#i could feel the fear and discomfort oozing from the screen

[tryingonametaphor]

all of heartstopper season 2 was incredible, but joe’s acting of charlie freezing up and going silent every time he was around ben, his abuser, was especially phenomenal. it really does feel exactly like that. like you have so much you want to say and fight back with but you just can’t.

and i’m happy charlie got to stand up for himself and say what he wanted to towards the end.

[ohheyitsokay]

strike

part 3 of the ‘hey batter batter’ series

pairing: Francisco Morales (Frankie, Catfish) x reader

wordcount: 2k

warnings: extremely mild mentions of sex, unwanted advances that don’t get far (not by Frankie)

summary: it’s a Triple Frontier baseball au - trust me, you don’t need to know anything about baseball.

In this chapter, we learn that a ‘strike’ is when a batter misses the ball when he swings, even though he shouldn’t have. And some strikes don’t just happen during baseball.

>>

“Jimbo, I'm here!” You called as you kicked the door closed behind you, arms heavy with grocery bags. Your grandfather would be in the living room, no doubt impatiently waiting for you to unload so you could watch the baseball game together. It was a few states away, which meant the two of you could enjoy evening on the couch with affordable snacks and air conditioning. Games in person were more exciting, but climbing all those stairs wasn’t great for his knees, and it was nice to chat with him without the roar of the crowds.

There was a faint squeak to his favorite rocker, and you unloaded half the bags onto the coffee table – his favorite treats – before tossing the rest haphazardly into their places in his little kitchen. You raced the commercials, listening to the final advertisements with one ear as you hurried to get yourself settled, even though he was always happy to chat with you during the game. For these times with him, you hated to miss even a moment. The chair to the left of his was yours, newer and softer and it would have been the perfect evening, eating and catching up with your favorite man.

Except this was the first real opportunity for him to grill you about your unexpected lunch with his heroes. 

There had been laughter in his voice when you had tried to call him afterwards, and he had told you he would wait to hear the story. To him, even over the phone you couldn’t hide how flustered you were, just moments after Francesco’s eyes had been in yours. All things considered, he had been more than patient, so as you fidgeted and you kept your eyes on the screen, you told him what had happened as casually as you could.

It was the top of the first inning – the very beginning of the game, and his boys were mostly crowded into the dugout. Their fingers were grabbing fistfuls of sunflower seeds or pulling on batting gloves or hanging on the wire, watching as Will walked up to bat. There was a fun country song playing, and it was surreal, thinking it had just been a few days since he had tossed a chunk of fried food into the air and his brother had caught it in his mouth. James thoroughly enjoyed you story, laughing and for once not lecturing you about leaving them alone to live their lives. He seemed approving, proud of you for taking a change, and proud that the boys from his favorite team did his favorite granddaughter well. You answered this questions and indulged his excitement over the little things, trying not to reveal too much of your own daydream fodder. Thinking of Francisco’s eyes as he laughed at the Miller boys, you grabbed a pillow to give your hands something to hold onto, to ground yourself.

The camera panned over to Tom adjusting his cap and without thinking you winced. When you realized that James had caught the movement, you winced again.

You had to explain, then, the biggest detail that you had glossed over – the only one that would disappoint your grandfather. The outfielder had looked at you with confidence and hunger in his eyes. His fingers on your hand left cool, invisible lines, slimy like residue of the stadium cup holders.

James listened with sad eyes, before he was reaching over, gently squeezing your hand, and asking about Will’s family in town to find out if he knew a relative. It was kindness - changing the topic, rewarming the memory as he coaxed out more details of their interactions with you and each other, making you blush and laugh and smile.

The discomfort that had been lodged in your heart regarding the athlete  lessened as you remembered that they were all human. It had been clear the other players respected him, maybe even looked up to him, and that had to be good for something. Even though it had just been a lunch, a single moment in time, the assessments of a group of open hearted baseball players already held weight on your opinion.

As you began to tell James about a joke Santiagio had told, you noticed that Tom’s turn had come and gone, and he had struck out.

-

Every professional sports group had a second team, full of people who pushed papers and cleaned locker rooms and handled press conferences. One of these people was a woman who was in charge of sorting through and organizing special fan appearances.

Flipping through applications and mail, she would have hardly noticed the broad shoulders and hazel eyes of the man who entered, had he not kissed her breathless the night before.

For all they were on and off and she knew he was a player in all senses of the word, she couldn’t help but stand, and let his hands find her hips as he pressed into her.

“Hi, Tom,” she whispered, already dazed and adoring as his beard scraped at her neck, warm and insistent.

“Hey, babe,” he returned, absentmindedly, squeezing her hips before pulling away. There was something about his eyes, the way he held his head, like his shoulders were comfortable bearing the weight of others, like he’d prefer it that way, that made him seem like a natural born leader.

She knew him better. He had the crowds and the rookies and the managers and even his brothers on the team wrapped around his fingers - the perfect mentorship allusion, but she knew. There was another side to him, a darker side, filled to the brim with pride and arrogance and power. Of all the men who flashed smiles as they shook hands and carried kids on their shoulders for photos – he was the one who preened the most. There was a hunger in his eyes, even greater than when he’d love her, when a chance came for him to do an extra interview, put some senior input in, or take a newbie to his first after party.

Still, she loved him. Too much, maybe, but her mind whispered not enough, and she hungrily took what ever he would give her. There were always flowers and jewelry and coveted high-status sex in his apologies, anyway, and she knew he’d always come back to her, eventually. She knew better than to guess.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, star stuck in spite of it all, but knowing there must be something. His “cousin” had stocks in the team, or a certain string needed to be pulled. There was always something. 

When he asked for the number of a girl from a few weeks ago, there was an all-too-familiar twist in her gut.

“Tom, you know that information is confidential,” she whined, masking her fear, turning back towards her desk. It was infuriating how disarming, intoxicating, and how solid he felt behind her, how smooth his words felt on the shell of her ear.

“It’s for Benny, babe, he’s got it bad for her,” it was a lie, but she didn’t know it, and the knot in her stomach loosened a little. His hand slipped under her blouse and it came undone, submitting entirely to the façade.

“Let me help the little guy out.” For all his charisma, she wanted desperately to believe he was sincere, so she did. Her hands started steady as she opened a thick binder and began flipping through the glossy dividers. She moved as slow as she could, hopelessly savoring his touch, knowing when it was gone, the unpleasant feelings would be just as strong.

But it didn’t take long to find you number and hand it over, and exchange more heated kisses and half promises before he slipped out.

The woman settled in her chair again, fingers tracing the letters of your name, the knot reforming below her breastbone. She reached for her phone, telling herself it was a courtesy, to give you a heads up.

-

When a player was about to steal second base, you always wondered if Santiago Garcia could tell, without even looking. If he could feel it in his bones, or if the hairs on the back his neck rose, against his sweat.

If he could, that was exactly how you would feel now, walking into the bar to see only Tom Davis waiting for you. The building was dim, strategically chosen by Will, allegedly, so they could drink in peace. As before however, there was no hiding the silhouette of a man like him, not when he was oozing confidence like sap from a tree.  

When he had called you, it had been so shocking you had agreed without thinking. It was surreal, but like following a trail of candy through a forest, not at all like the knights in shining armor of before.

He swung his arm around, cocky smile across his face, and you shook his hand.

There could not have been a more awkward boundary made, but he laughed it off as you considered turning tail and running. It was ridiculous, but you couldn’t help how guarded you felt alone with him, so you turned to the polished woof of the bar and ordered a lemonade. It would buy you time, anyway, to reassess. 

You had always thought of baseball players as beer guys, but he had a short glass of something gold and expensive, as if he were trying to prove a point. Slipping onto the stool next to him, you set your bag in between you like a wall. He was broad and he pulled close, making you almost press against his side, giving you the opportunity to realize his skin almost cold. Slow sips reminded you that there was no basis for your feelings, and you were the one being strange. 

It wasn’t bad, talking to him. You chided yourself internally, thinking you made unfair assumptions. Really, he was a nice guy. He talked highly of his friends, even defending their lateness, taking the blame for the mix-up. It felt like one of those interviews your grandfather would watch sometimes, the way he could go on about himself and somehow tell you nothing at all. Fighting your instincts to give short, guarded answers, you found yourself sharing about your life more than you expected. Not a lot, but not nothing either.

It was awkward and nice, not unlike a first date and when his large hand covered yours, it didn’t feel half as slimy as before.

A spider’s web was feather-light, so subtle it was almost impossible to feel until it was too late.

His eyes were sharp and deep and certain as he shifted closer, and you felt dazed, despite all the alcohol you hadn’t consumed.

When he leaned in, though, a thought struck you. With his deep hazel eyes, the perfect beard, and tanned skin, he looked like a prince. Not our prince, though, it was just someone else’s fairytale.

Clarity and your own confidence warmed you like a jacket one rainy day, and you touched Tom’s cheek, holding his face at enough of a distance. You shed the web before it stuck and something flickered in his eyes – doubt, maybe, or something like fear, as you spoke the most prominent thought on your mind. 

“What about Molly?”

-

When he heard you, again speaking words that weren't meant for his ears, warm pride shot through his chest.

That’s my girl.

Of course you weren’t, but it felt like you were.

You turned to him like you knew he was there, hand leaving Tom’s stunned face to wave at the grinning catcher.

Frankie had been at war with himself across the bar as he looked towards the two of you, heart wrenching. He had seen from the far side the room first how close you were to the other man. It was unreasonably terrifying to see that you weren't immune, to see you consider his friend. Then he saw how non responsive you’d become to Redfly, how politely you regarded him as he lathered on the charm. By the time he reached the two of you, he found you fully awake, handling it yourself.

When the woman had called you, her voice had betrayed something. It was formal conversation, just admitting she had shared your contact information, and disclosing that it was Tom, and he’d made it clear you guys were friends. Her tone, however, told you she was territorial and jealous, but also desperate, longing. It felt right to get out of the way – that’s what you and she wanted and you sort of thought that’s actually what he wanted, too. He was moving away from you, still processing, trying to play off the moment, and even more than pity, you felt a touch sad for them.

Still, you were impressed you were able to manage yourself. It was the same confidence that had filled you when you stood up for James, a confidence that came from a feeling that whispered something good was coming, something well worth the boldness.

When you felt a warm presence at your side, you felt even more sure. It felt wonderful, the way Francisco was looking at you. It was too early to read into it, but you were sure you wanted him to look at you like that again - like you were capable of telling mountains to move.

You smiled up at him, relieved, and he couldn’t help but beam back, wanting to hug you. He wasn’t feeling quite brave enough yet, but there was a resolve settling in his heart. There was no way he was going to leave your side tonight. 

The other guys came quickly. Each of them was excited to see you again, and you pretended not to notice them shooting confused glances at Redfly when he slipped outside to spit on the ground and stare at the sky. 

It didn’t take long for him to rejoin you, anyway, and his shoulders seemed lighter, his eyes just a little more thoughtful. 

The group as a whole accepted you into their fold like they needed you, like each one of them had missed you when you were gone, like you missed them, like you belonged there from the start.

You had no idea how long the daydream would last, but in that moment it didn’t feel like it mattered at all. Collecting stories for James even faded as a priority as you just enjoyed the feeling of the glass in your hands, the laughter in the air, and teasing the men like they were just boys. Even after the last half hour, it was easy to trust Will’s sincere tone, and Ben’s eager blue eyes. The others were grounded at your side, steady and comforting - you felt yourself open like a flower to the sun. 

There was something about the shape of the catcher at your side, safe and warm, like his presence was reaching for yours, aching with yours. Through the stories and the jokes you relished it, and his eyes made it clear that you weren’t alone. And even though the universe made it abundantly clear that you had no idea what would happen next, you didn’t feel any need to hurry. Fate seemed to know what she was doing.

In the darkness of the bar, only Santiago’s eyes saw Frankie’s hand find the small of your back.

<<

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize

hey batter batter taglist:

@icanbeyourjedi @studyofawearymind @hnt-escape @athalien

[rosesloveletters]

Simplicity.

pairing: Heath Ledger Joker x Reader

word count: 1,336

warnings: language, violence (mentions of blood) and some sexual themes.

summary: short sentence prompts revolving around reader’s relationship with J. 

notes: Hello! I wanted to share something different with you all this time, so I chose a prompt I have not done in a very long time. I used a random word generator to generate 50 words and I would write one or several sentences including and/or inspired by each individual word. If you would like to try out this prompt, visit this link for the random word generator I used. Please enjoy this fun little prompt I fulfilled with J in mind. 

unedited.

