#iole writes

[artianaiolanthe]

For any who may be concerned;

Which Fairy Tale would you like to see me, personally, retell?

Snow White etc etc

Diamonds and Toads

Sleeping Beauty

The Robber Bridegroom

The Wild Swans(+other iterations)

Voting ended onApr 6

Cinderella my beloved is not included as I've read far too many iterations to come up with a decent thought (and it's already been done amazing as Cinder House and you all should read it--)

[avoidingcertaindoom]

@febuwhump Day 11; Broken Fingers

Project; Bloodbound

TWs; Injury, Self Harm

~

She tried to breathe, in and out, and out, and out, until her throat clicked. The effort did little to help steel her nerves, she didn't know if anything could do such a thing. Staring and heaving and crying wasn't going to make this any easier.

The shackle was snug around her wrist, just enough chain to let her walk from one of the narrow walls to another but not enough to let her reach the bars of her cell. The walls were almost brick like, dull brownish stones interlaced with mortar that was starting to crumble. Iloaina had been able to dig her fingernails into one particularly worn spot of the wall until the better part of one of the stones broke off into her hand, heavy and solid. Then she'd sat in the corner of the cell, curled up as if for warmth to hide the stone, and tried to build up her resolve.

It didn't even sound like she'd been left with a guard, though surely she must have. She'd been caught in what should have been the least likely guise, and the Order didn't remain such a well kept secret by being lenient with any outsiders.

She had half a dozen pins in her hair to take a try at the lock to her cage, the other half already wasted and broken in her shackle's lock. It was smaller if that meant anything, she was a lot more confident she'd have better luck with the cell door.

But first…

Iloaina pressed her hand flat against the wall, teeth grinding. A good grip on the brick was paramount, and she tried to hold the fingers of her free hand out of the way to spare them the damage. Another breath, whistling into her lungs before being held there, and she forced herself not to look away as she slammed the rock down.

Her aim was off. Instead of the center of the back of her palm the rock landed on the knuckles between her middle and ring finger, and all the breath in her lungs left in a strangled rush. It was a little better the next time, though the impact was lacking the pop and crack of the original hit. There wasn't time to waste the momentum, and she kept going until she lost her grip on the rock and could barely see for the stinging, blurring ripples in her vision.

Keeping her breathing shallow, she tried to gently tug the loop of metal down. The fragments under her bruised skin felt like they were scraping together, and she immediately pitched forward to heave until the agony died down to a dull throb.

A lot of patience, tears, and persistence later, the skin around the wider part of her hand finally gave and she was able to drop the chains in the bile soaked earth.

Only a minute, she allowed herself to breathe, clutching the wreckage of her hand to her chest.

Then she did her best to wipe her hand off on her shoulder sleeve and got to her feet. One thing at a time. First get to the bars, then fight her vision from double back to single, and then…

[immxrtalcoil]

Manners and Strangers

Part of my It Au (You’ll Float Too verse) with @seeing-our-future, featuring Phoenix, their character Adrian, and a clown.

If you know anything about Phoenix I would be very worried if I were you.

______________

The cops were long since done investigating the sidewalk as a crime scene. It seemed that most of Derry had forgotten already about the child who was presumed to have died in front of the storm drain and his severed arm.

That didn't stop people from steering clear to avoid it however, for whatever reason.

Phoenix Zephirah, the nibling of the snobby Folletes couple, wasn't put off by the stigma surrounding the area. Fae had vague memories of Daniel Battle, sure, and was disturbed by his unusually gruesome death, but since faer cousin Terra was terrified of “haunted” area's it seemed like a good time to get a reprieve from the horrid girl.

There was little to do the sidewalk but Phoenix made do, kicking and throwing rocks, playing with the cheap pocket knife Fae had slipped from the store, and climbing the tree that grew by the road. Fae waved at the old man who lived across the street from the drain (wasn't he the first responder to Danny’s screaming? Even he wouldn't remember by now) but often went ignored.

The child didn't mind however. Fae was quite used to being ignored and thus far saw no danger of it.

