Once, there was an island.... // MPHFPC one shots, imagines, and misc !

Tear You Apart { Enoch O'Connor & Horace Somnusson}

TYSM FOR 1K READS?? HOLY FUCK??? i have no celebratory cat pictures oh god oh fuck-
based off the song by She Wants Revenge because it's so good and i am in love w/ it, also mildly Streets and Rules by Doja Cat cuz she's on my playlist rn :eyeroll:
also fuck you im writing enorace because they deserved a more developed relationship and also everyone in that house was gay in some way. you absolutely cannot change my mind, im not budging on this topic and it will come back up again
i have like 12 separate drafts of this sos 
TW for mentions of blood and gore!!//

It's only just a crush, it'll go away,
it's just like all the others, it'll go away.

Enochs POV//

My hands were bloody.

A warm, beating heart pulsed in my head, squirting crimson down my wrist. It smelt terrible, but I wasn't quite sure if that was the heart itself or the chemicals. Carefully, I slid the disgusting thing into a jar of formaldehyde and tried not to gag. Technically it wasn't pure formaldehyde— it was a mixture of that and water, called formalin— but the smell was still strong enough to send me for a loop every single time I used it. 

I got sent in circles pretty often, obviously.

It was early morning, well before the sun rose but far past midnight. I did my best work when no one else was awake to bother me, after all. Hugh liked to compare me to Frankenstein. I liked to call him an overgrown greenhouse.

He usually shuts up after that.

I wiped my bloody hands on my pants and returned the jar to it's space on the shelf, beside a small box of doll arms I had yet to find a good use for. If nothing else, Olive and Claire were surprisingly good at destroying things when asked. I now had a surplus of modern doll limbs and not a single idea of what to do with them. So yknow. Go me!

I cracked my knuckles, stretched, and decided to go to bed. I would have, seriously, had it not been for the sudden clatter I heard upstairs. Considering everyone else is supposed to be asleep, you can imagine how that set me off. 

So I pulled a dark sweater over my head— no one in this house is allowed to see me in anything but 2 or more layers, I don't care if it's September— and went to check. The door to the basement was right by the kitchen, meaning whoever was ruffling around was probably just looking for something to eat. At this ungodly time in the morning? Probably Millard. It's always fun to tell him off, he sounds so inconceivably baffled every single time. The door opened quietly, skidding against the lame carpet Miss Peregrine insists on having in the hallway. It's so gross, even by my standards. 

But she makes the rules, and one of those rules is no one out of bed after 10.

A lit candle sat on the kitchen counter, sending golden light cascading over the marble. I could faintly hear humming, and the dull sound of something clinking against a glass. Rounding the corner, I found Horace standing halfway across the room, absorbed in whatever he was making for himself.

" Is there a reason you're making tea or whatever at three in the morning?" I asked, leaning against the door frame in a way I hoped came off as careless.

Horace jumped, and spun to face me. His glasses were lopsided on his face, his hair a mess, and his nightshirt half undone. He didn't look like his usual prim and proper self. 

" Don't sneak up on people like that!" He whisper-yelled, obviously unaware that everyone with the exception of him slept like the dead. And I'd be the one to know, considering the dead and I are unusually close.