Quit

“I think I’m starting to get pretty good at this ‘committing heinous crimes and random acts of violence’ thing, aren’t I?” “uh-huh.” You fix him with a look of disbelief, to which J’s only response is, “don’t,ah, quit your day job, toots.”

Anger

The anger you feel doesn’t hold a torch to the rage within J every time that you disobey him.

Distance

The nights when you fall asleep next to J are the ones which make you feel miles apart.

Braid

You tentatively clutch the braided rope in your hands, wondering how long had it been beneath your bed and why J had hidden it there.

Steep

Being in a relationship with J is like trying to climb a mountain that is too steep for you to find any generous footing; if you cling too tightly, the surface gives way and you slide all the way back to rock bottom.

Quota

Guns are too quick, J reflects, but he’s got a quota to hit and so he reloads without another thought on the matter.

Bet

You would’ve bet that J would eventually have to sleep, but never would you have thought it would take this long.

Crystal

“No more blood on my sheets that isn’t mine or yours, J, do I make myself clear?”

“Mm…crystal.”

Hot

Blood oozes from the open cuts which litter your skin like tiny scratch marks and you wince in discomfort; nothing a hot bath, or tongue, can’t fix.

Moving

Imagining a life with J means taking into account the amount of times you’ll have to move to remain one step ahead of the Gotham Police Department.

Biscuit

J trying to stuff several biscuits into his mouth at once inspires you to make a mental note never to bake him any ever again.

Nonsense

You could not make heads or tails of some of the things J tells you and you wonder if perhaps it really isall nonsenseand there’s no ultimate meaning behind any of it at all.

Scene

Most days, you refuse to turn on your television for fear of another crime scene making its way onto your screen; you always know who’s to blame.

Bubble

The color of blood has always been J’s favorite and he has to concentrate not to smile fondly as the warm, sticky liquid bubble’s from his victim’s throat.

Possibility

When you were younger and more naïve, you used to believe in life’s endless possibilities, however, life on the run with Gotham’s most wanted criminal only has one viable outcome.

Basket

You follow the trail of dark red droplets all the way to your bedroom and the sight that meets you is enough to make you drop the basket of clean clothes you were carrying.

Literacy

J often leaves notes behind on the little doodles he scatters throughout your home. The first one you ever kept was written after he begrudgingly watched a nature documentary with you, inspiring him to leave a drawing and a note scrawled across the margins of the morning newspaper: ‘I hate bees’.

Step

To step up against J was to end your own life; even though you are still breathing, today is the day that you have officially died.

Distort

Your relationship with him was about as distorted as J’s grip on reality, but that was what made you love him the most.

Brown

J’s brown eyes contain the only bit of humanity within him.

Light

J’s face is illuminated by the flames, his stark white face paint glowing a pale orange by cause of the dying embers, and the sight makes you wonder what elsehe is keeping from you?

Beat

Should anyone lift a finger against you, J would not hesitate to deliver a beating they might never recover from.

Commitment

Much to your chagrin, the only thing that J is committed to is his work.

Patience

It might take some time for you to warm up to the idea of sharing a house (and a bed) with Gotham’s most notorious criminal, but J knows he can wait you out.

Shower

It’s the first time he’s had a shower in weeks and J’s expression remains indifferent as the water visibly grows darkin color from the grime that rinses off his body.

Preference

It is true that J has no preferences when it comes to who he is sleeping with, but he would be damned if you didn’t check all the boxes he would have had if he’d been anyone else.

Fool

Perhaps it was foolish of you to think that J could muster emotion of any depth in association to you.

Knock

You could have lived with polite knocking, but whenever J returns home it sounds like he’s about to break the door down.

Curl

J’s body encircles you, curling protectively around yours as you embrace each other in the pale lamplight.

Protection

Under J’s protection, you throw caution to the wind and allow him to do what he does best; you would never have daredto walk the streets of Gotham by night, yet now you travelled them carelessly under cover of darkness beneath the ever-watchful eye of your ever-present bodyguard.

Sow

“Ever since you came into my life, I’ve had nothing but bad days!” “Ya…reap what ya sow, huh, doll?”

Key

You gave J a key, but he somehow manages to get inside your house without ever using it.

Film

J doesn’t ever utter the ‘I love you’ words, but without fail does he watch every film you’ve ever picked even if it does not interest him; actions speak louder than words and in this case, you never would have needed him to say a word.

Digital

You really would’ve liked to know why J had such strong opinions about digital clocks.

Short

The first time J snaps at you for coming a bit too close when he’s in a foul mood shows you just how short of a fuse he has.

Second

A second’s glimpse gave you the impression that there is more beneath the surface of J’s hardened exterior.

View

“Quite a plea-sing view, ain’t it, doll?” J asks as you both admire the burning building.

Depression

You never see the side of J that is tender except on the days when it all becomes too much and you physically cannot get out of bed.

Check

Ever since J had come into your life, you have not felt the need to check underneath your bed and inside your closet before climbing into your bed.

Shelf

J intentionally puts everything you need on a high shelf and won’t ever retrieve it for you when you ask.

Switch

A switch to the other side gave you a taste of sweet adrenaline and you finally understood why J loved the chaos.

Trap

Every word you utter becomes another bar in the cage he traps you in and throws away the key; you cannot win an argument with J.

Damn

That damned clown is going to kill you, either out of love born from you’re your own misguided emotional ties to him or with a gun to the head in the middle of the night; you did not care which.

Relinquish

J will never relinquish control even if his life depends on it and, sometimes, it does.

Delete

You wish that removing emotions is as easy as pressing ‘delete’ on your keyboard, but nothing in life is that easy and J is determined to teach you that.

Incentive

Watching you undress in front of him was morethan enough of an incentive to keep J in line for now.

Swallow

“It ain’t polite to play with your food, sweets,” J growls, a smirk of superiority on his face as he watches you finally swallow your mouthful.

Relief

You are unable to express the amount of relief you feel on the night J returns from yet another unexplained period of extended absence.

Front

He puts up a good front, but you are aware of how much it bothers J every time they call him ‘crazy’.

Adventure

Sharing a life with J is a daily adventure and you never know what direction it will lead.

[namjoonchronicles]

healing | yg

↳ genre fluff, domestic, established relationship ↳ words 1.9k ↳ summary Yoongi maybe the worst in projecting his emotions, but his actions don’t lie ↳ warning suggestive content ↳ song james arthur ‘let me love the lonely’ ‘safe inside’ ‘can i be him’ ‘certain things’

“I would do anything to forget.” “And I would do anything to remember.”

The second male lead actor bore a wounded expression on his handsome face. The female lead actress was unapologetic and relentless to his heart. She swore that forgetting that she ever loved him is the only way to go on with her life. But the actor finally remembered all the love they had before he loses his memories as a result of an accident orchestrated by his step mother. He pretended to not remember just to know how she really felt about him. She said enough. Yoongi gawks at the screen. “Does that even make sense? How can he stay silent after that? How can he be okay with just that? What a load of bull--” His phone vibrates just as he is about to curse. With his wife’s picture flashing on the screen, he wipes his hand on his flannels and refastened the velcro straps of his arms to secure them back on. “Hello?”

“Hey sweetie, what are you doing?” “Watching that episode was a mistake, why would they ruin the story like that, everything was going just fine, I don’t understand…” You chuckled at your husband’s adorable whines, and “How far in were you?” “Joonsoo told Bora that he wanted to remember…Ah! I am so upset, I am not going to watch the rest of the episode… I don’t care…” “But you have to see what happens after that! A little spoiler for you…” you sang and he replied, “Ah! Ah, no. Don’t tell me what happens. No!” “She knew that Joonsoo’s memories came back, but she is doing that to follow Joonsoo’s mother's instructions…” you told him anyways. Yoongi leans back into his chair and it wobbles back and forth at his weight. He swiveled away from the screen, holding the phone close to his ear and he sighed out loud. “Why did you call me?” “I am just walking out a fried chicken hawker stall and was wondering if you’d like some but I remember your doctor saying you can’t have oily food… so that’s cancelled.” His wife is a tease. All she does is tease. Yoongi left his home studio and walked down the hallway to the living room. He then revealed to you that he found your gastric medication laying around the cabinet with several pills gone. Yoongi had always been so attentive towards things like these. Ever since he had to stay home longer than usual because of his shoulder surgery, he is policing you around with his keen eyes. He found out that you don’t really take care of yourself as well as you told him you were. There were antacids, antiemetics and all kinds of painkillers he found in the medicine cabinet that weren't his. This was alarming, at least to Yoongi. “You’re telling me that you crawled to work despite having gastric two days prior?” he scolded you with a low monotonous voice, pinky pushing the blisters away to see just how much you’ve been taking behind his back. “It’s nothing to worry about, it’ll go away soon… I learn endurance from the best,” you pushed your tongue to cheek, leisuring down the pedestrian walk area, pouting hard at your husband. “You’re talking back at me,” he scoffs, “I taught you that? I guess it's fair… Have you eaten?” You didn’t eat because you don’t have the appetite. After the gastric attack happened, you have been vomiting every time you ate, and your throat burns every time from the acid reflux. “Eating is terrifying…” you confessed. Yoongi poked his head into the refrigerator after the call ended. He took out leek, dried lavers, and whatever he could find in the fridge to start a small dinner. And he did them all with one hand. It wasn’t easy. The carrots were roughly chopped and the potatoes are barely peeled properly. It’s the best dish to take after gastric. He took a couple cups of rice and had them washed under running water. He measured the water and threw in a thumb-sized ginger so it got cooked together. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he really enjoys cooking. He was raised in a house that always belittled women's chores and because of the whole ‘boys shouldn’t cook’ agenda, he was more curious than ever in the kitchen. It comes naturally to him. He would secretly help his mom cook and prepare food to sell in school during the day. It remains one of the memories he is most fond of. He doesn’t really like telling people out loud how he feels. It was something  you both had in common. Coming together was difficult. It was like a race to the end, who will clamor up or who will fall apart faster, to you. Yoongi was determined to keep his emotions sealed in his dungeon called heart. Which was ridiculous, because everyone knows, the more you try to hide your feelings, the louder it is. He doesn’t say ‘I love you’ like normal people. His ‘I love you’s’ are scattered all around you. It was in the walls he painted and in the bookshelf he helped build. It’s in the picture of the milky way he took and in the pile of bandages he bought you when you sprained your ankle. They say, the eyes are windows to the soul. Yoongi had never looked you in the eye. It’s like he runs away from the things he wants the most. It almost made you give up. Seeing how the feelings aren’t verbally reciprocated almost made you leave. Winter, several years ago, “For Yoongi-hyung, you have to force it out of him…” Taehyung advised. “I don’t want to force him…” you sighed, “What if he does this to all his girl friends?” Taehyung stared at you dead in the eye with a cunning smile. “What does your heart tell you?” He asked. “My heart had been wrong before,” You shot back. Taehyung suddenly turned his attention to his phone, his face shone by the light from the screen and he smirked, “If he doesn’t, would he be running all the way up here at this time?” Just then, Yoongi bursted through the door. Chest heaving up and down, eyes blown wide, mouth gaping. His eyes darted to Taehyung and then to you. “You know he won’t leave his bed for anything…” Taehyung glances at you with a knowing smile, “What could this mean?” He feigned a surprised face at you and walked towards the door at Yoongi. And even then, he wouldn’t confess. “You love me, right?” you asked him. “It’s already so late…” “Please answer me…” He appeared conflicted. “Min Yoongi, you don’t love me?” “I… Let’s not do this…” “I think you do… Everyone knows you love me, everybody. Everyone, but you…” “Let’s talk in the morning…” At that time, Yoongi is afraid of commitment despite never really having problems actually committing. His past relationship didn’t go so well because he felt inadequate. And for that, he feared karma. He left the last one because he didn’t think he could be a good person for her. He was bound by depression, crippling sadness and fear so great, it left him in shambles. Being in a relationship back then made him feel like a boulder to a smooth sailing ship. He felt dragged along. He was responsible for two hearts and it felt a lot at the time. He knows just how much hurt he caused her and he knows that karma will come after him. That’s why when he fell for you, his first reaction was to be defensive. He doesn’t want the same hurt to happen to you. Because, what if he hurts you?

