Hey, I just found your Cinders Fan Fic and think it's absolutely amazing!!! I've been sick for the past tree days an while I was stuck in the confinements of my room I binged the hell outta this and freaking LOVED it. You did well capturing everyone and their personalities and loved the idea of Chess. Thank you for getting me out of a shitty time
ahjgsdfhsdafhsadhfjksadhf THANK YOU?!!?!!
I’m so sorry I’m getting to this message so late, but I really appreciate it! And I hope you’re feeling much better.
Honestly, I’m floored that people are still reading this fic nearly 2 years after it was posted. It’s come a long way - like holy hell it’s polished and beautifully brutal and so much better than when it was just a fic - and I’m always left reeling when I revisit the fic version.
I’ve been considering maybe posting a few chapters of the novel version on Ao3 if people are interested... especially if people are still into it. I’ve got another environmental destruction, post-apocalyptic, soft found family seeking comfort in a greenhouse while the world falls around them, narrative idea in the works as it is. So I figure that sharing the completed version of Cinders is the least I can do as I’m moving on to something different.
I got off track... My bad!
What I mean to say is that I LOVE YOU AND THE FACT THAT MY STORY COULD BRING YOU JOY SO LONG AFTER IT WAS CREATED. Thank you so much <3
Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader & Jeremy Dooley x Reader
Universe: Fake AH Crew (Cinders)
Summary: Jeremy’s attempts to secure a gallery setting for an art show sees you roped into being his wife, a wealthy and influential art investor - much to Ryan and your family’s amusement.
WC: 4788
[Master List]
Jeremy shuffles nervously in the doorway, eyes darting uncomfortably between you and Ryan’s lounging figure splayed across the faded grey couch, hair tumbling over the cream and maroon pillows to spill off the edge. Ray perches in the centre of the muted lilac rug covering the rich wooden floors, completely engulfed in Tilly as she pounces back and forth over his chest, swiping at his nose before bouncing away playfully.
Around you the world bustles without a care, large windows opening up like panels into a narrative; each seat offering you a new outlook. The ocean gently lapping at the crisp sand, the ice cream parlour with the jovial owner who’s love of sunshine yellow cardigans knew no bounds. But in your pent house you could stop and watch others tumbling through their stresses, safe and far away.
Jeremy struggles, a trembling hand running clumsily through his freshly dyed hair, finger tips still stained purple. Your lips pull away into a glittering beam, his tensions visibly easing at the sight.
“Of course I'll come to the show, is that even a real question? You’ve worked your ass off, there's no way I'd miss it.”
Ryan hauls himself into sitting, an equally warm and supportive smile curving across his strong features, “we'll all come.”
Ray's attention darts to the conversation, apprehension shifting in the scorching depths of his eyes, hand busy scratching Tilly's ear; “what’re you volunteering me for? Every time you do that I nearly die.”
“That was once time!” he defends, body rocking back while he shoots out a hand offence.
“Three times, actually,” you pat his knee in correction before tapping Ray with your foot; having to sink down in the matching bucket chair to reach.
“Jeremy's got art show tomorrow.” The man’s face relaxes, eyes drifting back to your cat as she tries to curl on his chest.
“Look at pictures and shit? I can do that, I'm a pro.”
“For the amount of time you spend glued to video games,” Ryan muses affectionately, eyes resting on Ray’s pursed lips and raised eyebrows, “I have no doubt.”
The sound of Jeremy clearing his throat anxiously catches your attention, cheeks growing pink as he rocks on the balls of his feet; incredibly out of place and caught between the kitchen and living space. “It’s a, err, it’s a black tie event; and I sorta kinda need a date.”
"Oh c’mon, lil J,” teases Ryan smugly, leaning back with his hands behind his head, “I can't believe it’s taken you this long to ask me out. But I'm sorry to say,” his face falls, holding out his left hand and wiggling his fingers, “the opportunity's 5 years too late. I'm happily married.”
“You bet your ass you are,” you warn, watching him shrink into the pillows with his bottom lip drawn between his teeth. The sight sends your heart fluttering, his devoting smile contagious.
“I'll be your date,” interjects Ray in between Tilly's fur; grinning up at Jeremy as he moves to stand beside another empty seat, bright purple and orange classing rudely in your living room. “I’ll do anything for free food.”
Jeremy lets off an uncomfortable and irritated hum, fingers drumming against the invitations he gripped in white knuckles. Pleadingly he looks to you, your ball of sunshine now a bundle of nerves.
“See here's the thing: I kinda sorta might've told the owner of the space I was married... To our beloved news anchor's female associate... who happens to be a famous art investor?”
“Oh Jeremy,” you groan as your head falls into your hands, Ryan's deep chuckles swamped by the loud cackles emanating from Ray.
“I had to Y/N,” he cries, “it looked good on the application and it's the only reason he's letting me use the space.” With a half hearted sigh you stand, accepting the thick printed invitation and peering down at Jeremy’s most professional scrawl.
“Oh you're kidding,” you mumble into the golden lettering “Beatrice? You fucking called me Beatrice?!”
“Beatrice Von Bisurart,” he squeaks quietly, collapsing into the empty seat and curling his chest to his knees, arms hanging uselessly by his side.
“Buys your art? Jeremy I taught you better than this.”
“I panicked, okay? It was all very stressful,” the man has to increase his volume, tears now rolling down Ryan’s cheeks as he grows pink from laughter, hunching against his knees to hold in his sides. “And it asked for a significant other and I just lost it and I’m sorry; please be my date?”
“‘Von’, Jeremy!” You smack the paper with wide eyes staring at him, as though you could force some sense into the situation, “where the fuck did you get ‘Von’?”
“It sounded cool, like you’re a vampire slayer or something; I don’t know!”
“You wanted people to think you’d married a vampire slaying art investor? Jeremy, how are we supposed to get matching rings for this shit by tomorrow?”
Recovering, Ryan grins, standing with creaking knees to lay a supportive hand on his battle buddy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.”
“You suck, Jeremy. I’m gonna have to find a fucking babysitter now,” you pout at the clashing monstrosity vibrating in the cream chair, small groans falling into his lap. Tossing the invitation onto the glass coffee table in defeat you glance to the sky streaked with paint as the sun sets, chuckling delicately.
“Okay, so Jeremy might suck,” Ryan admits, Jeremy letting out a deep, rattling sigh. “But nothing sucks more than being called Beatrice Von Bisurart.”
“Whatcha think of this one?” Jeremy asks, holding the ring to the flashlight's beam; glow dancing off the particles caught in the air. Ryan looks up from the display he was pilfering, joining Jeremy and staring critically at the piece through the smudged face paint. Eventually he shakes his head.
“Do you really think Von Bisurart would wear anything with less than a cluster fuck of diamonds?”
“Oh crap,” Jeremy groans in agreement, tossing the ring behind him; your fingers pinching it mid flight as you shuffle through the necklaces, “you're so right, Ryan. Von Bon is a classy bitch.”
“I dunno,” you counter, shining the light onto the ring as it shines brighter than the gold dusting your eyes, voice muffled through the bandana, “I think it's kinda nice.”
“My wife deserves more than nice,” Jeremy retaliates indignantly, Ryan nodding vigorously by his side. With a sweeping gesture Jeremy's eyes glaze over, a dreamy smile hanging from his lips, “she deserves the world.”
You're chuckling when returning to scavenge, tentatively stepping over the shattered glass sprinkling the carpet from your entrance, careful of the dangers the dark might house. Careering to the counter you rip out the draw beneath the register to reveal the products too expensive to display for the public; riches glittering in excitement as your eyes rake curiously over the sharp edges and pools of gems.
Rifling through, you're immediately drawn to the thick necklace choked with diamonds, jewels dripping to your collarbone and flush against your neck when you lift the bandana and press it to you skin. With an affectionate chuckle Ryan joins you; fingers brush the nape of your neck to sweep away stray hairs before taking the clasp and latching it, the weight heavy against the hollow of your throat.