This day however, the child lost control while spinning the knife and wound up cutting one of faer fingers and dropping the knife. Cursing, fae ignored the cut and tried to catch the knife only for it fall right into the storm drain.

“Dammit,” far groaned, starting closer to try and see if it hadn't fallen far, but stopped short when faer eyes met eerie yellow ones peering right at them through the opening.

“Hi there little one.”

What the fuck? Is that a clown? Intrigued, fae stepped closer, still far enough that fae didn't have to bend or lay down to see it clearly. Yes, the eyes and lips were surrounded by red makeup, and the nose was covered with a red rubber ball. Fae couldn't see the top, but saw tufts of red hair sticking out if the sides of the clown’s head.

It held up it's hand, showing that it'd caught faer pocket knife. “You dropped this? Here, have it back.”

“How did you get down there?” Fae had a bad feeling, disturbed. The sewers were a forbidden area, filled with waste and garbage and more recently Danny's blood. Fae already hated the basement under faer aunt’s house and how it leaked and was gross and dark and enclosed. The sewers sounded ten times worse.

The clown smiled, making the paint on it's cheeks curl ominously. It appeared like the cat who ate the canary. “The circus in town, don't you know? Can't you smell it?”

Phoenix leaned closer, and it was almost like someone had set off a bomb of circus scents. There was clean hay and popcorn and roasted peanuts and candy floss (that last one especially made faer stomach growl, sweets always were on the child's mind).

But underneath was the scent of sitting water, water and blood, and the spell was broken. Phoenix wanted to get away and vomit, but the clown seemed to have faem entranced.

“... I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, I should be getting home…” The blond tried to convince it weakly.

“My name's Pennywise, Pennywise the dancing clown. Pennywise, Selena, Selena, Pennywise. Now we aren't strangers are we?”

Son of a bitch.

Phoenix forced a smile, nails digging into faer palms. “No, I suppose we aren't.”

It lifted the hand holding the knife again. “Now won't you take this back? I'll go and get you some candy floss too, wouldn't you like that?”

“Mhm,” Phoenix finally inched closer, planning to sock the creep right in it's bright (blue? Green? Wasn't it yellow?) eyes. “I think I'd like that a lot…”

~

Adrian Battle was starting down the street, hands shoved into xyr pockets.

Months. It'd been a few months since xyr brother had died and no one seemed to care.

It was no surprise coming from his parents, xe had never assumed they would be torn up about such a thing. But all the evidence was washed away with the rain that day and the cops simply closed up the case without looking further into it, like a killer who went around ripping kids’ arms off was no problem. It was ridiculous, fucked up, unfair!

But that was Derry apparently.

While xe came down the street, xe noticed a kid laying by the side of the road, looking like they were trying to stick their head down the storm drain. Their head was tilted, hair dragging through the dirt and gravel on the ground, and their face was hidden.

What the hell were they trying to do?

~

“I don't think my arm can reach.”

The clown's eye twitched. “Sure it can, aren't you gonna even give it a shot?”

Fae rolled faer shoulder and shook faer head, holding faer hand up next to it instead. “Hand it to me please? I won't move an inch, I promise.” Phoenix shot the clown faer best puppy dog eyes, and it seemed to relent. It leaned forward, starting to raise it's hand. It even seemed to grin, and it's teeth were… shifting?

Far didn't get a good look. The second it was close enough fae spit, hard, right into it's face.

The roar that erupted from the drain turned faer blood to ice and Phoenix lurched back as a hand (those are fucking claws that is not a fucking hand) slammed into the space faer head was not seconds ago, cracking the asphalt.

Fae tried to scramble back and to faer feet to run away but a second arm shot out of the drain and managed to latch onto faer leg. Phoenix screamed and started kicking madly at it, trying to get the grip to loosen but it only tightened, cutting into faer leg as it started to drag faer down into the sewer.

It hurt and faer hands were slipping through the gravel and Phoenix screamed again.

“Help! Help me!”