“And if I tell you I don’t care?”

The winter arrived on schedule this year. You shivered as you walked into your house. Yoongi is still in the kitchen, turning off the stove. “You didn’t rest like I told you to!” “How could I if you were not eating… I rested for a surgery and couldn’t cook ever since I returned, and you are already getting gastric from not eating…” You helped Yoongi carry the soup on the table. And you scooped him his rice. He was right. Your appetite went down ever since you had to cook on your own. His cooking has always been the thing you look forward to when you return home, but now, you don’t feel like eating because it’s always the same food over and over again. “Does it taste good?” He asked, lovingly. His eyes oozing fondness. “So-very good…” you said with a mouthful. “I have to shower after this… I am sweating so much,” he spoke to his bowl of rice. You unbuttoned his shirt and carefully slid the long sleeves down his arm. You keep glancing up his face to see if he is in any type of discomfort. His ears were the first to turn bright red and he had been biting his lower lip ever since you started undressing him. That wasn’t alarming. The strange thing about Yoongi is that he giggles or laughs when he is in pain. No giggles is fine. No smiles are good. By the time you took off his flannel buttoned up shirt, his face was bright red like he had been drinking whiskey. You couldn't help but smile when he gets sheepish like this. He looks like a sheep ready for the slaughter room. Next thing to come off is his trousers. The bath is ready and he climbs in. You went to the cabinet and showed him two bath bombs he could choose from. He wanted the lavender one. You always liked how it smells. Yoongi sat docile in the middle of the bath, while you swept his hair back and dabbed his face with a dampened towel. Then you move to his back and wipe along the spine, carefully avoiding harsh movements around the stitches on his shoulder. “The stitches are coming together nicely,” you spoke in whispers. Just the sound of the water dripping into the pool was heard. Yoongi let out an encouraging, “Is it…” “The skin around it is not swollen, and its closing up prettily,” you gushed, “At this rate you can start physical therapy around next month...?” “That’s nice to hear…” He hums happily, “I had been feeling rather helpless, and shackled, and unable to work at the speed I used to.” “Hence,” you started with a scolding tone, “Take care of yourself better from today onwards. Everyone frets around you, worried and bustling over you. Coddling you like a baby…when you get hurt like this, you worry everyone. Why did you keep quiet about this pain for so long…This type of perseverance is inhumanly. What are you… a saint?” He chuckles. You took off your own shirt and garments. Yoongi mashed his lips together, stealing glances on your body and when you climbed in the same tub and started washing yourself, he started to gather all the foams. “That’s why, stop hurting yourself…” you repeated your warning, unhooking your bra and throwing it on the marble floor next to your crumpled heap of blouses and trousers. Yoongi sighs. Loudly this time. “What is it now…” you blinked at him. “I want to get well faster… I missed unhooking your bras with my own hands…” 

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Copyright © January 6th, 2021 namjoonchronicles do not repost, and thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are free!

[baby-blossoms]

Cold Eyes

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester x Reader (platonic)

Word Count: 3,983

Summary/Request: “hey sorry if this is too specify but could you do a dean x reader where she grew up in a really abusive household and had an older brother but she couldn't deal with it anymore so she ran away when she was 15 and she somehow became a hunter and is now dating dean (he doesn't know about her past) but she runs into her brother while on a hunt and she starts having flashbacks so sam and dean get super protective and pull her away from him and she tells them about her past and it's like insanely fluffy”

Warnings: TRIGGER WARNING! This story deals with triggering material revolving around child ab*se. Ab*sive Father, Cussing, Alcoholism, Blasphemy (taking the Lord's name in vain.) ((Apologies to those I offended, I’ve gotten a few messages about this)) Mentions of high anxiety and panic attacks. All around, if you are triggered easily, I would not recommend this story for you. 

**** BELOW THE CUT IS POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING MATERIAL ****

      “Y/N, if you leave this house, you better hope I never fucking see you again!” 

       You flinched as your father slammed his fists against your bedroom door, trying to push it open. A barricade of practically anything you could possibly push in front of it was currently the only thing keeping you safe. You had finally had enough. Your father drank alcohol like water and used you as a punching bag. Your brother took his anger at your father out on you, and God knows where your mother was half the time. No fifteen year old should have to go through any of it. Your yearning for escape had finally overpowered your fear of your father, and you were frantically shoving anything you could think of needing into a duffel bag before he could manage to get past your haphazard barricade. 

      “Trust me, I promise we’ll never be anywhere near each other again.” 

You said, knowing full well your father couldn’t hear you over his own drunken screams of outrage. 

      Yanking your window open, you kicked out the screen, climbed out of it, and ran like hell. The promise you made to your father that night was one you planned on keeping for the rest of your life. 

       You ran down your street, but it never seemed to end, only growing longer with every step you took. Turning to look behind you, you saw your father coming closer to you by the second, his hand raised, ready to hurt you more than he ever did before. He caught you, and you kicked and struggled as hard as you could, trying desperately to escape his grasp. His eyes were just as you remembered, they lacked any shred of empathy, humanity even. Other children grew up fearing the boogeyman, you were terrified of your own father and his cold eyes. 

      “Y/N!” 

His voice sounded wrong, too deep, too gravely. 

       “Y/N?”

Your eyes shot open to Dean hovering above you, his eyebrows knit in concern. You held back a heavy sigh of relief. 

      “Baby, you kicked the hell out of me. Are you okay?”

You checked the clock next to your crappy hotel bed. Six in the morning. Your dreams liked to torment you with memories of your childhood, especially the night you escaped that godforsaken house. You had run for your life, and your father never caught up to you, but your brain liked to play the lovely ‘what if you didn’t escape, though?’ game. 

        “I’m sorry, hun. Jus’ go back to sleep…” 

       Dean stared at you for a moment, then giving you a soft kiss before collapsing back onto the bed to gain some much-needed rest. You knew you weren’t going back to sleep. Sleep never came easy to you, but it was ten times more elusive after a nightmare about your childhood. 

      You sighed in annoyance at your own brain for weaving such cruel dreams into your night. Deciding to get some coffee, you got ready for the day as quietly as possible, tiptoeing around the boys as if they were sleeping bears, which they practically were. The town you were in was too close to your “home” town. You knew it was unlikely you’d see your father, he rarely left the house unless he needed to earn some money or burn it all on beer again. Either way, there was a constant dread in your stomach the moment Dean pulled Baby into the janky little town.

---

      “Hey, I got coffee!” you said as you entered the room once more. Sam was already pouring over something on the laptop. Dean sat staring blankly at one of his knives, most likely examining it for any imperfections as he had nothing better to do at the moment.

       “Y/N, I could kiss you.” 

Sam sighed out thoughtlessly, plucking a cup out of the drink carrier you held.

       “Sure, if you wanna get throat-punched.” 

Dean replied without hesitation. You chuckled, placing the other two drinks on the bedside table next to the bed you and Dean shared. 

       “Sorry Sammy,” you said with a smile, “I don’t like long hair.” 

       Sam glanced back to you with a raised eyebrow, a shit-eating grin lighting up his features,

       “So,” he replied, “you’re saying if I cut my hair…?” 

Dean grumbled and pulled you onto the bed with him. You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing. 

       “Watch yourself, Sam.”

You stated simply, giggling at his face of repulsion when Dean pulled you against his chest and started kissing up and down your neck. 

       “On that note, let’s be ready for this case. We’ve definitely got at least two, maybe three vampires picking off people in pairs.

       You groaned in annoyance, vampires were so tedious. Dean laughed silently against you, knowing your hatred for the blood-suckers. You hummed softly and turned to face him, bringing him into a soft kiss that became more heated with every second. He smiled against your lips and moaned lightly, pressing you even tighter against him. 

      “Jesus, I am still in the room!”

Sam said, his voice practically screaming his discomfort. You and Dean separated. Dean sighed, letting his head fall back against his pillow.

      “Ya mind not being in the room then, Sammy?”

You suppressed a laugh at the annoyed look Sam shot Dean’s way before quickly collecting his gear and heading out of the room. The moment the hotel door closed, Dean didn’t hesitate to pull you against him once more. 

----

      Dean led you toward the library. Nightfall was approaching and you needed to regroup before the vampires had a chance to strike again. Sam sat at a table toward the back of the library, fully engulfed in whatever article he had was typing on his laptop. Dean glanced toward you, a wide mischievous smile stretching across his lips. You shook your head and simply watched as Dean stalked quietly toward Sam.

        “Dude, I could hear you from a mile away.” 

        Sam said, and Dean huffed in frustration that Sam had ruined his fun. You approached the boys, already uncomfortable with the thought of being stuck in a library. You weren’t necessarily in a reading mood, and it wasn’t like you needed to research vampires. They were what threw you into the hunting life. A piece of shit vampire had seen a young vulnerable looking girl obviously traveling alone, fortunately Bobby had happened to be in just the right place at the right time. He took you in and taught you everything you knew. He never questioned why you used to flinch harder at him raising a hand too fast than at a full grown werewolf snapping its jaws at your face. You were always grateful for him treating you like his own till the day he died. Bobby was a saint to you, more of a father than your own had ever been.

        Obviously you came in contact with the Winchesters, having been with Bobby all those years. Dean had taken quite an infatuation with you, and Sammy had a small crush, but he respected Dean’s feelings too much to do anything about it. You missed Bobby, but once he was gone, there was no point in you staying at his house anymore. You finally gave into your feelings for Dean and took to the road with the boys. Now here you were, only miles from the very place you started. Miles from the place you vowed to never come back to.

       “Baby, you okay?” 

       You jumped slightly at Dean’s question, you had fully zoned out thinking about your past. You nodded, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling in your stomach. Something felt off. 

      “Y/n, seriously, what’s up?”

 Dean questioned once more, his eyebrows were now knit in concern. You had never told Dean about your childhood. Every time that topic came to life, you quickly changed the subject or gave vague answers. You didn’t want him to pity you for the family you were born into. You didn’t want your shitty past to affect your future, and you didn’t know how Dean would react. At this point in your relationship, you weren’t sure it was even smart to tell him about it. 

     “I guess I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night, after all.” 

      Dean didn’t look satisfied with your answer whatsoever, and he went to further question you, but you swiftly took a seat next to Sam. Sam glanced at you, offered a small smile, and continued typing away. 

     “So what are we dealing with here, Sammy?”

You asked, leaning back into the padded chair. It smelled funny. You frowned, choosing to instead sit on the edge of the chair. You could handle blood, guts, and all the other things that came with hunting, but publicly used furniture like this was where you drew the line. God knows how long it had been since the chairs had been properly cleaned. By the smell that oozed off of them, clearly the cleaning had not been recent.

     “Well,” Sam said, pausing for a moment to finish up whatever he was typing out, “It shouldn’t be too bad. It’s two vampires terrorizing towns all over the state. Looks like a couple, honestly.” 

      You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Murdering innocent people and draining their blood. How romantic. You looked to Dean, going to make a sarcastic comment, but he was already staring you down. Clearly he was not ready to let go of your brief conversation. Sighing, you turned back to Sam. He looked between you and Dean awkwardly, clearly sensing the tension between the two of you. 

      “Uh,” Sam looked about ready to sink into his chair. “Well… anyway… I hacked into a security camera around where the last two bodies were found. Here.” 

       He spun the laptop toward you, and you squinted at the terrible quality video. The male vampire ate like an absolute pig, he practically tore his victim to shreds, splattering blood everywhere. The female was surprisingly neat and well mannered for a vampire devouring the blood of its victim. Disgust overtook your features as you watched them practically eat each other’s faces as well once they were done feeding. Kissing with blood smeared all over Dean’s face was not your number one romantic fantasy if you were being honest. 

     “Okay, well enough of that.” you cringed at the disgusting display of affection, spinning the laptop away from you. “Should be easy. The woman is my worry, they’re always harder to get. Male vampires love to run right into a fight, the girl will probably strategize before she attacks.” 