“Oh, now that's nice,” he compliments with a hammering heart as you turn to face him; lost in the rainbows fracturing your eyes. “Beautiful.”
“Hey,” snaps Jeremy, his exaggerated frown appearing above your shoulder, “stop fraternizing with my wife, Ryan.”
“She was my wife first, Jeremy.”
“Well, this is awkward,” shuffles the younger man with a quirk of the lips, eyes drifting to the stacks of jewels you'd unearthed. With a start he lunges in to snatch a hefty ring, every inch littered with elaborate diamonds and shifting colours. Ryan's hand moves to your lower back, redirecting attention to Jeremy, the young man’s face excited as you offer him your hand to allow the incredibly loud fake wedding ring to slip neatly above the real.
“And this is perfect!”
In all the time you’d known Jeremy, he’d never been this nervous. His breath rattled with every vibration rocking through his body, hand’s either buried deep in his pockets or smoothing back his hair for the millionth time. You sigh, his anxieties lapping at your skin as you approach the gallery, lights glowing invitingly from the windows.
Though a relatively warm night, the breeze gnawed against your skin and through the tumbling royal purple skirts exploding from your waist, tracing the hems of your chest trapped tightly in a cantaloupe sweetheart neckline, arms encased in flattering sleeves but fingers exposed to the wind. Comfort came from the weighted necklace from last night, nestled in the hollows of your throat and emanating power.
Slipping your hand into his with a sense of familiarity and ease, your fingers give him a gentle and reassuring squeeze, his chestnut eyes frantically glancing between your smiling face and the fear throbbing around the final destination.
“You’ll be okay, J,” you comfort, clicking up the steps in your incredibly tall heels, “you’re an amazing artist. This is gonna be seamless, they’ll be nothing left on the walls.”
“I dunno,” he mumbles in reluctance, an invisible barrier stopping him just before the entrance. You turn to face him, hands moving to his shoulders, resting atop the floral patterns blooming with royal purple variants across his suit jacket.
“Listen to me, just breathe. You’re nervous now, but once we get through those doors you’re Benjamin Von Bisurart. A smooth talking, confident man with a stupid name, who I’m incredibly proud of.”
“You’re right,” he nods, letting you loop his arm intimately around your waist, bodies fitting together like they were fashioned with each other in mind.
“We’re all here to support you,” you continue, straightening his matching cantaloupe bowtie before resting your palm against the curve of his back. He takes a few shaky breaths, his grip tightening as he collects himself.
“Remember,” you murmur, directing him towards the large man at the entrance, his welcoming smile false and pained, “my offer to stab everyone still stands.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” he whispers while removing the invitations and handing them over, the man checking them before moving aside.
“You’re such a party pooper, Von Bisurart.”
“Von, pardon? Oh, oh!” he catches himself, passing the man and entering the bustling space, overwhelmed by the crowd muttering at his art in approval, “you mean me. Right, okay.”
Inside the stiflingly warm room packed with dull shades of grey bodies, all you see are erratic splashes of colour glued to the walls. Sharp tones slashing through cool comforts, grand canvases coated in complex patterns, sculptures etched with dramatic angles. Jeremy had left a part of himself in each piece, the expanse of his emotion lain out for critique.
You could pick out which artwork tied to the different points of his life, the darker, brooding works heavy and loaded with stress, loaded with Laura. Loaded with Gareth. Splayed out across bleach white walls and curving hallways, the pieces flowed like a journey. Bright colours moving with ease and the dark pain staggered, cluttered and overwhelming.
Littered throughout the winding rooms are the family that lived the paintings, each brush stroke cutting as sharp as the knife buried in their heart, faded smoke as cold as the gun with bullets whizzing with a splash of colour. Jack’s voice reaches you first, Jeremy redirecting your gaze to the powerful woman with fire for hair and flames for soul. Towering in her signature heels, her shape is draped in elegance and freckle clusters, grape fabric pooling to the floor in fountains, long shapely legs protruding from the slits.
Beside her stands Geoff, tall and proud, incredibly neat in peach slacks and a brilliant white button down, moustache meticulously twirled to follow the curves of his smile. Beneath the cuffs and collar of his dress shirt poke the stifled narrative, seeping into his fingers and tainting his knuckles. He seems content in holding Jack’s drink while she gestures wildly, scolding voice putting a narrow minded critic back in his place. At her words Jeremy smiles, excusing himself to join them after Jack motions with a gold adorned hand, his fingers burning as they leave your waist.
As he leaves, you catch sight of Lindsay and Michael, smartly dressed in matching black attire, streaks of tangerine orange and rich purple dancing through his tie and her sheer scarf. Chatting to a waiter Michael works his charm and talks exuberantly with his hands, drinks tray being emptied behind the server’s back by Lindsay, expertly balancing brimming flute glasses between her fingers. She nods to Michael, disappearing into the shadows as he redirects the servers attention by yelling ‘hey!’ after an invisible culprit, scampering away to hide with his wife and live his best life; duel wielding champagne glasses.
Gavin wastes no time in emerging from the door to the kitchen, clutching a tray loaded with elaborate canapés. Beneath the shimmering gold of his waistcoat glares an aubergine shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and loose around the collar, legs stretching with incredible length in pastel pumpkin trousers.
Tearing your eyes away from their laughter, you can’t help but notice people avoiding the anger and pain, instead congregating around the expansive paintings splotched with happy pastels in their dull tones. Stood in an abandoned hallway, Jon in a classic sherbet orange suit jacket stares up at the suffocating piece twirling with deep blues and heavy grey tones, colours found so easily in his eyes, a hand fiddling with the delicate lavender of his shirt.
Beside the man with wild hair is a familiar face from a lifetime ago. Clinging to your brother’s hand, a suit of orchid, apricot and sunshine yellow hides the inherent clumsiness of his person. His deep olive skin glows beneath the light, hazel eyes studying the piece before him, a hand musing through his messy brunet curls as he stares in wonder. Jon mirrors the expression, though understanding and empathy flows as an undertone.
“This is incredible,” breathes Ben as you approach, eyes tearing from the piece to greet you, the long forgotten fear sparking for a moment before he settles into an easy, lopsided smile.
“I’m glad you appreciate my husband’s work,” you tease, resting a comfortable hand on his shoulder, casting a glance to Jon, who beams brightly.
“He’s very talented,” he muses, letting go of Ben’s hand and pulling you into a hug, as warm as ever, “I’m so glad it’s all worked out for him.”
“He’s been so nervous,” you admit, attention drifting from the bright eyes of your family to the dark pain of one of your best friends, agony splatter on the canvas. “The gallery owner’s been trying to get in his ass all week, apparently.”
“Oh no,” sympathises Jon, lips flattening in concern, “Mr... err, oh god what’s his name? Ermm...” He snaps his fingers; face scrunching as he turns to look up to Ben for help, the man smiling down with patience and adoration.
“Mr Vermont,” he offers, Jon’s forehead resting against his shoulder with a groan, “we’ve still got to speak to him. He invited you personally, and you promised to interview him for your news segment.”
“Thank you,” your brother breathes in relief, “what would I do without you?”
“Look a lot less attractive,” he teases, pressing a gentle kiss into Jon’s wild hair, gentle chuckles resonating from their shoulders and dancing around your feet.
You’re smiling at Ben, overwhelmingly grateful for the role he’s played in your life and the lives of those you loved; knowing you couldn’t apologise enough for the years lost to anger and confusion. Still, the joy that had returned to Jon could only be attributed to him. His patience, understanding and loving adoration leading him to devote all he had to Jon’s recovery from the trauma of memory loss. You’d never be able to thank him for bringing your brother back from the brink, certain the downward spiral would have dragged him further into self destruction.
“There’d be less ice cream,” you joke, ears pricking at the sound of youthful, girlish giggles; “that’s for sure.”