Faer left foot slipped into the sewer and fae shoved their right foot to brace against the sidewalk, trying to pull it free. Fae almost jumped out of faer skin when hands latched around faer arm, not knowing who or what it was but feeling like faer arm was gonna be yanked out of it's socket

Phoenix hung on for dear life as the clown and whoever had faer arm had a tug of war match with faer limbs, whoever had caught faer arm shifting their grip to under faer armpits, but then there was a tearing sound and faer leg came free and fae went flying into whoever was behind faem, sending them both sprawling.

Fae scrambled to faer feet, ignoring blood drip and faer missing shoe and sock and yanking the red haired person fae’d fell on up as well while a murderous gaze burned into them both from the sewer grate. “Up, up, we've got to run! It's gonna--!”

The redhead didn't need anymore warning and the second they were on their feet they both took off through the yard of the old man across the street, not daring to slow as the frustrated curses of the clown rang in their ears.

[artianaiolanthe]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Original Tributes (Hunger Games) Additional Tags: District 9 (Hunger Games), Canon Compliant, more or less, Selectively Mute Character, Hurt No Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, the general horrors of the hunger games, through the eyes of a district even the author forgot, Ableism, Original Arena(s) (Hunger Games), Original Character-centric Summary:

Looking forward to the Reaping is mad behaviour, but it is one day a year Mallory doesn't fear sleeping in her own bed the night before. That's a comfort that is torn away with a single slip of paper once it's her turn on stage

[avoidingcertaindoom]

@febuwhump Day 7; Forced to Hurt Another

Project; Cry Little Sister

TWs; Religious Abuse, Blood Drinking

~

There shouldn't be room in one's heart for doubt.

And there wasn't. Truly. Mirabel sang the songs and said her prayers and did as she was bidden, always. She had to. She wanted to make her parents proud, even if not quite happy. She wanted to please her Grand Aunt, even if she never did so much as any of her less well behaved relatives. And she wanted to please God, and of course she did that. Why else would she grow into such a pretty, well bred young lady?

Then her Sunday jewelry began to give her rashes.

The jewels were a gift from her Grand Aunt for her Christening, and she'd worn them for a week straight glowing with pride, and now blotches of red were blooming where her earrings clasped and the cross nestled above her chest and she had to find a way to fix it—

Aunt Tilde stopped her after services the next week, expression unreadable as she examined the irritation, and then she pulled Mirabel's father aside. If Mira were maybe closer to the door she might make out words, but as is she heard what sounded like a poorly hushed argument. Her father never argued with Tilde, no one did. What had she done to warrant so many problems? Finally the door opened, and her father mumbled that she was to follow them.

She knew there was a basement in the Chapel. That it was a form of storage, even. She knew they kept Murnau's very own Angel close to heart, she just didn't realize how close they meant.

"Christ bled for our sins," Tilde reminded her as she folded her hands around something sharp, much sharper than sewing shears or her mum's good kitchen knives. "This is the same as that."

The Angel's tomb was dark. Mira almost didn't know where to look, but the space had little to focus on. The walls were stone, as was the floor, and basically straight ahead, several more strides for her shorter stature, was a pile of fabric and chains and--

There were statues of the Angel all over the Chapel. A girl even smaller than Mirabel was now, with long curly hair and a serene face. Her hair was long, dark enough to blend in with the shadows. Mira couldn't see her face, even what little of it wasn't hidden under her hair. There was something dull and metallic in the way.

Her eyes were just as pale and blank as the statues had been. Even from here that could be seen. She couldn't tell if the Angel was looking at her, was even awake. She didn't even breathe loudly enough to tell if she was alive.

She tried not to think of the duality. Angels were supposed to inspire awe and fear, not anything close to pity. Where she landed right now, as Mira dragged her feet closer…

The pile shifted. Something metallic clinked, almost like bells, and one of the Angel's hands was reaching for her. It was covered in scars.

What would one more be?

She took the hand, gripped tightly so her hands wouldn't shake, and ran the blade over the meaty part between the thumb and wrist before pulling the wound to her lips to drink.