      Sam nodded in agreement. Not all male vampires ran straight into the attack, but most did. You expected nothing less from this one, especially watching the hyper-aggressive way he ate. 

      “Who knows, Y/n, maybe he’s smarter than you think.” 

Dean grunted. You shrugged. Maybe. 

     “We can never be too safe. Just don’t underestimate either of them.” 

You responded. 

    “Yeah, maybe they’re hiding something. Doesn’t it suck when people hide things from you?”

Dean quipped back. You narrowed your eyes at him. He was being petty now. Sure, you could see how not telling him everything might upset him, but you hated when people were petty. 

     “Okay, well when you’re done acting like a high-schooler, I’ll be preparing for the hunt.”

     You stood from your smelly library chair, and quickly made your way back to the streets. Practically slamming the doors open, you didn’t even know where you were going, but you didn’t want to be anywhere near that library and its god awful smelling seats. 

    Your thoughts were interrupted when you abruptly ran into seemingly the only other person out on the streets that night. You withheld an angry exclamation, it was your own fault for not paying attention to where you were going, but god it was infuriating either way.

    “Oh sorry.” 

You began, your next words dying in your throat when you made eye contact with the man you had run into. He had your father’s eyes. They lacked any emotion, they were cold. You felt a wave of nausea in your stomach, and practically jumped away from him. 

    “Y/N?” 

    Your stomach twisted. You felt the blood leave your face, and considered pretending not to know who the hell he was talking about. You never wanted to see him again either. The situation you were put in prevented you both from ever becoming as close as siblings should have, let alone nearly as close as Sam and Dean. Your brother, Danny, only got worse as time went by. He seemed to lose all empathy as the two of you grew older.

---

    You sat in your bedroom, reading the latest book in your vast collection. They felt like the only way you could escape your reality at that point. Your father refused to give you any form of technology, and wouldn’t allow you to watch television with him in the living room. You were only provided with books he approved of, or ones you managed to sneak in under his nose when he passed out on the living room couch. The book you were reading at the time was a perfect example of one you weren’t supposed to be reading. Anything revolving around traveling the world, or freedom of thought and speech, your father hated. 

     Anything that might give you any semblance of hope outside of that house was absolutely forbidden. He constantly reminded you that he owned you, that you weren’t even allowed to think a certain way unless he said you could. As you grew older, even being forced into homeschooling, you obviously formed your own thoughts, opinions, and personality. You never expressed any of these things to him, but rage started to build within you, buried under your fear for him. 

     “What are you doing?” 

     You jumped, slamming the book shut and shoving it under your pillow. Your brother stood at your bedroom door, eyeing you in suspicion. 

     “Nothing, Danny. What do you want?” 

Danny scoffed, slowly stalking toward you. You cringed with every step he took closer to you and your smuggled book. You knew this wouldn’t end well. Your brother would snitch if it meant his skin was saved from a beating. It was almost as if your father had a daily tally going. Whoever did the most wrong, or annoyed him the most would be punished every night. You felt as if yours were always more severe than Danny’s. Danny rarely ever got punished anyway, he made sure of that. 

    “I want to know what you’re reading.” 

He replied.

    “Danny, stop it!” 

    You cried out, trying to stop him as he quickly lunged for the book under your pillow. He held it up, a victorious smile painting his lips. His eyebrows knit in anger as he read the description of your book. His glare toward you shifted to pure anxiety when his eyes darted to your bedroom door. You tensed. You knew what that look of fear meant. Father was awake. 

     “What the fuck are you two making so much noise for? What are you doing Danny?”

Danny shook his head quickly, holding up the book for your father to see while he quickly explained,

    “It’s Y/n’s! I caught her reading this stuff, I was just telling her to get rid of it.”

    Fear shot straight to your heart, and you stared at your lap, trying to keep yourself from shaking. Every step your father took closer to that book was a step closer to your next punishment. You understood Danny throwing you under the bus this time, but still resented him for it. 

   “What the fuck is this bullshit, Y/n? I didn’t say you could read this propaganda!”

You let out a small cry when he grabbed your chin so harshly you knew it would bruise. Forcing you to look at him, he sneered, 

    “Going behind my back and reading shit like this under my fucking roof? You’re in for it this time, little girl.”

    He hit the side of your head so hard with the book, you became dizzy for a moment, and your hearing was muffled. At least you could only hear him screaming at you through one ear. That was only the start of what he had planned for you. He made Danny watch everything he did to you. Danny didn’t show an ounce of emotion the entire time. His eyes bore into yours. They were cold and unapologetic. Better you than him, right? That was the day you realized Danny had your father’s cold eyes.

---

   “Y/n?”

   You snapped out of your worst memory with Danny, feeling like you really might throw up, scream, run, cry, or punch him. 

   “No.” 

You stated, moving to walk past him. He grabbed your arm, so hard you knew it would bruise. You felt as if your lungs were collapsing in on themselves. You felt trapped. You felt like that fifteen year old girl again, helpless to everything going on around her. Isolated, terrified, and wanting nothing more than to run. 

   “Y/n, I know it’s you. You have dad’s eyes.” 

You tore your arm from his grasp, feeling as though your heart had stopped beating the moment you heard him utter those words. Those disgusting words.

   “Don’t you ever compare me to him! Don’t you dare say I look anything like that fucking monster!” 

   Danny took a step toward you, and you matched him with a step back. 

   “Y/n, dad would love to see you.” 

You stared at your brother, appalled. 

   “So he can beat me again? Call me worthless? So he can fucking torture me while you watch?”

Danny shook his head, grabbing your shoulders, 

   “Y/n, it's been years. We’re still your family.”

You laughed at him, pain lacing your voice as you practically screamed,

   “I will never consider either of you my family! You did nothing, Danny! He beat me, and you just watched! You stood there and fucking watched as he beat me! You just wanted to save your own ass. You never cared when we were children, neither of you did, so don’t you dare act like you care now!” 

   Danny’s eyes betrayed his apologetic expression. He had no intent on letting you go without a fight.

Click. 

   “Get the fuck away from her, you piece of shit.”

Your eyes started watering in pure relief at the sound of Dean’s voice. You were shaking, too many traumatic and repressed memories were slamming through you like a tornado. Danny’s grip on you loosened in surprise, just enough to let you pull back and jab him in the throat.

   “Mother fucker!”

Danny wheezed out, stumbling backward and falling on his ass. 

   You didn’t think, you bolted. You sprinted as hard and fast as you could straight to the hotel, not once looking back. 

----

   You sat in the hotel bathtub, trying to choke back sobs. Trying as hard as you could to stop yourself from having a panic attack. You knew something felt off earlier. It was your gut telling you to get the hell out of that town. A knock on the door almost sent you into a full panic until you saw it was Dean. You were terrified of the thought of Danny tracking you down and dragging you kicking and screaming back to your worst nightmare. The sight of Dean calmed you slightly, but you were still on the brink hyperventilating. 

   “Baby…” 

   Dean took a few tentative steps toward the bathtub, silently gauging whether or not it was okay for him to be near you, let alone touch you after what happened with your brother. You squeezed your eyes shut, drawing shaking breaths in and out, trying more than anything to keep it together. 

  “Do you want me here?” 

   He asked after a moment. You nodded your head in affirmation. Dean stepped into the bathtub, struggling to sit comfortably in it. It was comical how small his larger stature made the tub look. You let out a raspy laugh, and Dean smiled softly at you. He slowly and gently guided you to lay on top of him, your head resting on his chest. 

   You laid there in silence for almost an hour. Dean didn’t try to pry anything out of you, he simply rubbed your back and ran his fingers through your hair. He didn’t even need to speak to calm you down. Eventually your breathing came easily again, and you finally whispered,

  “How much did you hear?”

Dean sighed, his voice nothing but factual as he responded, 

  “Everything.”

You nodded. 

  “My dad… he was worse than any monster we’ve ever hunted. He hurt me in more ways than I thought possible.” 

You finally adjusted to look Dean in the eyes. They didn’t hold any pity, just sorrow.

  “You don't have to…”

You cut him off quickly,

   “I want you to know everything. I don’t ever want to hide anything from you, Dean.”

Dean nodded, giving you a soft smile. 

   “He would do unspeakable things to me, and make Danny watch. It got to the point Danny would get me into trouble on purpose- to save his own ass. He didn’t care, just as long as it wasn’t him getting the beating.” you paused, taking in a few shaky breaths, “One night he told Danny to hold me down while he punished me for speaking out of line. Even when I screamed and pleaded, Danny just held me down while my father punished me. My brother was long gone, he stared into my eyes, and it was almost as if he couldn’t hear or see me. I was only fifteen.” 

   Dean’s eyes were glossy with tears, you could tell it hurt him to hear, but you felt he deserved to know everything. His voice was thick and raspier than usual as he murmured, 

  “You don’t ever have to worry about him. I made sure he’ll never look for you, let alone touch you, again.”

You could only imagine what Dean and Sam had done with Danny the moment you left. 

   “It was my dad who caused those scars on my stomach. The ones I told you were from a hunt gone wrong. I ran away the night he carved them into me, and I never looked back. After a few days of traveling I was attacked by a vampire. Bobby saved my life. That was the night I consider my life to have actually started. Bobby saved my life in more ways than I could ever explain.” 

   Dean wrapped his arms around you, holding you against him as if the moment he let go you might disappear. 

   “I’m sorry about earlier, baby. I didn’t…”

He trailed off with a sigh. You knew what he meant. He never could’ve imagined it was this that you were hiding from him.

   “No, I’m sorry for keeping it from you for so long, darling. You deserved to know, especially with how long we’ve been together. I was scared it would push you away, or make you look at me differently.” 

   Dean shook his head adamantly.

   “Y/n, I’ll love you no matter what. I knew I wanted to be with you when I saw you smile for the first time. You could try to kill me, and I’d probably still follow you around like a dumbass.”

You laughed, drawing him into a gentle kiss.

   “I love you so much, Dean.”

You whispered. Dean kissed you softly once more, then whispering back,

   “I will love you with everything in me until the day I die… again...” he trailed off for a moment before adding, “I’ll love you even when I’m dead.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

   “I don’t think you’ll ever permanently die anyway, Dean.” 

Dean laughed with you, retorting,

   “I’ll love you every time I get brought back, too.”

[passivenovember]

The Skull on the Shelf that Bares My Name

This is my first time posting a fic on tumblr, so. Here goes nothing

__

Billy was like an oil painting that had been around for a thousand years. Pretty in the right lighting, hideous in the swell of nightfall. All rough edges and smeared color, full of broken things inside that cut through the air and rattled around like shattered glass whenever anyone got too close, bristling and blowing with the 75mph wind that tumbled through his soul.

Billy thought it was breathtaking.

Thought he was breathtaking with split knuckles and broken ribs. Matted hair tangled with dried blood. Busted lips painted red, color spilling down his chin when he smiled too wide at his reflection.

He liked it messy and hideous.

Did everything he could to destroy the precious image, the golden boy.

He had always been pretty. Like a girl; sparkly eyes and curly hair. Neil had always old him someone would come along and color outside the lines, scribble over the image his mother had left behind and Billy had always been so breakable in the face of adversity.

Flinching against hurt and agony until it became commonplace. Until he grew tired of gluing himself back together every night under the light of the moon.

His face was beautiful like a sculpture carved from stone, or a window into the face of his mother and her mother, but.

Billy himself was like a cardboard box full of glass.

The Billy on the inside was sharp.

And crude.

And violent, when the mood struck him. Ask anyone and they'd tell you; guy's like a train barreling through an apartment building.

And he was.

A glorious, terrible, beautiful, ravenous storm brewing in the open sea.

Billy hadn't known girls could be hazardous.

He knew they were soft. Pretty, delicate and sometimes tough when they had to be. His mother had been like that--brazen. Flighty and aggressive in a different way, like when the sun emerges from the clouds and shines too brightly.

She was warm and loving.

Perfect in her femininity. Billy looked nothing like his mother because she dressed like a wood nymph, all sheer fabric and dresses that defied gravity. Her hair was blonde and curly, always pinned back with clips and beautiful scarves and Billy wanted desperately to look like her.

Film star beauty.

Painted lips, soft hands. When she threw herself off the bridge he brushed his fingertips over the fabric in her closet and tried to imagine what it would feel like to have the world at your feet.