“You’ve got a point,” Ben agrees, watching your eyes scan the room for the source of the joyful noises, “it’s not as though there’s 20 other ice cream parlours in Los Santos or anything.”
“Heaven forbid!” Jon gasps, eyebrows quirking as Ben laughs, rich and deep.
“Besides, you’re conveniently within walking distance of our apartments.” You chuckle, eyes coming to land on Ray, dressed head to toe in purple bar a bright orange tie, a red haired two year old doused in a starfish orange dress sparkling as bright as her amethyst shoes perched against his hip. As soon as he appeared Ray vanishes behind Trevor and Alfredo, the pair in matching mulberry and pink ginger pinstripe suits, talking animatedly to one another.
“We should probably let you go,” admits Ben, a sweeping motion catching the entire room, “Mrs. Von What’s-your-face must have some networking to do!” Your eyes narrow at the mischievous pop of his dimples, gold glittering in his eyes.
“Careful, Benji,” you warn with a teasing smile, “I made you, and it’ll be easy to break you.”
“Go on,” he challenges as Jon laughs, coaxing away his beaming boyfriend – who can’t help but trip over his own legs, “bring it on!”
“I’ll eat you out of ice cream, don’t you think I won’t!”
A sharp, insistent tugging on your skirts makes you turn, Jon and Ben dematerialising to explore the rest of the gallery. Stood beside you is a bright girl, her eyes achingly familiar, a deep blue ocean meeting the crisp white sand, light fracturing playfully. You smile, crouching to level with her, giggles tumbling from her lips as your face scrunches; taking her hands in yours.
“Georgina, what’re you doing running around without Daddy?”
The girl shrugs, lips sharing the shape of your own as she chews the bottom, “I lost him.”
“I don’t think you did,” you state knowingly, poking her button nose, “I think you ditched him.”
“No!” she exclaims joyfully, attempting to hide the smile splitting her pretty face, eyelashes long and fluttering.
“Georgie, did you abandon Daddy?”
“... Maybe.”
“Oh sweetie,” you chuckle, brushing back the tumbling golden curls cascading over her shoulders and straightening the amethyst dress that had begun to bunch around her waist, “you know Daddy can’t manage on his own.”
“She’s right,” comes a deep and affectionate chuckle, Ryan parting through the crowd to stand behind the girl, who shrieks in delight. “What would I do without my girls?”
“You’d die!” Georgie offers, skipping in place as you straighten up, laughing while greeting Ryan’s churning eyes and adoring expression. Stood with confidence, his grey, slim fitting jacket traces his curves and angles, papaya dress shirt tucking snug into wine slacks. Taking him in, you’re breathless, hair in similar curls to those of your daughter – if not a little darker – perching atop his head in an elegant bun with spiralling locks brushing the nape of his neck and resting against his jaw bone and shoulders.
“It’s nice to meet you,” you murmur, having to shake out of the trace ensnaring you in his eyes, caught in the waves. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a delicate kiss that leaves your skin tingling and excited.
“Henry Lawrence.” He released your hand reluctantly, instead stroking Georgie’s hair. “Mrs. Von Bisurart, this is my eldest, Georgina.”
Your daughter waves, delighting in playing pretend and offering you a tiny hand similar to the way her father had. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss.”
You accept it, fingers curling against her warm palm, “the pleasure’s all mine.”
“Good job, Georgie,” Ryan breathes as he creaks to the ground, hands carefully lifting the small girl into his arms; a joyful smile sparkling in his eyes as she giggles. Brushing her blond hair from her face her blue eyes shine with the same light as her father’s, her dress crinkling as he supports her against his hip; flowers spilling with amethyst making up her skirt. “You’ll get your candy later.”
“Now,” she giggles, Ryan pressing his nose against hers, rocking back and forth.
“Oh no,” he smiles, “a deal’s a deal.” Georgie pouts, eyes moving to you as her eyebrows knit together.
“Mommy-”
“Ah ah aahh, you little sneak,” Ryan cuts off, looking proudly at his daughter’s triumphant expression, her hands out and eagerly awaiting her prize.
“I’m so proud.”
“She got that from you,” he sighs, planting a kiss against her forehead and pressing a noisy packet into her tiny hands, fingers clumsily ripping open the bag.
“I’m not even denying it,” you smile, reaching out a hand as Jeremy joins you, ruffling her blond curls and receiving another beautiful giggle in return, “I’m teaching her to take over the world.”
“Don’t you mean ‘take on’?”
“Oh no,” you deny the correction, smiling at Jeremy and slipping your hand into his own, Ryan beaming and bouncing your daughter; Georgie’s feet kicking with glee, “she’s going to rule the world.”
She beams, chest puffing out and face falling serious as Ryan rests his head against her own. “I’m gonna be a princess.”
“Oh really?” chuckles Jeremy, “and what will her ladyship Princess Georgina do?”
“Rule with an iron fist.”
‘“Ryan, don’t let her think dictatorship is a valuable form of governance!” you cast him a half hearted glare, the young girl cackling evilly along with Jeremy.
“Okay, yeah I taught her that. But she’ll be the cutest little dictator.”
“Mad King and Princess Georgina!” the small girl chants excitedly, Ryan swinging her in his arms and tossing her onto his shoulders; her tiny arms winding around his neck.
“That’s right, sweetie,” he smiles, “but don’t forget about your sister.”
“No,” she shakes her head in small jerks, “Corrie to the dungeons.”
Ryan draws in a dramatic gasp, peering up lovingly into her crystal blue eyes, “don’t imprison your knights! How’s she gonna defend our kingdom if she’s dead?”
“Oh,” Georgie considers this fact hard, face contorting in concentration before she sighs. “She’s no good dead.”
“That’s my girl, you’ve gotta be logical about these things. Let’s go find her and Uncle Ray.”
“Uncle Ray! He can go to the dungeons,” she squeals in delight, Ryan’s chuckling as he holds Georgie steady.
“It’ll probably be the nicest place he’s ever lived.”
“I’m a good princess.”
“The best,” agrees Ryan, the love in his eyes shifting to you and Jeremy, offering out his free hand. You take it, shaking firmly and settling back into the role you still had to pay. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Von Bisurart. Do you mind if I call you Bee?”
“Yes, I do Mr. Lawrence,” you grumble, Jeremy’s laughter warm against the exposed skin of your shoulder. Ryan’s eyes flash mischievously, their corners crinkling in amusement as Georgie’s feet swing playfully either side of his head.
“Bee it is,” Ryan smiles, shaking Jeremy’s hand next.
“Be good to her,” he warns warmly, motioning as you wiggling your fingers at your daughter, blowing her kisses and watching her attempt to catch them; pressing the final one clasped in her fist to Ryan’s forehead. “She’s a keeper.”
“She’s out of my league,” his sighs teasingly, watching as Ryan backs away with Georgie, her small hands grabbing at the air in a wave goodbye.
“Oh yeah she is.”
Then he’s disappearing into the crowd, Georgie’s blond curls towering above the milling guests, laughter accompanying Ryan’s joyful chuckles.
“We couldn’t find a babysitter,” you whisper to Jeremy, lips brushing against his neck as your children skip alongside Ryan and Ray; their laughter pealing through the room and weaving with the canvases.
“Understandable,” he manages, shaking himself as you pull away to beam at him beneath the watchful gaze of the patrons, his fingers gripping the fabric against your hip.
“I didn’t think their Uncle Jear Bear would mind,” you muse, the depths of your eyes shifting in the light, splashes of colour reflecting in thanks. Jeremy shrugs, a comedic smirk curving through his face before he’s interrupted by a gruff, reproachful voice.
“I didn’t realise you’d be inviting children into my Gallery, Mr. Von Bisurart.”
“Why wouldn’t children be welcome?” Your tone is harsh and belittling, anger pooling in your stomach. The man attached to the voice acknowledges your presence with wide eyes, taking in the cruelty deep beneath your vicious beauty. He doesn’t speak for a moment, his sallow face and sunken eyes dragging on as long as the silence until Jeremy wraps an arm more firmly around your waist.