She only managed a few sips before the hand was snatched back, and she made a blind grab to take it back before remembering herself and stepping back. She muttered a half remembered prayer and rushed back to the door so quick she almost tripped on the rough laid stones.

Father made a face when she stepped out, squinting against the basement lights. "She made a mess."

"Children often do," Tilde chided. "Come Mirabel, I think I have a blouse that will fit you. I'll clean you up in the restroom."

She had half a mind to rinse her mouth out at the tap, but the older woman was set on doing it all herself. Her eyes wandered over to the mirror as she tried to follow instructions and she couldn't help but light up.

"My rash is gone!"

"Very nearly." Tilde traced around the area her cross usually sat, collecting a stray bead of blood in the process, and popped her finger into her own mouth for a taste. "Is it not quick? Our own Angel, so generous with her gifts."

"Yes…" Mira's mouth still tasted bitter and almost sour, no more unpleasant than the communion wine had been during the Host earlier that night. Sacrifice was like that, wasn't it? Who was she to doubt? "Yes ma'am."

[avoidingcertaindoom]

@febuwhump Day 4; Blood Stains TWs; see above Summary; Out, damned spot

~

Bleach fumes were so dense in the bathroom Jivika had to squint to stop her eyes from stinging. She'd emptied two gallons into the bathtub and ran the tap until the dilution almost reached the edge before dumping her soiled clothes in.

Even after 30 minutes on her knees scrubbing at the fabric, she could still see the stains. They didn't stand as brightly, more rusted and dingy than the bloom of fresh red roses on green cotton and blue jeans. Her clothes were also pretty ruined at this point; the embroidery she'd added to her jeans during one of her study breaks had even started to fray and unravel and she'd stretched and rubbed at her sweater so harshly it was starting to lose its shape. No matter what she did they were destined to get shoved in the bottom of a bag destined for the dumpster behind her apartment.

She tried to tell herself she could just cut out the middle man and trash them.

She couldn't.

Whenever she lifted them too close to the surface of the water, past the dingy film of grime and dye, she could still see it. It didn't matter how faded it was, it was still there. She could run her fingers over it and feel the fabric's texture warp, ever so slightly.

Even as the bleach made her eyes water and her lungs burn, if she inhaled too deeply or dared to breathe through her nose she could smell it. Like copper and spiced meat and overripe red fruit—

Jivika shoved the outfit back to the flooring of the tub, ignoring the pins and needles of complaint in her pale knuckles. Next time she blinked, the fluid welling up in her eyes finally spilled over and made it's way down her cheeks in warm rivulets.

When they dripped off her chin and hit the porcelain edge of the tub, they bloomed the same red as the blood on her clothes had been while fresh.

She shuddered out a breath not unlike a sob and got back to scrubbing.

[avoidingcertaindoom]

@febuwhump Day Fourteen; Hanahaki Disease

Project; Immortal Coil

TWS; Vomiting, Choking

~

"Cut! Are you good, Arty?"

"Mm?" She sputtered around the straw of her water bottle before clearing her throat and swallowing, nodding. "Fine, 'm fine."

Delia exchanged a look with Enoby and swiveled her chair to face her. "Are you quite sure? Because you're acting kind of…quiet."

"You told me to be quiet three takes ago."

"That was yesterday, and you had a lot to say about this topic. Now you're not saying much of anything."

Arty tried to smile in response, ignoring the lump in her throat. Her tongue was going numb again, and she was starting to feel a floaty, queasy feeling starting from the pit in her stomach. "Can't we just use those takes? That was yesterday, and y'all are the one always saying I have a goldfish memory."

"That was practice. And we can't stitch you spacing out one shot and talking a mile a minute the next." Zadkiel cocked his head to the side, glass eye catching the gleam of the ring light.

She glanced down at her phone--no messages, no matter how often she tapped the sleeping screen, and felt another surge of anxiety take root in her throat. "It's alright, really, I'm just…" She rattled her water bottle. "I need more water! I'll be back, five minutes, promise--" Up and away she went without waiting for a response.