She was so beautiful it felt like swallowing tar.

Hot and boiling on a summer's day.

Billy pulled something from the rack, ran his fingers around the liquid soft fabric of his mother's favorite dress; the white one with the pearl neckline that felt like water settling around his shoulders. They said she was going to be buried in this one and Billy hated it.

Hated that something so beautiful, so delicate would rot away in the cool, damp earth.

He sat in front of her vanity and watched the light twinkle against the jewels that littered the countertop; rubies, emeralds, opal stone cut into neat shapes. When he was a child Billy's mother would let him play with her rings because they made good skipping stones in the pond out back.

We'll always find more, his mother would say, and it was true. Neil spared no expense in making her shine like a million stars as if she didn't already steal the air from every room.

Pocket it in her velvet handbags for safekeeping.

Billy put a ring on each finger and studied his reflection in the pristine vintage mirror.

He looked like a rat.

A rat in a pretty dress, playing pretend for a day.

The front door slammed open and Billy put the dress back on the hanger.

The girl on the T.V. wasn't like his mother at all.

Not soft or feminine, but smoldering. Alight with power and freedom as she strutted around the stage. She looked like her eyes were swimming in water; thick black makeup smudged around green orbs, hair messy and tangled, legs littered bruises that peaked through the holes in her stockings as the lights threw her into disarray.

Slut kiss girls won't you promise her smack

is she ugly on the inside

is she ugly from the back...

The woman was a disaster packaged in something almost pretty but not quite. Like a beauty queen moments after winning the crown fair and square, tear stained makeup and fleeting promises of eternal beauty. She flung herself around the stage, dress ripped to shreds as the hands of the audience tried to tear away pieces of her flesh.

Her fingers were bruised and bloody as she wailed away on the guitar. Nails cracked and worn with the weight of her vengeance. With each press of her lips against the microphone the color oozed outside the lines of her mouth until she looked like a living dead girl and Billy.

He had never seen someone so beautiful.

The first time he put on a dress for real it had been an homage to his silver screen queen.

Black shift dress. Baby doll sleeves. Torn stockings and barrettes in his hair.

Kinderwhore they called it.

Billy stood awkwardly in front of the mirror in the bathroom and tried to make sense of the princess seam that came to an unsteady rest just above the line of his ribs. The clinging fabric felt nothing like the one his mother had been buried in it felt.

Dirty.

Sinful. Instantly cloaked in assumptions; he does heroin. He's a a bum and a loser in search of something the music can't give him so he searches for it in the sting of a needle. Billy bit down on his lips until they bled.

The color ran thick like maple syrup over the skin of his face, bringing out the blue in his eyes as it ran down his chin. As it caught in the stubble-rough landing of his jawline.

Billy looked like a mess.

Instantly, he was addicted. The first time Billy saw her he knew; that was his own image reflected back at him from the fifteen inch screen.

He began looking for inspiration wherever he could find it.

Debbie Harry, Freddie Mercury, Joan Jett, David Bowie. Women and men. Gods. His heroes. Feminine and masculine and dirty.

Courtney Love was always his favorite.

Filthy. Absolutely gut wrenching. Every time he saw her perform it was like his spleen was being ripped out and Billy couldn't escape the way he saw so much of himself reflected in her. All his rage and discomfort, his fury amplified by a million.

So he tried to emulate it.

Billy shopped around local thrift stores to find leopard print jackets and peasant tops. Dresses that hung wide or snuggled against the swell of his hips, kitten heels that brought much needed length to his hamburger legs and when he brought them home, always through the backdoor and stuffed carefully into a trash bag, Neil would raise an eyebrow.

Playing dress up?

Billy would grimace. Max is lookin' to be a Debbie Harry for Halloween. 'M helpin' her find the prefect dress.

And Neil drank like the answers sawm in a bottle of gin, so.

He would raise a fist at that. Never fully convinced but satiated, content with Billy playing the perfect older brother. His nose would bleed on the nights when Neil couldn't shake the impression that his son was a faggot but that was as far as it went.

Max never asked questions and Billy never told her the truth; that he felt more like himself when Courtney Love stared back at him in the mirror.

She sat with him sometimes.

Watched him apply his mother's lipstick, carefully at first and then all at once when the music carried him down.

Black lung coat and your little crown That's the crown that you get for falling down Hey baby, let me look in your eyes I see you standing in a weird red light...

"Why do you listen to this shit?" Max wrinkled her nose. Like a freckled bunny rabbit, it was kind of ridiculous. "She screams so fuckin' loud, you can't even understand what she's--"

"Mascara."

"Why? I know girls who would kill for your eyelashes."

Billy snapped his fingers. Max handed over the little black tube with a trademark eye roll, resting her chin in her hands as Billy repeated the process of careful application and then careless destruction of his hard work.

"Look prettier when you keep it nice," She snapped.

And Billy just chuckled. "I don't wanna look nice."

Max stared at him, popping a jaw breaker into her mouth. "Why not? Isn't that the whole point of makeup, to look pretty?"

Billy scrubbed at his eyes, warmth flooding his stomach again at the way the blue stood out against the black ring around his eyes. Like carefully crafted bruises, nothing like the ones Neil gave him. He shrugged his shoulders.

"That's so fuckin' predictable." He sat on the bed, pushing the hem of his skirt to roll the nylon against his legs.

"Using makeup and clothes to look worse, fuckin' idiotic." Max grumbled, but she watched with glowing eyes as Billy began scraping his nails down the length, creating runs in the delicate fabric.

"You gonna sit there yapping or are you gonna help?" He bitched.

Max slid to her knees in front of him, getting to work tearing holes into the stockings the way she knew Billy liked.

It was therapeutic, almost, having the help.

"I like when you do Blondie." She said after a while. "Fuck ton less work and Courtney makes you aggressive. She's got the energy of a horny dude, it's fucked up."

Billy smirked.

It was always more fun to play pretend with Max and her bitchy voice tethering him to the ground. He feared that, without it, he'd get lost in the feeling of freedom. Fly too close to the sun or something, catch on fire when he inevitably missed the tell-tale creek of the floorboards that meant Neil was listening in.

Max annoyed the hell out of him, but.

She kept him safe. Why, he didn't know.

Maybe she really was interested in the whole thing, electing to believe that every boy wanted to be a girl because the alternative meant her brother was sick in a way that couldn't be cured.

Billy stood, slipping on the kitten heels while Max held his hand.

He admired his handiwork.

"Gotta hand it you," Max whistled, low like a wolf. "Gets shittier every time we do it."

"Shut up, brat." But Billy was grinning.

For Max, that was a compliment.

Don't blush when I rip you open Hey baby, let me look in your eyes As you go off into your weird red light...

He ran his hands down the soft fabric, relishing the way the hem tickled the sensitive skin of his thighs.

He was pretty.

Not like his mother, not like Courtney Love, but.

Uniquely himself.

Max cocked her head to the side. "Don't you get tired of getting all dressed up with nowhere to go?"

Billy bristled. "Oh yeah? And where could I go in San Fran that wouldn't skin me on the spot for dressing like a bitch?"

"Castro." The gay area.

Billy felt his cheeks darken. He thought about it for a second; the lights, the thralls of people just letting the light in. Being themselves.

He shook his head, turning back to the mirror with a glare. "Yeah, okay. I'll get right on that."

"Cool, I'll just fetch my coat." Max turned to leave, chucking when Billy trapped her with an iron grip. "Relax, spaz. Neil would kill us both if he saw you looking like that."

And.

She was right. Billy had thought about it countless times before, what would happen if he threw a jacket over his baby doll dress and slipped out the back door one night. How the cool air would feel on the bare skin of his thighs, but. That's all it ever was. Just speculation.

Only dreams.

Knowing his luck he'd catch Neil in the hallway after his midnight piss and that'd be it. They'd never get the blood out of the wallpaper.

"Looks like we're stuck playing pretend." Billy patted absently at his spring of messy curls, refusing to let the sadness seep through but Max noticed immediately. Perceptive little shit.

She held up a finger, disappearing through the crack in the door. A second later she was back with her polaroid camera.

"Smile."

"No fuckin' way," Billy snarled. He could already imagine it; Neil digging through his sock drawer to find the pot he was always accusing Billy of smoking, only to stumble across something else.

Something worse.

Billy's ribs began to ache with the phantom memory of those fists planting like flower bulbs in fresh soil. He bruised easily, like an overripe peach.

Not everyone knew that about him, but. He did.

Max frowned. "Come on, we could send them to Courtney's P.O. box, I'm sure she'd be flattered."

Billy shook his head, tears swamping his vision as Max lifted the camera. The flash was blinding. Billy lunged for it, swearing as Max slipped past his grip. She took another picture.

And another.

And then another, until polaroid's littered the floor like fallen leaves on the dirty ground. Billy had tears rolling down his cheeks, ruining his makeup by the time she finally stopped. He held out his hand. "Max, just. Give that fuckin' thing to me. Now, we gotta burn this shit, alright? We gotta--"

But she wasn't listening, she was staring at the first image she had taken, when Billy was caught off guard. Max was absorbed in it, eyes glittering with something Billy had never seen before.

He snatched the picture from her hands and lifted it up to his face, brow wrinkled in disgust until--

This wasn't anything like staring in the mirror.

It felt more immediate, more real as Billy examined the image of a flawless stranger. Of a woman.

Of Courtney Love.

"Pretty," Max said.

And.

Yeah. He was.

They started taking pictures every time Billy got dressed up.

Max would help him get ready and then they'd do little photoshoots in his bedroom. He was a reluctant subject at first, awkward in his own skin until she suggested they smoke a joint before each session.

"To loosen you up a little, dick wad."

"What kinda brother would I be if I let my kid sister smoke pot?" Billy shook his head. "Absolutely not, Max."

She shrugged. "Then you do it."

So, he did.

And it helped. They switched up the music, finding it easiest to shoot to The Smashing Pumpkins, played with lighting and mood until she was satisfied with the "vibe," made immortal on film.

The images Max captured were like moments in time, archived in the shoebox under his bed. Billy looked like a rock star in every one--Debbie Harry on some days, Courtney on others; hair messy, cigarette trapped between his fingers, stockings ripped to shreds.

Max admitted that Courtney was her favorite, after a while, so that's the one that stuck.

And Billy loved every picture she took. Loved her artistic eye, obvious in the way she moved his lamp around the room to capture his features just so. Every session was serious like she was the photographer at Rolling Stone and he was her subject for the week.

It was addictive.

They had been taking pictures every night for a month when Neil caught them in the act.

The first punch felt like a bomb had gone off in his head, and Billy hit the floor without so much as a fight.

He remembers blood on the carpet.

Blood in his hair. On the walls. A splitting pain in his ribs and between his legs.

Keep digging your own grave, William.

Max patched him up after Neil's car tore out of the driveway.

"I'm sorry Billy." He hadn't realised she was crying. He ran his fingers over her cheek. "It's all my fault, I didn't mean--"

"I felt pretty." He said.

They stopped taking pictures after that.

Moving to Hawkins, Indiana was like stepping off the Earth and floating through space.

Billy felt weightless.

Every mistake, every hidden secret cloaked in baby doll dresses and leopard print coats had been left in San Francisco where they belonged. Stuffed in the back of his closet with the polaroid's they were able to tape back together.

He tried to forget the way it made him feel.

"You're the prettiest boy I've ever seen."

It wasn't meant to be a compliment. Billy could tell that from the way Steve's lips curled into a snarl.

He pushed his way into Billy's space, clearly drunk and high off something that made his pupils swallow the milky brown of his eyes.

Steve looked like he was swimming.

There were track marks in his arm. "You're like a vision," He reached out to touch, to feel, flinching back when Billy slapped his hand away.

"I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing, Harrington--"

"I think I'm in love with you."

And Billy had thought the same thing, the first time they ran into each other at the gay bar in Indianapolis, but. People talked.

Hawkins talked, like the city itself was an entity with a pulse and conscience that had been shot to shit in the eighties. Billy did his best to glare. "You don't love me, pretty boy."

"No, I." Steve grinned. He was high as a fucking kite. "I do. You're my guardian angel." He laughed hysterically, in a way that made Billy's skin crawl.

"What, your dealer tell you that?" He huffed.

And it was mean.