“You must be Mrs. Von Bisurart,” he tried politely, but you brush his words aside; face hard and fierce.
“Why wouldn’t children be welcome?”
“Art galleries are for the prestigious, the meaning is wasted on children. All they do is kick and scream, it ruins the peace. I mean, this child and a man in a hideous purple suit were just playing on the floor!” he explains, caught off guard by your forwardness, casting a glance to Jeremy that told him to keep you in line. The same look Geoff must have experienced before Jack had lost her cool.
“That couldn’t be further from the truth, Mr..?”
“Vermont.”
“I don’t really care,” you spit cooly, enjoying the rejection flitting across his face. “I’ve met many a men like you, and I can tell you from experience, none of you deserve the spotlight you’ve directed to the self constructed pedestal you stand on.”
“Excuse me?” He splutters, Jeremy somehow finding the confidence to stand beside you.
“No one will want to invest in art with such unprofessionalism – which your husband seems talented in.”
Vermont visible flinches from your anger, Cheshire kept comfortably on her reins like she had for years, pacing in the ruts of pattern.
“It’s nothing personal,” Vermont growls, “your art just doesn’t fit the space.”
“It’s a good thing we won’t be coming back,” you snap, eyes like daggers. “You seem to have forgotten, Vermont, that I could ruin your career in the creative space within an instant. All it takes is one bad review from someone influential; and by god am I revered.”
He shakes, blubbering his apology when realising his career rested in your imaginative, art investor hands. An audience attunes to your scolding, gentle murmurs of agreement and fearful respect rippling through the crowd. Geoff’s yells of ‘hear, hear’, not going unappreciated.
“How dare you treat the talent keeping your business running so poorly. Without them, you’re nothing. A single one of his paintings will fetch more than you’re worth outside these walls, and that’s a professional’s perspective. It’s also important for you to know that you’re fucked.”
Beneath your glare he cowers, whispers of price ranges surrounding you, a young man tapping Jeremy on the shoulder to inquire about one of the larger pieces. All at once offers for purchase hurtle towards him, mind unable to juggle all the numbers as an impromptu auction breaks out. Ryan’s moves to stand beside you, arms filled with your daughters, Corrine tugging at your hair while Ray nods vigorously from your left.
Amidst the yelling and desperation to purchase Jeremy’s artwork and his excitement radiating against your back you bring Corrine into your arms, satisfied that the room was distracted while you prop the girl against your hip, hand holding her head against your chest.
At the sight Vermont’s eyes widen, hopes and dreams crashing as he realises the children he’d despised throughout the night were your own. Confusion and fear brims as he tries to understand whose work was really being housed in his gallery; and who he’d be left to deal with once everything was said and done. “Trust me; the Fakes don’t take too kindly to assholes like you.”
“J,” calls Ryan over his shoulder, the man looking to him with glee as your husband jabs a finger to the painting splattered with the colours of Ryan’s eyes, laced with Cheshire’s signature golden shimmer and ash black splotches twirling in the gleaming colourful depths of your own eyes, “we’re taking that one home!”
Yells of protest sound from the crowd, Ryan pressing a kiss to the top of Georgie’s head as Corrine cuddles into you, watching the chaos in bubbly delight.
“Sold,” yells Jeremy, hands in the air to hold back voices clambering over one another to be heard, “to the terrifying man with great hair.”
She’s just as bad ass as you’d expect… which is extremely.
Thank you for joining myself and The Pilot on this week’s episode of ‘Art at Stupid Times: This week on Fuck Me Up Fam’. Tune in next week for god knows what, cus I have no self control.
EDIT:
Very early character design of Charlotte from my novel Cinders, a great base for any progressions I make. Stay tuned for more art of my characters as they evolve.
As I’m working on the novel aspect - which involves a lot of editing/renaming/cutting/smoothing/fixing terrible grammar - I figured I’d give everyone the opportunity to enjoy the journey all over again.
So, starting tomorrow, every second day an original Cinders part will be reblogged!
Note: these won’t be the novel chapters, they’re a secret until publishing!
Relive the pain and adventure of the Fake AH Crew, and feel free to join/start a discussion with an inbox!
A/N: Happy early Halloween! Welcome to the first installment of a 3 part special for the spookiest of holidays, brought to you by the Fakes. Each part is going to be long as dicks, so I apologise in advance (or not?). However, I worked incredibly hard on this to create something original and out of the box for the haunted house concept. I hope you have as much fun reading as I did writing.
Summary: Construction on the haunted house has been in full swing, and all that’s left to do before hair and makeup is the final walk through so that opening night can go as smoothly and spooky as possible. Not knowing what to expect, join Geoff and the rest of the crew on a journey filled with fear, surprises, and feelings (in true Cinders fashion).
WC: 6857
“Alright fuckers, let’s get this shit show on the road.”
Geoff claps his hands, rubbing them together in anticipation as he watches the remaining sets come to fruition. Brushing back your hair with a paint splotched hand you return the pallet with a clatter to the floor, stepping away from the final touches you’d been putting on the welcome sign. The man visibly vibrates in excitement, humming cheerfully as he gathers the pile of security cameras Matt is juggling; ready to scatter them throughout the warehouse you’d been working on for months. “Okay Geoff,” you throw over your shoulder at his prompts, “I’m coming.” Snatching a grubby rag you wipe away the paint smearing your skin, dumping it on the floor and collecting a fresh one to stuff into the waistband of your trackies before joining him by the side door. “Where’s Ray?” his suspicions are warranted, the young man having scampered off at the sound of Geoff’s approaching footsteps. You offer what you hope to be a convincing shrug, his mustache twitching skeptically at your response; “working on his room?”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I dunno, Geoff. That sounds like a you problem.”
You had to admit, you found it incredibly ironic that a man who love Halloween so much was the biggest scaredy cat you’d ever met. Still, it was the one holiday that he took in his stride. Jack had Thanksgiving, Michael and Gavin had fought it out for bonfire night, and you and Ryan had taken on the Christmas cheer. But Halloween was all Geoff, through and through. As soon as October rolled around the penthouse would be littered with plastic spiders and cobwebs, fake bones and surprisingly joyous ghosts left to haunt every corner he could find. Mechanical creatures were hidden away to guard the fridge in the dead of night, shrieking at the slightest movement and making 2am adventures to the fridge a terrifying ordeal. Finding Gavin curled into a whimpering ball with a witch cackling while he rocked in a pile of stolen cookies had been the last straw; Ryan and yourself moving back into your apartment with Ray in tow so you could raid the cupboards in peace.
That didn’t mean you spent much time in the comfortable confines of your own home. On the contrary, you had spent every night of the past week sleeping on a pile of crinkled tarps in the haunted house you’d diligently constructed; covered in paint and holiday excitement. Geoff didn’t need to tell you how thankful he was – though he did at every opportunity – because the sparkle in his eyes was enough. Every overjoyed gasp brought a smile to your lips, his gushes over your handiwork and creations making the late nights on the floor with Ryan worth it. Now’s no different, his face alight as he dances giddy from side to side while opening the door for you. “I want to do one last check of the rooms before this shit goes live,” he declares, satisfied by your nods of confirmation, “most of the guys should be nearly ready for wardrobe and makeup by now.”
