[ well. this is getting increasingly unnerving, and the clearer and more elaborate the dialogue gets the harder it is for him to reassure himself that he's just hearing things. and then—
he's never been the type to scream from fear, no matter the situation, and he doesn't do it now even when there's a fucking tentacle shooting out of his sink drain and grabbing his head. he just hisses in something almost like a stage whisper: ]
Fucking shit—!
[ he strains to hold himself back as it tries to pull his head toward the sink — even as one voice in the back of his head tells him that's stupid because he wouldn't be able to fit in the damn drain anyway, and another voice counters that a fucking octopus shouldn't be able to fit down there either, yet here they apparently are.
he blindly fumbles to try to find a hair brush or curling iron or something on the counter that he can try to beat this thing away with. ]
[Regrettably, Eunice keeps most of her ladylike instruments of torture in the private bathroom off the master bedroom. Del gropes and knocks over a cup with two toothbrushes, a bottle of rinse, but at last — a nail file. Better than nothing, right?
Meanwhile the thing pulls you with formidable strength. Your brow is inches away from kissing the ceramic, and the pulsing, fleshy base of the tentacle consumes your vision.
Then it slackens. Your head jerks back with the effort of your pull, almost high enough to face the mirror.
That's when it yanks again, and your forehead cracks hard against the rounded bottom of the bathroom sink. You see stars, your vision sparking white at the peripherals.
Outside there's a noise, but you're a little distracted aren't you?]
why does nobody have hairbrushes in here, this is why bax's hair is always a mess. anyway i hope this is one of those pointed metal files and not a fucking emery board. if it is he'll try jabbing the thing, at whatever part of it is at the base of the sink sticking out of the drain, because that seems like a better idea than potentially jabbing himself in the head while he's still disoriented from being slammed into the ceramic. ]
And you smartly jab into the base. Good thing too, since it was on the precipice of ramming your head a second time. There's a wet squelch as the file strikes and a burst of black, sizzling blood. It burns on your hand and sizzles on the porcelain.
But the thing doesn't let go. Wounded, yes, you can see that it is. But it doesn't act as if it's been hurt. Almost like it's wearing the gouge instead of feeling it.
Then the door bursts open. Bax is in the doorway, alarmed. And then horrified, eyes blowing wide at the sight of the thing at the drain.
The suckers release. With a ghastly SCHLURP the tentacle slips back down the drain, and you are left dizzied, file clutched in a searing, ichor-splattered hand, round welts striping over your cheek and ear and a slow trickle of blood from the goose egg sprouting on your forehead.]
Del?! Bloody hell!
[Your brother rushes you in a panic, tears welling in his eyes.]
[ god bless little AU american basilio for still using britishisms ]
Shit, Bax, don't—
[ he intercepts his brother, gripping his shoulders and pushing him back to the doorway, as far from the sink as possible. ]
There's somethin' in here, in the pipes, just— go to our room and get your bat, stay away from sinks, the washer, everything wet! Don't come out 'til I tell you!
[Maybe you're expats you don't know. Also how would i write bas without them help me spirit of becks help me
Bax looks confused as he's pushed, but who is he to argue? What he just saw defies all logic but his brother is hurt. His chin wobbles and he can't help bursting into tears, but he nods through the sobs.]
O-okay! I'll get it but you bloody gotta stay away from it too! [He scrubs at his face with his arm, stumbling out the door and backing away, keeping eye contact with Del as long as he can before he bolts. The bat. He needs the bat.
The room is quiet behind him for now. But something is off.]
[ thank fuck please stay safe and use that baseball bat like the ichiban kasuga you were born to be
anyway OBVIOUSLY something is off since there's still a fucking sea monster in the pipes and it's tragic that the little mermaid won't exist for 30 years so he can't have ursula thoughts. he's still clutching his nail file, standing in the doorway himself now as he looks back toward the sink. waiting, ready to bolt and slam the door behind him if he needs to. ]
[Fortunately the sink remains still. No further sounds bubble up from below. The popped drain cover lies inert on the floor, as does the paper from before — though curiously, now it's blank.
What draws his eye is the framed round of cross-stitch on the wall opposite. Normally it's a passable pattern of two kittens messing with a ball of blue yarn. Nothing too crazy, Eunice probably followed a pattern and patted herself on the back for making something nice for a change.
Now it's different. There's a clown on the right, tilting to one side with a leg stuck out and an orange balloon in the opposing hand. He's stitched into a suit of silver with orange pom buttons down the front and a ruff to match around his neck. A screed of letters takes up the empty space on the right:
NO PLACE LIKE HOME AIN'T THAT RIGHT FIDELIO?
The name strikes a chord of dread in you. Something you've never heard before, but no one else should know.