So fucking mean. If Steve was a junkie his skin wouldn't be so clear, so smooth. Like black cherries in milk, goddammit. Billy wanted to lap at the skin on his neck, taste the salt of his skin.

He wondered distantly if he'd be able to get high from it.

Probably. Steve smiled anyway. "Let me take you home."

"Such a fuckin' line," Billy said.

But he was already tugging pretty boy through the crowd.

Billy kept his dresses in the back of his closet where he kept his mother's suicide letters.

She had written more than one, consumed by her sadness in a way Billy had never understood until he had taken the fairy light inside him and smothered it.

Every once in a while, when Neil was out of the house and Max was at school or something, He'd take one out just to feel the weightlessness of the fabric settle against his skin.

Like little paper angels.

Like the whisper of something like hope but not quite, just out of reach.

He never did the full look anymore. Never put his heart and soul into it the way he had before, when Max was there to keep him from floating away, but.

Gradually he felt himself catch fire.

They had been together for three months when Steve peeled back the layers.

Neil was away on business, so Steve was sleeping over. Needed a shirt or sweats or to sleep in, catching sight of something bright red and shiny as he shifted the leather jackets at Greatful Dead t-shirts to the side to expose a stash of beautiful gowns that shone like an open sore against the soft light in Billy's bedroom.

Billy came through the open door, words dying on his lips as the bong in his hand shattered on the floor.

Steve held the dress up against the light, tongue poking out of his mouth in consideration.

"Max wants to be Debbie Harry for Halloween," Billy fished for his old excuse, eyes welling up with tears when Steve's jaw set in a firm line. "I'm helping her find the perfect dress, I--"

"Bill's--"

"That's not mine, Steve, I swear." Billy dropped to the floor.

Got on his fucking knees, hands level with his face in a silent prayer as he tripped over himself to rebuild the walls that had kept him safe. He was talking, spewing bullshit as Steve stood motionless against the closet door. Billy flung his arms around Steve's legs. Buried his face in his thighs, because.

He couldn't go through it again.

Wouldn't survive it.

"I never even seen that before, Stevie, please."

"Get up." Pretty boy commanded.

And.

Billy blinked teary, soulful eyes at him. "Huh?"

Steve shook his head. "I said stand up, baby. Get off the fucking floor."

Billy did. Steve watched him for a moment, expression unreadable. Billy prepared himself for the gut punch, the harsh word, the look of disgust in those eyes that had never shown anything but reverence for Billy, but it never came. In a single, syrupy slow motion Steve held the dress to Billy's throat, scanning him up and down in a way that left Bill naked and squirming.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think, as Steve smiled softly.

"Wanna see you." He said.

And. "What?"

"Can you put it on for me?" Steve asked. "Bet you look gorgeous. Like an angel, or a model or something--"

Billy let out a thick, wet sound. "I look like a beast, I'm--"

"No." Billy jumped when Steve nuzzled against his neck, the dress trapped like a gossamer curtain between them. "Bet you look like a deity. A goddess of rock n' roll. Like Courtney Love, right?"

And Billy had done a lot of things in his life. He was a builder of fortresses, a hider, an adventurer when the mood struck him. Billy protected himself and Max and his mother for as long as he could remember, carrying things that were too heavy for those with weaker shoulders, but.

He had never shown himself to someone he loved. No sugar, no cream, just.

Completely himself.

Billy took the dress and opened the safe in the corner. Pulled out his mother's makeup and painted himself into a masterpiece as Steve watched, motionless on the bed.

When he was done Billy was afraid to look in the mirror.

Terrified of what he'd see but Steve took him in his arms, peppering gentle kisses all along his face until Billy had built up enough courage.

"Ready? Steve whispered.

Billy let himself be turned around. Situated under the heavy sling of Steve's arm, until--

"Pretty."

Steve nodded. "Beautiful."

[krizaland]

Defying Gravity Chapter 7

First Chapter    Previous 

Alrighty! I’ve finally conquered my writer’s block and I bring you chapter 7! Thank you all so much for your patience and support! I love you all so much!

Be warned: There’s angst ahead! Have some tissues on standby!

Here’s the song I used btw

Meanwhile, Purple finally ran out of donuts to feed you and was tenderly petting the top of your head.

You shuddered at his touch as you tried to hide your discomfort. You hated being in the arms of an evil alien overlord. One wrong move, and you could be killed! Or worse:

Zim could be killed.

It didn’t take long for Purple to notice your discomfort.

“Cutiepie, what’s wrong? Why do you seem all….gloomy?” Purple asked as he continued to pet you.

“Oh it’s nothing…”You lied as you tried to sound happy.

“Aww, you can tell me anything, Cutiepie! What’s wrong?” Purple pressed.

“Well.. I’m just a little…sleepy is all.” You hoped that Purple would believe your lie.

“Sleepy? Why didn’t you say so? Come on, let me take you to my quarters! You’ll rest a lot better there then in Big bad, Red’s quarters.”

And with that, Purple carried you off to his quarters.  All you could do was hope that once he brought you to his quarters that he would leave you alone.

“Here we are~ I even bought you a little bed right here!” Purple sang as he plopped you down into a super fluffy purple pet bed.

PAF!

You let out a squeak as you poked your head out of the endless sea of lavender fluff.

“Aww! You look so cute! I knew you’d like it!” Purple giggled as he clapped his hands.

“Yes…It’s very soft,” You admitted as you let out a fake yawn, “Thank you, Almighty Tallest.”

You tried not to vomit as the last words escaped your lips.

“Oh please, call me Purple!” Purple giggled as hi PAK sparked a bit.

“Ok, thank you, Purple…” You let out another fake yawn as you pretended to fall asleep.

“I’m so glad you picked me, Cutiepie! We’re gonna have so much fun together!” Purple whispered as he kissed the top of your head.

You tried to hold back a shudder as you tried to ignore the kiss.

PING!

Purple jumped a bit as Red made his way into his chambers.

“Hey! You know you’re interrupting a very important-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, look, can I talk to you…Outside?” Red grumbled as he put his hands on his hips.

“If this is about Cutiepie, you can’t have them! They already chose me! So just leave us alone! Cutiepie is trying to sleep!” Purple huffed as he folded his arms.

“First off, their name is Y/N. Second, how are they supposed to sleep when you’re screaming?” Red lowered his voice as he spoke.

“Cutiepie is my pet, therefore I get to pick their name!” Purple pouted.

A growl rumbled in Red’s throat as his ruby eyes narrowed.

Purple swallowed hard as pink sweat dripped down his face.

“Outside. Now.” Red commanded.

And with that, Purple reluctantly followed Red outside.

PING!

You let out a sigh of relief as you slowly sat up.

If there was one thing that scared you more that Purple’s pets, it was Red’s rage.

You almost felt bad for Purple as the sound of muffled arguing echoed from behind the door.

You took a deep breath and tried to remain calm.

Staying calm grew more and more difficult as you found yourself missing Zim again.

You found yourself wishing for a way to see him again. Even if it was just for a little while!

In that moment, you remembered your communicator bracelet!

You looked down at your wrist and sure enough, the bracelet was still there! What luck!

After making sure the Tallest were still preoccupied with their argument, you turned on the communicator and called Zim.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Zim let out a gasp as he felt his own communicator go off.

“Eh?! Y/N?!” Zim’s eyes lit up, “Excuse me, I have to take this!”

And with that, Zim ran off and answered your call.

“My human?! Is that you?! Is that really you?!” Zim squealed as your face appeared onto the screen.

“Yes, it’s really me! Oh Zim, I’ve been missing you so much!” A few tears trickled down your cheeks.

“My human!!! It is you!! Oh thank god you’re alright! Zim misses you too! You look even more beautiful then I remembered.” Zim sniffled as he struggled to dry his own tears.

“Don’t worry! I’m fine! A little shaken, but fine. Hey, what’s with the armor?” You asked nervously.

“Zim is coming to rescue you from the FILTHY TALLEST! I had to suit up and stuff!” Zim explained with a smile.

“WHAT?! Zim are you crazy?! They’ll kill you! Please stay back on Urth! I don’t want to lose you!” You pleaded.

“You won’t lose Zim! I have acquired the help of the Resisty! Oh and the Dib-Monkey. He wouldn’t stop bugging me.” Zim admitted.

“Dib’s there too?! Oh god! Please go back home! I don’t want anything bad to happen to either of you!” More tears fell from your eyes.

“Fear not, My Human! Zim shall rescue you! I promise to ensure that everyone will live!” Zim vowed dramatically.

“Zim please-”

“Nuh-uh! Stop trying to talk me out of it! I am coming to rescue you whether the FLITHY TALLEST like it or not!” Zim interjected.

“Zim, please! I can risk losing you! Just go home!” You pleaded.

“Eh?! Do you still not have faith in Zim?!” Zim snapped.

“No! I always have faith in you! It’s just…I’m worried about you!” You explained.

“My human, you have nothing to be worried about! Zim would do anything for you!” Zim insisted.

“But-”

“Anything.”

You let out a sigh as more tears poured down your cheeks.

“Hey, look at me.” Zim’s voice softened.

You slowly looked up and tried your tears.

“You know I want you. It’s not a secret I try to hide. I know you want me. So don’t keep saying our hands are tied.” Zim sang as he gazed deep into your eyes.

“You claim it’s not in the cards, fate is pulling you miles away and out of reach from me! But you’re here in my mind! So who can stop me if I decide that you’re my destiny?” Zim’s voice grew louder as the song continued.

You let out a soft gasp as Zim became more dramatic.

“What if we rewrite the stars? Say you were made to be mine? Nothing could keep us apart! You’d be the one I was meant to find! It’s up to you! And it’s up to me! No one can say what we get to be! So why don’t we rewrite the stars? Maybe the world could be ours? Tonight..”

You let out a chuckle as you playfully shook your head.

“You think it’s easy. You think that I don’t want to run to you. But there are mountains. And there are doors that we can’t walk through.”

“I know you’re wondering why because we’re able to be just you and me within these walls. But when we go outside, you’re gonna wake up and see that it was hopeless after all…” You sat up straighter as you held back more tears.

“No one can rewrite the stars! How can you say you’ll be mine? Everything keeps us apart! And I’m not the one you were meant to find! It’s not up to you! It’s not up to me!When everyone tells us what we can be! How can we rewrite the stars? Say that the world can be ours, tonight?” Your voice was passionate as you rose to your feet.

Zim’s eyes were glued to yours as tears streamed down his cheeks as well.

“All I want is to fly with you! All I want is to fall with you! So just give me all of you!” You and Zim’s voices oozed desperation.

“It feels impossible!” You sang as your eyes squeezed shut.

“It’s not impossible!” Zim countered.

“Is it impossible?” You asked as you opened your eyes.

“Say that it’s possible!” You and Zim sang in unison as your hands dragged down the screen.

“How do we rewrite the stars? Say you were made to be mine? Nothing can keep us apart! Cause you are the one I was meant to find! It’s up to you! And It’s up to me! No one can say what we get to be! Why don’t we rewrite the stars?! Changing the world to be ours?” You and Zim’s voices melted together as your souls aligned for a moment.

PING!

You let out a gasp as the door opened.

“I’m sorry…” Was all you could whisper as you cut the call.

“Wait! My human! NOOO!!! MY HUMAN! MY HUMAN!!!!” Zim wailed as he shook his communicator.

“You know I want you… It’s not a secret I try to hide. But I can’t have you. We’re bound to break and my hands are tied…..”

[affectionatehannibal]

the haunting of bill denbrough

prologue

George Denbrough had been dead five long years the night he woke his brother Bill up at one in the morning.

For just a moment, in the split second it took for Bill’s eyes to adjust to the darkness and remind his brain exactly where he was, Bill was thirteen again and Georgie was alive. Around that time of their lives, Georgie had woken Bill up quite often in the middle of the night, searching for somewhere safe from whatever lay waiting for him in the dark and someone brave and strong, someone like Bill, to protect him from it. Bill would make a scene- they were getting too old to sleep together, really- but they both knew sooner or later Bill would roll his eyes a final time and pull aside the covers, making room for Georgie to join him.