You squint into the glaring sun as you emerge outside, light peeking through the clouds and dusting across a world gripped by autumn. Clusters of deep auburns and warm oranges tumble through the street, leaves dancing on the chilly wind without a care. Pride swells in your chest at the sight of the warehouse, completely transformed and near unrecognisable. The production efforts and bruises had ultimately paid off, the decrepit Victorian home being constructed over a matter of months to now loom eerily above; like it had been planted there for generations. The windows screamed down at you, rattling within the rickety boards clawing at the cracks to hold the structure steady. Inside the walls were the gnarled and battered remains of the years of pain you’d forced inside with a paintbrush and hot glue gun. No effort had been spared in creating an absolutely haunting atmosphere for your guests, every meticulously placed lantern ready to flicker and cast distorted shadows across the twisted attraction and jump in anticipation. “Are you ready to head through?” Your question accompanies the delicate raise of an eyebrow, quietly sussing out the level of bravery Geoff had managed to muster in the short walk through the warm pallet of autumn. He shudders, eyeing the building critically, “no. Let’s get on with it.”
And with that you’re pushing open the doors, wood creaking ominously to reveal the dark and dusty foyer doused in a deep, royal purple hue. A grand staircase curves elegantly up to a level that peers curiously down upon those entering the space, maroon carpet frayed and banister mistreated and tarnished. Large ornate picture frames house oil paintings of corpses dressed in their Sunday best, empty eyes peeking around the white sheets draped across the lavish furniture. Exquisite mirrors lay fractured against walls with blossoming brass flowers, distorting the room and twisting with the shimmer of your own reflection. Each step creeks, echoing softly and rattling against those occupying the room, moths fluttering from the homes they’d nested inside of cushions and coverings. A generous glittering chandelier hangs its head in disgrace in the corner, jewels tinkling faintly with the gentle breeze, a memory long since forgotten as it reminisces over the guests it never truly experienced. Strewn across the floor and crunching under foot are bundles of leaves, spinning together before dispersing into the throbbing silence as you move deeper inside. You take in the glorious fireplace, hearth filled with ash and releasing it into the air, sculptures cracked and crumbling beneath the illusion of time.
It’s through the shadows that the space is able to mourn, abandoned and lost without an owner, nothing more than a fine layer of dust as the final touch the room would ever feel. Through the thick gloom a dotting of lights struggle to flicker and fizz, dousing the room in blackness before surging with an unearthly glow, coating the space in an overwhelming heaviness, tainting the air bitter and sharp. You could almost taste the age in the dust swirling through your lungs, concentrated and stodgy. Everything almost vibrates in anticipation; every noise dull and soft as the walls absorb the haunting sounds humming through the space, floor quickly devouring the thuds of your feet, chasing your movements hungrily. You don’t have to see Geoff’s face to recognise the weight settling nervously across his shoulders, shuddering with the wails of the wind clawing through the shattered windows, bringing with it fragments of a story you’d expertly woven.
Still you turn to him, the extravagant doors slamming shut with a subtle shift of breeze fanning from your grace, Geoff jumping with a high pitched gasp to clutch his chest and glaring at the offending structure. “This is incredible, Y/N,” he praises, pressing closer to the wall and reaching out a finger to touch the dark smears splattered throughout the room “it almost looks real.”
“It is real.”
“Gah!” Panicked he bounces frantically, catching the rag you snag from your track pants and toss to him; wiping his fingers with relief. “I don’t do things by halves, Pops,” you point out, opening up your arms and spinning slowly in the space until the lights flicker out once again. With a frown you wander towards Geoff, brows furrowed in confusion and concern. A spark sees the room yet again doused in the amber glow that illuminates your skin, having ghosted to stand before him in the dark. “Geoff – please stop screaming – there’s a problem with the lights.”
“Please stop jumping out at me, that’s not nice.”
“I literally moved, like, 10 steps.”
“In the dark.”
“That makes no difference.”
“It makes all the difference,” he rebuts, hands moving to hold the air and shake it in frustration, “it makes it fucking creepy.”
You roll your eyes with a sigh, letting him win this round as the room is again plunged into darkness; lights failing to flicker as you’d programmed, the frown returning to your face. “See?” You complain into the shadows, Geoff’s breathing quickening until the room is lit again; “it’s suppose to fade every 7 to 15 seconds, go black and then flicker for another 8. We aren’t getting any flickers, just on and off.” Geoff takes notice, face clouding in concern with the creases folding his forehead. He, more than anybody, wanted everything to be perfect for the big reveal to the public - 4 hours away and counting down. “We’ll ask Matt about it when we finish the rooms,” he finally concludes, glancing around the space and rolling up the cuff on his dress shirt, crooked tattooed fingers tugging on fabric and playing with the translucent button. “Speaking of which,” you point a directing finger to the bag slumped at his feet, “don’t forget the cameras.” Geoff nods, waving a handful at you before stashing them in the corner of the entrance, between the banister, and nestled within the fire place. “Nice, we’ll be able to get everything from here. Matt’s coming through later, right?”
“That’s the plan. He’s probably still working in the kitchen. The Buzz saw’s been giving me some trouble.”
“Fucking thing nearly took Jack’s hands off this morning,” you remember, the blades cutting through your memory with a series of sharp whirls and shudders. “Exactly. Would be great for the production value, not so good for ratings.”
You laugh nervously at the thought while ascending the stairs with Geoff, knowing Jack would fully consider being torn to shreds by a buzz saw simply for the content. She was a fearless woman, and it was honestly terrifying. Still, you put her out of your mind as you ghost through the hallway steeped in cobwebs that seemingly stretches on forever, walls and floor curving at unusual angles that throw off your balance. The door at the end is modest, deep purple and reaching just above your elbows with a golden ornate handle. You stare down at it perplexed, the ceiling pressing against the top of your head and carpet scuffing up uneven beneath your feet. “You’ve got to be kidding,” you huff, falling to a crouch and opening the door as Geoff giggles in excitement. “This is so awesome.”
Working through the doorway the room expands, the underside of the bed looming before you. Dark and ominous, a soft scratching emanates from beneath it; claws catching against the rotten wood. You’re immediately on edge when you stand, not wanting to lose sight of the impenetrable darkness seething from beneath the sheets. Still, the bright orange and purple light haunts the space, uneasy as it drapes over the bedroom and burrows into the corners. Geoff follows behind you, jittery wines humming from his lips as he spots the seemingly empty space beneath the bed. He quickly scampers to your side as his eyes dart around the room, taking in the rickety wooden frame and moth-eaten sheets, tendrils of cobwebs twirling from the ceiling and catching in the faint, whispering breeze. The sizable wardrobe door creaks open before bouncing shut with a multitude of sharp taps, furniture cluttered with plumes of feathers and floorboards riddled with tiny bones. More than anything it was the low hum that pressed against your eardrums like a speaker’s feedback, raising the hair on your neck higher than the cold air sneaking past the curtains and nibbling on your fingers.
“This is fucking cool,” you breathe, inching further into the room with Geoff sticking to you like glue. Each step kicks up dust, bones rattling across the floor as you approach, making sure to keep your feet out of reach from the blank space. “I dare you to look under the bed.”
“What?” squeaks Geoff, shuddering and shaking his head frantically; “no, no you do it!”
“C’mon Geoff,” you try to reason, refusing to turn your back on the bed or shuddering wardrobe. “We have to make sure everything’s working for tonight.”
“Oh no,” his holds up a hand that trembles as feverishly as his voice, accusing you of whatever foul betrayal he was constructing in his fearful mind; “I’ll give you a raise.”
“You literally don’t pay me. It’s a first in, fight to the death, type deal.”
“And a paid week off.” You roll your eyes in astonishment, watching him shuffle anxiously as the scratching starts again. You jump slighting at the sound, body running cold and jaw setting tight in defiance. “Geoff, I’m not looking under the bed.”
“I’ll pay for your honeymoon.”
You’re on your knees in an instant, bones fracturing beneath the collision with the scuffed wooden boards. Stealing a deep breath you stretch out a hand, fingers tentatively tugging at sheet’s hem while the room creaks and moans. Your heart hammers in your ears with an uncomfortable ache, a flurry of scratches setting your teeth on edge while your nerves shoot off in a panic. Everything inside you screams for you to run, pulling aside far more difficult than you could have imagined, the strain stinging the backs of your eyes while you apprehensively search for something – anything – lurking in the darkness.
