she'd never be the same haunted him.
“I've never seen you so petrified, I couldn't take it. I'm sorry.”
Fierce didn't reply. She only hugged him back, resting her chin on his shoulder. She was absolutely exhausted. Exhausted from the pain of apprehension. Only a few words remained in her consciousness.
Clean the blood stains.
ENDING YEAHHH
Its a bit abrupt and I like it that way
For anyone who might not have been sure what was going on with Fierce's memories, Amanda heavily neglected her as a child, only interacting with her to punish, really. If even the smallest thing was left unclean, Fierce would be hit. Or worse. It was marked as "discipline" and she'd be manipulated into thinking she's in the wrong. As for Dee's appearance, it's a subconscious fear that he too would be disgusted with her not being "clean". No, Fierce doesn't actually want to take her life. It's a side effect of being low on sanity, or without almond water. "The only relief is death," to be exact. It could happen to anyone. And since Fierce does quite well in her field, she's never actually experienced this before. Hence why it's so intense.
yknow since baz went back to finish watford after the mage was killed and simon dropped out, that means he went back to their room at watford
can you imagine how many nights he spent in silence knowing his boyfriend was struggling with nightmares and everything that followed without him? do you think he would crawl under simon's blankets, just to try to get that lingering scent of his smoke before it all went away? do you think he'd look over towards the seat simon would sit at impulsively, expecting to see him? do you think baz missed simon as much as simon missed baz at the beginning of that year?