The Georgie that stood beside Bill’s bed now looked scared enough for this scenario to be true. His eyes, heavy with fear and wet with tears he seemed to be desperately trying to keep from spilling out, were wide against his pale skin. Bill had seen this look many times; it was the face of a child who has fallen off their bike unexpectedly and, by skinning their knee, suddenly realized that they are not invincible. Overall, Georgie’s expression was a familiar one. But there was something else in his face too, something that woke Bill up completely and increased the tempo of his heartbeat by a couple dozen beats.

Fear.  

Not any type of fear- not the kind that used to bring Georgie running to Bill’s room in the middle of the night, nor the kind that prompted Bill to check under his bed every now and then before bed, just to make sure nothing was hiding there. The fear in Georgie’s eyes was the kind that made a heavy nest in your stomach and stayed there forever, or as long as you had left to feel things, anyway. It was powerful enough to break your mind into tiny pieces. Bill had seen this fear reflected on the faces of his friends many times during the summer they’d delved deep into Derry’s sewer system. And he saw it written plainly across Georgie’s face now.

continue on ao3

Georgie’s eyes, wide and troubled, were filled with it. It was as though, if Bill looked really hard, he might see Georgie’s last memories reflected there. His last memories, ones of clowns and sewers and a brother who’d pretended to be sicker than he really was so he wouldn’t have to spend a second longer with his annoying, god-awful little sibling.

Bill shot up, heart pounding painfully in his chest. Reality took hold and screamed dead dead dead your fault into his ears. The real Georgie was miles below where Bill sat now, probably already rotted down to the bone, surrounded by the other dead children of Derry. Georgie was dead. This could be a dream, a hallucination, the aftereffects of the really shitty weed he’d shared with Beverly the day before, but it could not really be Georgie. And yet, some hopeful part of Bill’s heart begged for it to be real, one more chance to hold his brother. He frantically rubbed whatever sleep was left from his eyes, sure Georgie would be gone when he looked again with fresh eyes.

But Georgie stayed put, looking as frightened and pitiful as before.

God, Bill thought. I’d almost forgotten what he looked like.

And it really did look like Georgie, whatever stood beside Bill’s bed in a yellow raincoat and muddied jeans. He looked much smaller, much more fragile, than he had seemed to Bill in life, but, other than that, everything was the same. His eyes were deep and trusting, the same warm brown they’d been the day he’d died. His hair was light and mussed, almost like he’d forgotten to brush it. His mouth was turned downwards, like he was on the verge of crying. Georgie’s face, familiar and sad and trusting, pulled at the walls around Bill’s heart and threatened to overwhelm him with grief and guilt.

“Jesus,” he choked, vision blurry. He hadn’t cried in a very long time, and it was as though his tear ducts were trying to make up for lost time by producing as many tears as they possibly could. They made quick tracks down his cheeks, rolling off his face and onto his sheets. He wiped them away as best he could and reached towards his bedside table, careful not to touch whatever stood there borrowing his brother’s face, and turned on the lamp. He winced once as the lamp flooded the room with warmth and light, and once more when he saw Georgie’s face, no longer half-hidden by darkness. The light shone on the dark circles around his eyes, showed how sunken and bruised his features really were. His skin was a sickly, unhealthy color that reminded Bill of cigarette smoke and crummy gas station bathrooms.

“Oh,  jesus,” Bill’s voice was strangled, and he fought to keep sudden, panicked sobs from tearing their way out of his throat. “Georgie?”

The thing that might be Georgie slowly lifted a hand towards Bill in response, palm upwards as though asking for something.

“Holy-” Bill choked. He scrambled backwards, fighting to untangle himself from his sheets and blankets. He fell gracelessly off the bed, hitting his tailbone painfully on the hardwood floor.

Georgie was dead. Long, long dead. Whatever this was wasn’t here to crawl into Bill’s bed and complain that Bill’s feet were too cold, or be shushed by their parents for laughing too loudly so late at night. It was here to hurt, to taunt. To remind Bill of something that was, hopefully, as dead as Georgie.

Bill fumbled in the semi-darkness for the baseball bat he kept under his bed, hands exploring the dusty darkness frantically. After a few long moments he pulled it out and stood quickly, pointing it forcefully in the thing’s direction.

“We-we killed you,” Bill demanded, as though saying it was enough to make it true. It had been so long since he’d seen It in anything other than his nightmares; and now, looking at Georgie, he wondered for a quick moment why they’d been so scared of It all those years ago. Whatever stood by Bill’s bed did not ooze hate and evil and otherness like It did in his dreams. This thing was sad and lonely and afraid, but not evil. Still, what else could it be, if not It? “Y-y-y-y-you’re duh-duh-duh-duh-, we k-k-killed you!”

Georgie blinked slowly in reply.

“You’re s-s-s-supposed to buh-buh-be d-d-dead,” Bill coughed. He wiped away the snot that had started dripping and bubbling from his nose.

He heard his parents stir in the next room over at the same time his phone started ringing. His parents weren’t a problem; they wouldn’t come in to check on him if they woke up, and even if they did they wouldn’t be able to see whatever was standing by his ball. The phone call, on the other hand, managed to pry his attention away from whatever was impersonating his dead brother so perfectly. There were only six people in the world who might call him this late at night, and nothing would keep him from answering. 

---

Just a few blocks away, Richie Tozier was busy losing a match of Mario Tennis Aces.

It would have been embarrassing if anyone had been there to see it, but he was, thankfully, very much alone. He sat on the edge of his bed, wearing only a ratty pair of boxers and an extra-large t-shirt he’d found hidden in the back of Ben’s closet. The blue glow emanating from his TV screen was beginning to hurt his eyes; he took a quick swig of Mountain Dew to combat the discomfort.

Nighttime had never been kind to Richie; he blamed his current losing streak on that fact. Along with bad luck in digital tennis matches, nighttime brought sleep, and sleep brought nightmares. Amongst the Losers, nightmares were nothing new. It seemed that they were the price you paid to battle a demonic clown and escape unscathed. Overall, it was much easier to stay awake as late as possible and risk falling asleep in AP Bio for the umpteenth time than revisit his one and only trip through Derry’s sewer system every fucking time he closed his eyes.

He was just getting ready to give his remote control a quick good luck kiss before the next round began when a sudden, rapid banging on his window almost made him soil the only clean pair of boxers he had left.

“Holy shit,” Richie gasped. The contents of his stomach threatened to make a panicked appearance; Richie quickly choked them back down. The source of the noise knocked again, impatiently. Richie sighed, but a slow, easy smile made its way across his face. He leaned across his bed, stretching to open the window. He watched Stanley Uris crawl through it and smiled some more as Stan dusted himself off. “Gimme some warning next time, will ya? I almost shit my pants.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Stan mumbled. His shoulders, tense with something- Richie guessed anxiety- slowly relaxed the longer he stood in Richie’s room. Stan bent down to unit his shoes and take off his socks, placing them neatly against the wall. Richie watched him work in silence. It made his heart do summersaults in his chest to see Stan the way he was now- flushed from the bike ride over, hair tangled by sleep and wind, soft and warm in his flannel pajama pants and cotton t-shirt.

Stan said nothing when he was done, just stood quietly, solemnly considering the boy sitting before him. Richie gave him a moment to get whatever he needed from the silence between them and Stan soaked it up, slowly unclenching his jaw and shaking out the nerves that had settled in his fists.

Eventually, Stan sighed, slow and grateful, and Richie decided it was alright to speak. “What’s crackin’, baby doll?”

Stan grimaced. “Bad dream.”

“Same one?”

“Always the same.”

Richie hummed his displeasure and opened his arms, inviting Stanley to fill the space between them. Stan made his way towards them gratefully, crawling into Richie’s lap and leaning his head against Richie’s chest. Richie ran a hand through Stan’s hair, soft and gentle. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Maybe next time.”

Richie hummed again. Stan always said that, and so far they had never talked about it. “Want some Mountain Dew?”

Stan rolled his eyes, even though Richie couldn’t see his face. “No, thanks. But I’d take something stronger if you had it.”

Richie grinned and gave the top of Stan’s head a quick kiss. “I think I might have somethin’ like that,” he leaned across the bed, careful to keep Stan safely balanced in his lap, to grab his phone. “Let’s get Big Bill over here, while we’re at it.”

“No,” Stan snatched the phone from Richie’s hands and held it close to his chest. Sleep wasn’t something any of them could take lightly, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to steal a single second of it from Bill. “Don’t wake him up.”

“Come on, you know he hates missing out on stuff. He can always sleep once he gets here if he wants to.”

Their eyes locked and Richie grew suddenly seriously; a battle had begun. Stan figured they were too old to keep using staring contests to settle disputes. Richie said they were too old to let sacred traditions die so flippantly. In the end, they usually served Stan’s interests anyway; he could hold a glare with the best of ‘em. A few long moments passed; the air thick with concentration. And then Richie did what he usually did when he knew he couldn’t win- cheated.

Stan furiously blinked Richie’s sudden stream of warm, wet air out of his eyes. “I hate you,” he glared, hiding a grin, and held out the phone.

Richie laughed a happy, victorious laugh and gave Stan another kiss, this one on his forehead. Perhaps his nighttime losing streak was over at last; if this night was going anyway like he thought it was, he was going to get lucky two times over.

Pretty much everything about the three of them was built on luck. Luck, and a whole lot of hard fucking work. There were no guidebooks on how to date two of your best friends at once, no polyamorous trailblazers to show them the way. There was nothing, no one to tell them how to do this wonderful, lovely thing between the three of them. It was messy and hard sometimes, but god if it wasn’t good. All things considered, Richie thought they were doing pretty well for themselves.

He smiled softly and wildly into Stanley’s hair as he dialed Bill’s number.

---

Bill used the bat to keep at least three feet between him and Georgie as he walked slowly to the other side of the bed, towards the bedside table where his phone sat.

He struggled to pick it up, hands shaking, and cursed quietly when he almost hung up accidentally. “Huh-huh-ello?”

“Billy boy!” Richie sang, too excited to notice that Bill’s stutter, which normally took a siesta whenever he was talking to someone he loved, had returned full force. “Get your ass over here; we’re having an impromptu fiesta, just me, you, and-.”

“Ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh-Richie.” Bill interrupted. His body filled with relief at the sound of Richie’s voice, so much so that the bat almost slipped out of his hand. Here was someone who could understand, who might be able to help. He held his phone tight against his ear, as if doing so would transport him closer to Richie, away from whatever nightmare he was stuck in now.

Richie said something quick to someone that wasn’t Bill, his voice muffled and far-away. He sounded worried when he turned his attention back to Bill, like it had finally hit him that something wasn’t quite right. “Yeah, Bill, it’s me. What’s wrong?”

“I-I-I,” he stammered, eyes locked on his dead brother. “I-I th-th-th-think Guh-Guh-Georgie i-i-is in m-m-muuhhh-my r-r-room.”

“Fuck, Bill, I can hardly understand a word you’re saying. Did you-did you say something about Georgie?”

Bill flinched, like someone had just made as if to slap him. He hadn’t heard anyone say that name aloud in years. “H-h-h-h-h-h-hhhhh-,” he took a frantic breath, as if that would dislodge the word stuck in his throat. “Fuck, R-Richie, G-g-g-Georgie’s in m-my fucking ruh-uh-room.”

Richie said something else to whoever was in the room with him. They seemed to argue for a short moment which seemed impossibly long to Bill. “Hey, Bill? Don’t move. We’re on our way.”

The line went dead.

---

“Why did you hang up?” Stan spat, trying for the fifteenth time to reach Bill again. “He’s not picking up the phone.”

Despite being walking distance away from Bill’s house, they’d quickly decided to borrow (steal was a better word, as Richie was banned from driving it) Richie’s mother’s car. It whined loudly as Richie forced it faster and faster through the darkened streets toward Bill’s house.

“Chillax, Stanley,” Richie spat back, voice much less poisonous than Stan’s had been, obviously not chillaxing himself. He leaned forward in his seat, knuckles white around the wheel, as if worrying would help them get there faster. “Big Bill knows how to take care of himself. Whatever’s goin’ on, he’ll be alright.”

Stan shot a quick look of incredulous disbelief in Richie’s direction. It was the kind of look he usually saved for those students of Derry High with less common sense than a bucket of dying paint. It screamed: Are you an idiot? Stan himself screamed nothing and simply tried Bill’s number again.

No answer.