“Oh, hey guys.”
“AHHHH!”
“AHHHH!” Geoff’s shriek has you bolting upright, head smacking painfully against the lower bed frame as you scamper to you feet and whirl on Jeremy; the young man mirroring the elder’s screech. Breathing heavily and glaring with enough ferocity you could start a fire; you watch each of the two men continue to scream, Geoff bouncing in fear and Jeremy looking confused. “Hey, hey!” You yell, trying to calm them down by placing a hand on Geoff’s shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line as he jumps again but eventually settles. “Why the fuck are you screaming?” Jeremy shrugs, cheerful as ever while he glows beneath the throbbing orange and purple lights. “I dunno; we were all doing it. I just wanted to be part of something.” You frown, Geoff’s head falling into his hands as he chuckles nervously through his fingers, Jeremy patting him on the shoulder apologetically with a “sorry pal.”
“You still owe me my honeymoon,” you remind the tattooed man with a playful jab, relieved as he begins to recover and control his shaking. He grows more confident when exploring the room, Jeremy’s presence helping ease the anxiety that’d been building up in his chest and clogging his throat. “Fine, a deal’s a deal,” he huffs, poking a spider sat in one of the many webs, jumping away when he realises it wasn’t a prop, “where were you wanting to go, and how much is it going to hurt?”
“Greece, and a lot.” At your words Jeremy gives you a puzzled look, a mixture of sympathy and confusion shifting in his eyes with the unspoken questions you knew to be bubbling between his lips.
Geoff doesn’t notice, instead turning to the shorter man with hair glowing neon, a proud beam on his face. “You’ve done a great job, Lil J.” He sweeps a hand around the room, Jeremy sharing his grin. “Yeah,” you offer him a one armed hug and a compliment, “this place is fucking creepy.”
“Thanks,” he delights with a cheer, “don’t wanna brag or anything, but the end scare will be freaky as fuck.”
“You gonna tell us what you’re planning?” Geoff’s inquiry is met with a stubborn headshake, a knowing grin creeping across Jeremy’s lips; “nope, you’ll have to wait and see.” You clap Geoff on the back, signalling that it was time to move on if you were still intending to explore the other rooms before the curtains came up, his deep sigh vibrating against your fingers and burrowing into your elbow “can’t blame a man for trying.”
“Hey, when you see Michael can you give him this? Careful, its cold.” He turns to retrieve a burlap sack, its contents clinking as he presses it into your waiting hand, surprisingly heavy. “Sure,” confirms Geoff, tossing a few cameras in his direction from his own rucksack, “as long as you put these up.”
“Deal.”
With that you’re squeezing back out of the tiny door and into the constricting hallway, racing out to avoid letting the confusion keep playing havoc with your stomach. Geoff is close behind, a permanent smile on his face whenever he wasn’t utterly terrified. You had to hand it to him; you envied his bravery and love of a holiday that constantly kept him up at night. Walking together you move back downstairs, waving at Jack as she talks animatedly with a Trevor clad in a dark sweatshirt with a printed skull, his head nodding vigorously while the man beside him in a baseball tee tries his best not to seem lost. Noticing your descent Jack waves you down, a smile as broad as her shoulders adorning her freckled face, eyes sparkling warmly into your embrace. “Y/N, I’m so glad you’re here,” she exclaims, pulling away to muse Geoff’s already chaotic hair, the man blushing deeply; “I wanted to go over some stuff for the tour. I’m in your room so there’s some crap I wanted to make sure you’re cool with me doing.”
“Of course! We can talk about it during hair and makeup,” you reassure, smiling up at the woman towering over 6ft in her reliable heels before turning your attention to Trevor and his friend.
“So, who’s this?” You motion to the man beside the blond, his eyes wide and looking at you in awe. “Oh, this is Alfredo; he’s helping me us tonight. We’ve known each other since I was like, 10.”
“I dunno dude,” says Alfredo, his voice deep and warm “it feels a lot longer than that.”
“It’s because you hate me.”
“Oh that’s right,” he recalls fondly before elbowing Trevor in the side with a cheeky and bright grin, “how could I forget?”
“Ouch, maybe because you’re a gargantuan ass?” He rubs his arm, hopping from side to side before continuing, “I’ve been meaning to introduce you fuck for a while. Sauce, this is the Cheshire.”
You offer out a hand to Alfredo while expecting him to flinch away like the many others, pleasantly surprised as he takes it eagerly and shakes. “It’s really nice to meet you” he gushes before you get the chance, eyes alight with excitement as he lets your hand go and leans towards Trevor, whispering loudly; “is this the girl that nearly killed you that one time?” Trevor angles closer to him, staring you dead in the eyes with a serious expression while replying, “yeah.”
“Cool,” he breathes, ecstatic, “fight me.”
“What?”
“He’s serious,” laughs Jack, watching him fondly, “he’ll fight anything.” You roll your weight, hand making its way you your hip while raising an eyebrow, accepting his challenge. “You really think you could take me?”
“Oh god no,” he shakes his head, still smiling “but think of the story.” You laugh, peels of cheer bouncing around the foyer while lightly punching his shoulder, his hand gripping the site with a grin, “I like you.”
“Did you hear that?” He turns eagerly to Trevor, clutching the tops of his arms and shaking him, incredibly excited, “the Cheshire likes me.”
“Yeah, that’s rare. Normally she threatens every friend I bring home, and the ones I don’t. She just threatens everything in general. And, err... you do know she can hear you fangirling, right?”
“Right,” he drops his hands, facing you again with a forcibly blank expression while Trevor groans in mock embarrassment, “gotta be cool.”
“Oh lord, Fredo just stop. This hurts, this physically hurts me.”
“He’s a great shot,” comments Geoff from your right, looking at Alfredo with fatherly pride and ignoring Trevor’s displeasure, “he was our stand in sniper for the harder jobs after Ray died.”
“God rest his soul,” you chuckle, reaching a hand out to touch Trevor’s and gain his attention; “you wanna tag along?” He nods vigorously, collecting some equipment he’d stashed momentarily on one of the covered plush seats, stuffing the items into a bag. “Hell yes. Please take me away from his idiot. I’ve gotta talk with Ryan about fog machines and fire hazards.”
“He doing that ‘go hard or go home’ thing again?” You joke fondly, mind wandering to the mischievous glint that would always sparkle in his eyes; Trevor affirming your suspicion before you could even finish your sentence. You sigh, smiling affectionately at a man who had quickly become one of your closest friends during the dark period after Gareth, “what would we do without you laying down the fire code?”
“You’d probably have eaten each other by now, if I were to guess,” he teases, quickly bidding Alfredo and Jack goodbye before following Geoff and yourself to the right of the foyer, Geoff’s mustache twitching in amusement; “you’re not wrong.”
“Err, I never am?”
“But what about that time with the marshmallows?” His eyes go wide, face wiped free of emotion. “We don’t talk about that.”
You’re laughing as you push open the next door, sound catching in your throat and falling to the floor once the room comes into view. Before you can react you’re slipping across the tiled surface and landing with a painful bump, mind unable to keep up with the world tumbling around you. Confused you lift your hand to your head, fingers slick with red; liquid seeping into your trackies with a sticky nauseating warmth. Trevor slides to your side, concern furrowing his brows while you take in the pool of blood shining in the lights. “You alright?” He starts leaning down to help you up only to topple over himself, clattering to the floor with the crunch of his elbows. If you weren’t so disgusted by the smell you’d laugh, but instead the putrid stench of rotting flesh churned in your stomach and burned your nose. “I think so,” you reply while trying to stand, unsteady as Trevor follows your lead, the two of you using each other to shuffle to your feet.