She walked straight past the kitchen and up the steps, ignoring the lightheadedness from the exertion and the limited air reaching her lungs. She made it to her room with pink in her cheeks, locked her door, then doubled the effort by making it into the bathroom and locking that as well before wrenching the faucet on.

With the rush of water filling the silence, she finally quit holding her breath and everything else to start coughing, retching, gagging, until blood coloured petals and dark throated blooms finally made it past her lips into fall into the sink.

The flowers left her throat raw, and when she could finally suck in a breath she could feel the grit of small seeds caught in her teeth. Arty used her hands to collect enough water to rinse her mouth, spitting back the mix of seeds and stray stems once she was able to wash out the taste.

Wiping the back of her hand over her mouth, she stared miserably at the mess of crushed flowers in the basin of the sink. She had to do something with them before she went back downstairs, but it was always a pity to have to throw them out. Poppies were too pretty to waste on hurt feelings.

[avoidingcertaindoom]

@febuwhump Day 13; Again

Project(s); Cry Little Sister, Immortal Coil

TWs; Neglect

~

Her good leg ached. In the back of her mind that made Delia worry for the state of the stump rubbing up against her prosthetic, but she couldn't worry about that for the time being. As far as this kid lived from the school, she was going to have to remember the way back. "How much longer?"

The boy, who'd introduced himself after a bit of prodding as "Arne", pointed ahead. "Just the next block, then we're first on the right."

Nodding, she pulled him along as they kept going forward. Once they were at the door, she turned to Arne again. "Do you have a key?"

"No."

"No?"

He was staring at the welcome mat, face blank. "Only Mum and Dad have one."

He'd said his mum was supposed to pick him up as well. For a brief moment Delia thought of the worst, but she took a breath and tried to feel out the house first, not noticing anyone living or dead inside. It was only a relief for a moment, but that raised the question yet again. Where was his mother?

"Just a minute," She released his hand, bending to take a closer look at the lock. It wasn't anything special, and she'd seen videos of people using hairpins and other slim pieces of metal to get in somewhere. How hard could it be?

…Quite hard actually. She was happy when the door opened, and significantly less so when her hairpins wouldn't come loose from the lock. "Can you dial your parents on the landline for me?" She asked while ushering him in and fastening the top lock. "I think I need to let them know of the door before they see for themselves."

He nodded, going to the do just that. The first call disconnected, so he dialed a different number and handed her the phone.

"Hello?" A man spoke on the other end, a little louder than she'd expected.

She cleared her throat. "Mr. Sorenson, right?"

"Who is this?"

"I'm sorry, I'm one of Arne's upperclassmen. I saw he was at the pickup area late again and thought I'd just bring him home. We didn't have a key, so I'm afraid I did a number on your door."

"Again, what do you—He doesn't have a key?"

Delia couldn't help the face she made. "I think he said his mum was running late or something. It's been like that all week. I really need to get home, but I wanted to make sure you had time to account for the door."

For a moment all was too quiet. and she was about to see if he'd hung up before he finally spoke again, much quieter. "What did you say your name was?"

"Delia." She glanced over her shoulder and saw Arne sitting in front of the couch, hands folded in his lap patiently.

"I'm leaving work right now, I can take you home. Please wait with Arne for me, I don't like him being alone. I'll see if I can reach my wife in the meantime, I'm sorry to inconvenience you."

"Oh it's—" She still wasn't quite as sure as she'd like to be, and it didn't seem like Arne had it in him to get into that much trouble, but the younger boy seemed so…off. He wasn't scared or sad or obviously upset, just… calm. Resigned, even. "…Alright. I'll be here, sir."

"Thank you so much," He promised he wouldn't even be an hour before ending the call, and Delia stared at the receiver skeptically before reutning to to it's hook and going over to where Arne sat.

"It'll be a little less than an hour. You hungry?"

He shrugged. "A little."

"Show me around the kitchen a bit, I bet I could fix something small before he gets here." She offered a hand, smiling gently when he accpeted, and let him lead her once again. Maybe it wouldn't solve the problem, but it was something she could do now and with luck it'd be something to cheer up this sad, sad boy.