The clown reaches up — really reaches, little stitches jumping over the canvas to reconfigure as he goes — and beeps his nose twice. Then he points out to you.
The canvas bulges, following his finger, stretching to accommodate the move as the cross-stitch clown splits open its lurid red grin and laughs. He cackles, and you can almost swear you hear it in your head.
The door swings shut and nearly bowls you over. The bathroom is closed and quiet.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
holyspirits) wrote2025-03-09 04:46 pm
no subject
he's never been the type to scream from fear, no matter the situation, and he doesn't do it now even when there's a fucking tentacle shooting out of his sink drain and grabbing his head. he just hisses in something almost like a stage whisper: ]
Fucking shit—!
[ he strains to hold himself back as it tries to pull his head toward the sink — even as one voice in the back of his head tells him that's stupid because he wouldn't be able to fit in the damn drain anyway, and another voice counters that a fucking octopus shouldn't be able to fit down there either, yet here they apparently are.
he blindly fumbles to try to find a hair brush or curling iron or something on the counter that he can try to beat this thing away with. ]
no subject
Meanwhile the thing pulls you with formidable strength. Your brow is inches away from kissing the ceramic, and the pulsing, fleshy base of the tentacle consumes your vision.
Then it slackens. Your head jerks back with the effort of your pull, almost high enough to face the mirror.
That's when it yanks again, and your forehead cracks hard against the rounded bottom of the bathroom sink. You see stars, your vision sparking white at the peripherals.
Outside there's a noise, but you're a little distracted aren't you?]
no subject
why does nobody have hairbrushes in here, this is why bax's hair is always a mess. anyway i hope this is one of those pointed metal files and not a fucking emery board. if it is he'll try jabbing the thing, at whatever part of it is at the base of the sink sticking out of the drain, because that seems like a better idea than potentially jabbing himself in the head while he's still disoriented from being slammed into the ceramic. ]
no subject
And you smartly jab into the base. Good thing too, since it was on the precipice of ramming your head a second time. There's a wet squelch as the file strikes and a burst of black, sizzling blood. It burns on your hand and sizzles on the porcelain.
But the thing doesn't let go. Wounded, yes, you can see that it is. But it doesn't act as if it's been hurt. Almost like it's wearing the gouge instead of feeling it.
Then the door bursts open. Bax is in the doorway, alarmed. And then horrified, eyes blowing wide at the sight of the thing at the drain.
The suckers release. With a ghastly SCHLURP the tentacle slips back down the drain, and you are left dizzied, file clutched in a searing, ichor-splattered hand, round welts striping over your cheek and ear and a slow trickle of blood from the goose egg sprouting on your forehead.]
Del?! Bloody hell!
[Your brother rushes you in a panic, tears welling in his eyes.]
no subject
Shit, Bax, don't—
[ he intercepts his brother, gripping his shoulders and pushing him back to the doorway, as far from the sink as possible. ]
There's somethin' in here, in the pipes, just— go to our room and get your bat, stay away from sinks, the washer, everything wet! Don't come out 'til I tell you!
no subject
Bax looks confused as he's pushed, but who is he to argue? What he just saw defies all logic but his brother is hurt. His chin wobbles and he can't help bursting into tears, but he nods through the sobs.]
O-okay! I'll get it but you bloody gotta stay away from it too! [He scrubs at his face with his arm, stumbling out the door and backing away, keeping eye contact with Del as long as he can before he bolts. The bat. He needs the bat.
The room is quiet behind him for now. But something is off.]
no subject
anyway OBVIOUSLY something is off since there's still a fucking sea monster in the pipes and it's tragic that the little mermaid won't exist for 30 years so he can't have ursula thoughts. he's still clutching his nail file, standing in the doorway himself now as he looks back toward the sink. waiting, ready to bolt and slam the door behind him if he needs to. ]
no subject
What draws his eye is the framed round of cross-stitch on the wall opposite. Normally it's a passable pattern of two kittens messing with a ball of blue yarn. Nothing too crazy, Eunice probably followed a pattern and patted herself on the back for making something nice for a change.
Now it's different. There's a clown on the right, tilting to one side with a leg stuck out and an orange balloon in the opposing hand. He's stitched into a suit of silver with orange pom buttons down the front and a ruff to match around his neck. A screed of letters takes up the empty space on the right:
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
AIN'T THAT RIGHT FIDELIO?
The name strikes a chord of dread in you.
Something you've never heard before, but no one else should know.
The clown reaches up — really reaches, little stitches jumping over the canvas to reconfigure as he goes — and beeps his nose twice. Then he points out to you.
The canvas bulges, following his finger, stretching to accommodate the move as the cross-stitch clown splits open its lurid red grin and laughs. He cackles, and you can almost swear you hear it in your head.
The door swings shut and nearly bowls you over. The bathroom is closed and quiet.]