“You guys need to watch where you’re going,” chuckles Geoff, inching his way carefully into the room by gripping onto the walls. “This doesn’t exactly seem safe” frowns Trevor, skidding into the centre of the kitchen before looking around. Completely white bar the metal appliances, the walls, ceiling, and floor are splattered with blood and bio matter that viscerally glug between the tile grout. Hunks of meat pile in the corners and scatter along the counter tops, the sound of flies incessant from the speakers and gnawing on the hair rising across your neck. It isn’t the wicked sharp buzz saw that adorns the back counter that catches your attention, half a human carcass slapped against it ready for dividing; nor is it the utensils and instruments mid mutilation of organs, dissections clumsy and rough. Instead it’s the prep station set up on the centre island. The white marble slab drips blood like a gruesome water feature, puddles shifting in the lights that are far too bright, glaring down and blinding. Atop the bench and marinading in the gore is a mixture of human odds and ends. Finger tips and toe nubs tossed carelessly together with peeled vegetables, parsley garishly garnishing a set of plates overflowing with what you can only describe as an unidentifiable mush.
With a lurch bile rises in the back of your throat, a sickly cold seeping across your skin and crawling with it. You try to push past the large pots boiling over on the stove, attempt to ignore spice bottles decorating the counter tops. All your thoughts form a terrified plea, fearful eyes darting to Geoff as he stands uncomfortably in the doorway. “Please tell me this isn’t real.” He doesn’t respond immediately, rather suppressing a gag behind his hand at the sight, an unpleasant noise forming in the back of his throat. “I, err... It’s not real.”
“Now say it like you mean it?” You skid as you round on him, glare losing impact as you slip again to snatch at the fridge handle. The door rips open, guts tumbling to your feet with a wet slap before you’re suddenly shrieking. Back on your hands and knees you’re scampering backwards, bumping into Geoff’s legs and tries to suppress the cowardice shaking through your being. His eyes are wide, taking it all in with a shudder he has no need to hide, “It’s not real from what I know. I don’t indiscriminately murder. But, err; I didn’t pick up the supplies.”
Trevor runs a trembling hand over his white blond hair, clumping it red as he surveys the room with appalled eyes, “who’s is this?”
“This is my station,” admits Geoff sheepishly, mustache twitching under the astonishment dancing with the disgust. Trevor’s wide eyes turn on the tattooed man, bewildered and accusing. “This is a fucking hazard,” he determines, and Geoff pulls a face, an irritated clip forming in the back of his throat, “Jesus, who anointed you the safety police?”
“You did, Geoff.”
“Oh yeah.”
You can barely hear the pair over the pounding in your ears, using all of your strength to force back the images the room was trying to drag up. It had been months since you’d seen such a raw and blatant disarray of violence and torment; having avoided it at all costs after the torture of Garry and brutal murder of Gareth. Cheshire had made life difficult, the first month after the ordeal seeing you revert back to the angry, uncontrollable force of destruction you’d feared; the woman more than capable of killing whoever stood in her way during a fit of rage. You couldn’t risk a relapse, meaning you’d done all that you possibly could to stay out of interrogations and kept to the cleanest methods possible in an attempt to suppress the Cheshire’s twisted enjoyment. Now sitting in a pool of blood surrounded by the trinkets adorning her world you can’t escape the pains of fear as they pang in your chest, mind flooding with memories that left you panicked and tight.
“Okay, so if we could just clean this mess up?” continues Trevor over the anxiety attack you were trying to fight, hearing his words swim between the numbers you were counting down; “people need to be able to run screaming. Not make a pile by the exit.” Geoff offers a defeated sigh as you shift to reciting your 7 times tables, the taste of iron rushing in your mouth as you gnaw the inside of your cheek, “alright, I’ll minimise it. But I didn’t do all of this,” he gestures to the horror show coaxing your unease “you can blame Lindsay.”
“I will blame Lindsay,” you spit with stubborn eyes, refusing to look away from the white patch of ceiling you’d found to focus on, “I’ve soaked up most of the fucking set.”
“Exactly!” Geoff retorts in triumph, Trevor rolling his eyes and looking extremely uncomfortable. “Just do your camera thing and let’s... keep moving. My clothes are starting to stiffen. I’m not gonna be able to walk by the end of this.”
You were thankful that the conversation was coming to an end so that you could leave, your breathing having become shaky and difficult to hide. You’d rather the crew didn’t know of the anxieties you housed towards gore and the key it possessed to the Cheshire’s cage; preferring to keep such private vulnerability to yourself and the small, closely knit group of men constantly by your side. Somehow Ray had already figured out your fear before it occurred, Jeremy quickly catching on after the first instance you entered the interrogation after the Gareth ordeal; the fight to stay in control catching you off guard as the Cheshire reared and refused to back down. As Jeremy clamped your favourite wire strippers around a man’s fingers the room started to spin, mind screaming throughout Cheshire’s cold smiles as they laced with the hours you were captive in your own body. Ryan had witnessed your struggles from behind the glass, sharing the memories that burnt a foul taste in his mouth and left his throat thick; angry yells amidst pacing running ruts of emotion into the room. Jon had finally smashed his cyber against the glass window once Geoff had left unaware, the sound enough to shatter through the Cheshire’s vice grip and leave you sobbing over the body you’d mutilated.
You stand quickly and snatch the bag Jeremy had tasked you with delivering, not needing to be asked twice. Rushing out of the room you slide across the floor, feet kicking open the door in a smooth motion to greet the fresh air gladly. Gasping and heaving out of sight of the two men slipping over one another you press your palms against your eyes, desperately trying to wipe away the images that clawed at your sanity; Cheshire looming dangerously just below the surface, her nails scratching beneath your skin.
You don’t notice the water logging down the carpet until it releases like a sponge beneath your feet. The gentle trickling comes next, tracing the walls with soggy wallpaper and beading across the ceiling; sagging beneath the weight. Though the hallway was only short and intended to join two horrors together, it still played havoc with the tightness in chest. Steady drips pooling uneasily in your stomach, humidity unbearable and drowning your lungs.
You can’t tear your eyes away from the water pooling out from under the next door; acutely aware of Geoff and Trevor joining you, their faces sharing your own mask of shock and welling concern. Fear rocks through you as a deep sorrowful bellow greets your first step forward; layers of mourning and loss cascading together and resonating painfully in your bones. Geoff flinches into the blond, the pair wrapping their arms around each other in defense while they keep pace from behind. You try to ignore the sight if blood clotting and cracking through the creases of your hand when you reach for the handle, nails caked and shirt sleeves stained. Apprehension catches in your throat as another inhuman moan as deep as a whale’s call shakes through the handle and fizzes against your finger tips.
The gasp of an airlock has you jumping back against the two men, door swinging open to funnel a rush of water into the hallway, debris catching in the carpet. It’s not long before your feet are submerged and tangled in seaweed. Though the expanse is dark as night the soft tinge of green encases the lonely and weighted atmosphere. Water ripples with no end, haunting greens bouncing off its surface to reflect over your skin. The room is far larger than any you remember constructing, your eyes able to make out crumbling concrete walls submerged in the water. The occasional beam of light illuminates the room and dances with dust to fracturing through the shallows, a cracked and decaying lighthouse almost entirely buried beneath the watery tomb.
“Alright kids,” claps Trevor, fishing out a clear plastic bag and holding it open, “hand in your phones.” With little resistance you’re slipping your technological lifeline into his grasp, Geoff doing the same. “Why do you have this?” Your question is met with a nonchalant shrug, the blond zipping up the bag and sliding it into his backpack along with the camera’s Geoff had been tasked to hand out. “I’m always prepared.”
“Oh god, it’s a sandwich bag from lunch,” notices Geoff, jabbing a finger at the small scrawl of Trevor’s name in the bottom right corner. “Did your Mom pack your food today?” Geoff giggles, face brightening while Trevor’s remains smooth and serious; amusement dancing in the darkness of his eyes. “Please stop asking me questions I can’t give you the answer too.”
Turning the attention back to the room, you’d long since concluded that volunteering to check the attractions was one of the worst decisions you’d ever made. You were only 3 rooms deep and facing your forth horror; knowing there were still another 2 to get through. Your chest tightens at the thought, already having had enough for one day. Intense stress and adrenaline wasn’t something your body coped with anymore, and you’d much prefer turning back. But you were stuck, no escape without pushing through the mysterious waters or retreating into the human slaughterhouse.
"Ladies first," offers Trevor from behind, voice shaking you back to reality while he peers over your shoulder to survey the depths. You turn to him in refusal and point a finger to Geoff – who panics and shakes his head frantically. "You heard the man," you push, snatching Geoff’s wrist and dethatching him from the blond whose face is overwhelmed with relief; "ladies first." Resisting Geoff enters the water, its surface lapping against his hips while he whines; another rumbling moan ricocheting across the space and chasing through the shallows. Still he wades forward, nervous trembling hums vibrating from his lips to patter into the water swelling around his movements. Elbows up and hands shielding his face, Geoff only hoped that whatever monster lurked in the depths would spare him.
Following his lead you sink into the water, waist disappearing into the pool before you’re floating in the swell; floor recoiling away from you into nothingness. Trevor apprehensively joins you, accepting the reassuring hand offered to him above the water; mirroring Geoff’s raised elbows. Clinging to one another you wade after your boss, mournful wails catching around your knees and forcing through the fabric plastered against your skin. Despite the fear bogging you down you can’t deny the relief coursing through as the blood washes away, cleansing your body of the Cheshire while she retreats back to the cage you’d built.
A shriek from Geoff halts your scan and search of the water, his body flailing back towards you in a fountain of frantic splashes. “Something grabbed me! Oh my god, oh god it touched me!"
"Geoff,” you fret, releasing Trevor’s hand to haul the boss comfortingly close; his arms winding around your waist while he cowers into your side. Trembles ripple tauntingly across the surface before something surges forward suddenly with a vicious roar, rushing straight towards you. You don’t think, instead forcing Geoff and Trevor back in with a spin before you crouch beneath the water. Blinded and ears logged you launch forward to cut through the heavy darkness like a bullet through the air, body connecting with the creature and arms clenching around it. Treading water your feet find the floor, bounding upwards to drag it to burst through the surface; catapulting into the open space. A curving back directs your feet to collide against its firm body, falling back from a kick that sees it squealing away.
“Wait, Gavin?!” Trevor’s exclamation snaps some sense into you, the fear dictating your movements ebbing away to be replaced with confusion; eyes scanning the water you’d flung your friend into. “Oh, you’re fucking kidding me,” you groan, the sound of Michael’s laughter now booming against the walls, Lindsay and Meg’s cackling quickly joining in. Splashing forward you struggle with the current swelling through your clothes, bogged down as you pass Michael in his swimming trunks and gripping a rubber ring. “Oh my god,” he gasps through his tears as you push him impatiently aside, “this is fucking incredible!” Geoff mirrors his sentiment, giggling uncontrollably while Trevor stands in the centre of the room; shock and amusement leaving his mouth hanging open and head shaking slowly. “But what if I killed him?” You panic while searching the depths, following the dull bird noises emanating from the pool. “I certainly hope so,” muses Trevor teasingly, finally regaining control of his body and paddling over to Lindsay, of who offers him a drink from the cooler stashed inside of the light house. Michael remains unfazed, clambering into the ring and floating lazily through the room. “Nah,” he smiles while waving away your words, “he had it comin’.”
And incredibly loud gasp from behind has you reeling, lashing out a fist and punching the offender without thought. As soon as you realise you retract your hand, staring at Gavin as he clutches his nose and complains through his laughs. “You fucking asshole,” you seethe, jabbing him in the chest only for him to dissolve into more giggles; Meg yelling out your point score from across the way while drifting on a floaty. Gavin simply shrugs, collecting his beer from Michael without a care in the world. Sloshing to your left Trevor makes his way over, a beam splitting across his face. “You’re lucky we have that weapons ban tonight, Gav,” he scolds, draping an arm across your shoulder and leaning in to point to your face, “she’d have stabbed your ass so hard.”
“I would have,” you admit, “you wouldn’t sit for a week.”
“He already doesn’t sit,” pipes in Geoff, swaying through the water and dragging Lindsay and Meg on their floaty towards the conversation cheerfully, “I make sure of that.”
“Hello everybody, yes yes please take your seats. Welcome to the Team Nice Dynamite-”
“and Free Willy, don’t forget about us,” interjects Lindsay, Michael waving away her words before shooting her an affectionate beam and continuing; “Nice Willy... err, Free Dynamite... Dynamite Willy – look what matters isn’t that we don’t have a team name. What matters is that we combined our rooms to make this!” Michael gestures wide and proud to the space, the green glow seeping into his skin and dusting the tops of the water. “It’s pretty coo,l” you admit, hand going to your hair to push it back, Trevor bouncing beside you. “Are you kidding?” He squeaks in amazement, peering around now that he’s safe, “this is awesome.”
“Aww, thank you,” smiles Meg warmly, sliding into the water to join you on the right, thumb coming to rest on your cheek while she rubs away the running make up.
“I can’t believe you got all this done without anyone knowing.” Lindsay cheers victoriously at your statement, hair as pink as bubblegum, “everyone loves surprises.”
“Except when stupid British assholes grab you,” you retort with a half hearted glare at the offender, who’s eyes narrow. “Or when a pisspot tries to drown you.” You frown at Gavin, eyes forming slits as he shifts uncomfortably in the realisation you’d heard him, “what did you just call me?”
“Nothing,” he squeaks while scooting away from your icy gaze, hand plunging back into the water to search for the bag Jeremy had given you, hoping it had remained intact.
“Alright, alright!” Geoff gestures sharp and dramatically, “as much as I love getting fucked by my friends my balls are starting to chafe; I’d really like to get moving.” Fingers clasping the fabric you haul it from the depths and toss it to Michael – of who falls off the floaty with a yell. “I don’t know what’s happening here,” Geoff’s hand sweeps the space before beckoning Trevor to follow his sways through the water “but I want nothing to do with it. Good job, blah, blah, and keep me outta it. Also!” He reels, jabbing a finger at Lindsay while Michael opens the bag to pull out a large dry ice container, the cold stinging his fingers. Geoff’s eyes narrow as he reaches the exit to let you pull yourself up first, wringing out your clothes. “What did you do to my room?” Lindsay shrugs innocently, as though the man’s words weren’t scornful accusations. “I did exactly what you told me to do. Go big or go home. I err, also solved our gang problem for the time being.”
“Err, hey guys?” Everyone whips round to stare at Alfredo as he stands at the edge of the room, arms filled with equipment and ropes. His eyes are pleading, the soft pout of his lips jutting out in confusion. “How and I suppose to put up Cheshire’s supports with all this water?” Gavin wastes no time in pushing one of the sturdier floats over to the entrance, Alfredo refusing loudly while Trevor paddles over to assist; the remainder of the room joining to hold the float steady. “No, this is not okay.”
“You’ll be fine,” disregards Michael, throwing you a sniggering beam and motioning for you to keep moving. “You guys go ahead,” Trevor mirrors as Alfredo gingerly places a foot onto the precarious platform before wobbling and toppling to his knees, waves rocking against your shoulders; “I’ll catch up with you.”
“You heard the boss,” claps Geoff against your back, forcing your eyes away from the man now shaking unsteadily to his feet, staring up in bewilderment at the beams he was supposed to be working with. Now behind you Gavin’s bright idea can be heard taking him under the floaty and pushing upwards to launch an unready Alfredo into the air; arms managing to snag onto a support platform. You’re laughing at the sound of his demand for someone to turn the lights on, gesturing for Geoff to follow you up and out of the room.
Hey, I took a break from writing so that I could draw Ryan from the Cinders FAHC! Universe. This bed head boy will be appearing in a future part as an apology for all of the angst i’ve put you through.