Richie urged the speedometer forward.

---

Already a few streets away, Bill Denbrough was busy ignoring the fact that he’d been told to stay put.

He’d made up his mind even before Richie had finished talking that he had to leave, to put as much distance between himself and whatever was in his room as possible. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the look of fear and desperation on Georgie’s face, even if it wasn’t really Georgie he was looking at.

Georgie had followed as he’d stumbled out of the room, and Bill could see him now, standing in solemn silence at the end of their driveway. The absolute silence scared Bill more than anything else. In life, Georgie had been anything but silent. Contemplative, sometimes. But never quiet. Bill almost wished the thing that looked like Georgie would call after him, tell him to stop, something. But Georgie did nothing but watch him and Silver wobble unsteadily for a moment, his frightened gaze following Bill’s form as he made his way down the street.

Bill’s legs and arms knew where they were going before Bill did. Silver took them quickly to their destination, and Bill hopped off the seat before the bike had any time to slow down. He tripped over one of the wheels and fell to the concrete, Silver landing on top of him. He grunted in pain, loose gravel digging its way into the sides of his bare arms.

Bill looked up; he was on eye level with the sewer drain Georgie had spent his last moments crouched before. It did not mock or taunt or scream haha! I killed your brother! like Bill expected it to. It just sat, inconspicuously, like most sewer drains tended to do.

He pushed Silver off of him and scrambled forward. He braced himself against the concrete, poking his head into the sewer as far as the laws of mass and physical space would allow.

---

Stan and Richie were more surprised than they should have been to find Bill’s room empty.

Stan poked around the room methodically, looking for any evidence of what had happened, anything to clue them in on what was going on. Richie swallowed the shitty Sherlock Holmes joke working its way up his throat and fidgeted nervously in the doorway.

Stan picked up Bill’s phone, which sat on the bed, and frowned at it. “I don’t think he’s here.”

“I dunno, have you checked the bathroom? Maybe he’s taking a shit.”

Stan ignored him. “Where would he have gone? His truck’s still in the driveway.”

Bill’s truck was always in the driveway. He only ever used one thing to get where he wanted to go. Stan and Richie remembered this fact simultaneously.

“Oh, shit,” Riche groaned. “I’ll bet he’s halfway across the state by now.”

“No,” Stan shook his head. “He’d want to go somewhere. You said he saw Georgie, yes? What places do you think of when you think about Georgie?”

Simultaneously, Richie and Stan remembered something else. Remembered the last, rainy day George Denbrough had lived to see and the last place he had visited before his death.

They ran back to the car.

The overwhelming smell of rotting trash and stagnant water coming from the sewer drain made Bill want to gag. He turned his head to the side and took a quick whiff of fresh air before turning back to towards the opening.

“Wah-wah-wah-aht d-d-do y-you wuh-uh-want?” Bill shouted. “T-tell me!”

The drain did not grace his hurt and anger with an answer. Somewhere down the street, someone turned on a porch light.

Bill strained to see inside the sewer. He was so focused on making sense of the darkness he found there that he almost didn’t notice the light tug on his sweatshirt. His heart stopped dead in its track and he scrambled upwards to face his death, sure Pennywise himself had crawled from his hiding place to wipe the last of the Denbrough children off the face of the Earth. Instead of finding a killer clown, there stood the thing that looked like Georgie.

Georgie’s face was on fire with panic and fear. Blood streamed from beneath his right jacket-sleeve and down his hand, making soft splattering sounds on the asphalt. Bill’s heart ached, seeing Georgie’s face the way he was sure it must have been before It had killed him. He fell onto his knees and pulled the Georgie thing to him. Georgie felt as real as he looked- solid and firm. He even smelled a little like Georgie had too, like outdoors and the candles their mother liked to light on rainy days. Bill broke then, and sobbed painfully into Georgie’s small, cold chest. Georgie let himself be cried on and did not protest as Bill tightened his grip. He did nothing at all except look down at Bill’s head mournfully and continue drip drip dripping blood.

And this was how Stan and Richie happened upon the final third of their threesome, clutching onto nothing and sobbing endless, heart wrenching sobs.

And so began the haunting of Bill Denbrough.

[rosesformark]

allure - mark lee : [03]

genre: angst, fluff, college au, fratboy!mark

pairing: mark lee x reader

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: attention and affection, the things he thrived off and wanted most in the world. but would it be at the expense of the one he loves most?

A/N: hey guys!! if you hadn’t noticed, i changed my url from @byunnings to @rosesformark !! also sorry for the wait >.< let me know what you guys think of this part!! allure will probably end at around 5-6 parts :D and thank you so much @jupitersmark​ for the lovely allure!moodboard, look through my masterlist for the link!! :)

read part 1 and part 2 here !!

NOV. 19, 2018

[5:57 PM]

Walking into the cozy cafe and shaking out rain droplets, you let the door slam shut behind you. Breathing out a sigh of relief, you pushed the hood off your head and looked out at the relentless winds wacking the trees back and forth. The calm environment inside the cafe was the complete opposite outside as you took your place in line to order.

Shifting your weight from side to side, you looked around to the different college students also taking advantage of the nearest Starbucks to wind down. The energy from the day enveloping the place with a certain glow. However, it was nearing 6PM and all you wanted to do was grab your hot chocolate and snuggle with more than four of your blankets.

As you looked around, one group in particular caught your eye. One that was tucked in the corner with about ten people crowding around a tiny table. Different from his brown hair from before, a Donghyuck with silver hair was at the center of attention, talking animatedly before shifting his eyes on you as if sensing your gaze on him.

You quickly turned back in line on reflex as your mind whirled from getting caught. Instinctively, you brought up your hand to brush back a strand of your hair. Shuffling forward as the cashier up front called out to you.

“Hi, what can I get for you today?” A young boy with light brown hair awaited your answer with curious eyes as his fingers hovered over the screen before him. Even though you were tired out of your mind from a three hour lecture, you mustered out a smile to him and caught his name tag that read, Jisung.

“A grande mint hot chocolate please” Jisung nodded, tapping around the screen before picking up the smaller of the two cups and a sharpie that lay on the counter.

“Name?”

“Y/N”

He flashed a smile and you noted that this boy practically oozed cuteness and innocence. Even from behind the counter. “That’ll be $4.45”

You rummaged through your wallet for exact change as to get rid of your unnecessary coins. But before you had the chance to hand Jisung your cash, a hand shot out with a $5 bill towards him.

“I got her. A mint hot chocolate for…” 

Your eyes trailed the hand holding the $5 bill and linked it to the face already looking down at you. Black hair parted to the side and ruffling against his forehead, your eyebrows drew down in confusion.

“Y/N.” He completed his sentence with a smirk, turning back towards Jisung who didn’t hesitate in taking the money. “Keep the change as tip, Jisungie” Mark added as Jisung smiled even more brightly and called out a “thanks, hyung.”

So as to not hold the line up, you were taken aback as Mark swiftly grabbed your hand and led you to the waiting area. Your heart started uncomfortably racing as he didn’t let go of your hand even after leaning against the wall, eyes drinking in your appearance. Your mind was practically mumbo-jumbo as he rubbed circles on your hand with his thumb, slowly pulling you closer to his body.

You couldn’t help that he had this aura that made you want to melt into him. It was all too alluring as he held your eyes captive, flashing you the brightest of smiles. 

Memories of last Friday flooded your senses as it went from playing spin the bottle to kissing Mark.

Mark.

Mark Lee.

The Mark Lee that was infamous at your uni for a number of unholy reasons.

The Mark Lee that just paid for your Starbucks and is currently holding your hand. 

Questioning Donghyuck’s gaze from earlier, you whipped around to his table’s direction and saw a number of the guys throwing thumb ups to your direction. You felt tiny little needles pricking your neck as you tore your hand away from Mark’s in discomfort. 

His grin from earlier faded away and was replaced with confusion and if you looked closely, the tiniest bit of hurt.

Why was he being so touchy with you? You felt the gazes from his friends burn through your back as you avoided Mark’s gaze. It felt nice, yes. But you’ve heard enough rumors and bets that him and his friends do and frankly, you didn’t want to partake in any of their business.

“Did I do something wrong?”

His voice was small and deep, catching you off guard. Did he do something wrong? No, he didn’t. So why were you acting so defensive?

You finally met Mark’s gaze and to your surprise, saw him pouting and reaching out to hold your hand again. Moving your hand behind your back, you steadily held eye contact with him as he continued to pout.

“Mark, you don’t even know my name.”

“Y/N” he said with confidence, smiling coyly. Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of your name coming out of his mouth. It rolled out like chocolate, sweet and smooth. Goddammit, why was he so cute?

“That’s not fair, I never directly told you.” 

“Why does that matter?” he didn’t waste a second to question you. “It’s beautiful. A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

Your nose wrinkled at the cheesy comment but you couldn’t help the warmth that spread throughout your body. Having noticed that you didn’t retort back, Mark smirked yet again and stepped closer to your frame.

You stepped back just as he stepped forward, keeping the space between you two. He didn’t falter at your actions and chose to just gaze at you instead, a teasing grin on his lips. 

“Sweetheart. If I recall correctly, it was you who chose to kiss m–” Your eyes widened as you slapped a hand over his mouth, a tiny gasp escaping your mouth. You felt his lips tug upwards as your hands failed to keep them on his mouth due to your height difference. 

Oh gosh, why does he choose to bring that up here? In a Starbucks? Peaking around your shoulder, you noticed a couple of girls already looking your way and whispering to their friends. Anyone could tell that it wasn’t the most positive reaction.

Okay. Noted.

“Mark” you harshly whispered. 

“Why are we whispering?” he retorted, bringing his face down towards yours, a teasing tone to his words. You fought the urge to smile at his antics and resorted to look off to the side.

You mumbled, “You can’t just bring that up out of nowhere.”

“Those girls already had their turn earlier, don’t worry about them.” Something about his words caused a flame of annoyance to spark inside you. It gave you an unsettling feeling, questioning his actions even more at this point. Eyeing him, you were about to make a not so nice comment before you heard Jisung call out your name. 

As quick as lightning, you darted around Mark and grabbed your drink. Before you could zoom on out of there though, you felt him grab your elbow and turn you away from the awaited exit. Steeling yourself, you looked up questioningly into his dark, brown eyes. 

“You’re forgetting something.” He chuckled at your confused expression and playfully rolled his eyes. Your brain processed everything in slow motion as he moved his face right in front of you, lips aligned with yours but with plenty of space in between. Your eyes widened as Mark’s grip on your elbow tightened, preventing you from moving back.

“What are you doing?” You blurted out, trying to add an edge to your voice but your flustered cheeks probably didn’t help in creating an intimidating persona. Up close, you could see the underlying danger in his eyes. The look that gave you shivers down your spine, a warning to get away as quickly as you can. The warning that you should’ve taken from the very start. It was captivating and left you to wonder how he held so much power, and only from his eyes.

Mark tapped lightly on his lips with his index finger, “A thank you for the drink, like last time” he slyly said, eyes dancing around in amusement as you couldn’t meet his gaze, again. Taking in your speechlessness, he softly brought up your hood for you, fiddling with the hairs framing your face. Memories of your kiss flashed into your mind as you remembered his soft lips and the warm feeling that came with it. The fireworks and flare. The confused expression on his face that made you believe you had the power at the time. Where was that power and confidence now?

With your cheeks burning, you muttered a thank you and hurried out of the building. Braving on the rain, thoughts of the dark haired boy followed you all the way home and eventually into a sleepless night.

Meanwhile, Mark made his way back to his table, grinning at the way his friends were questioning about you. Donghyuck clapped his back, “Happy I told you she was here? You should be glad I remembered her, she’s a cute one.”

“Yeah, she sure is.” He agreed, sipping a little of his coffee, smiling at the thought of you flustered at his actions. Of course, Mark was used to it. He was used to girls blushing at his every move, his confidence boosting every time it happened. But somehow with you it felt different, it felt warm, tingly, nice, and so addictive. The feeling never went away from last time and his meeting with you today only amplified it.

Thoughts of you lingered in his mind throughout the weekend and he felt a sense of accomplishment from learning your name. Although today was just a chance meeting, he knew it wouldn’t be the last. A rush of adrenaline coursed through his body at the idea of seeing you again. He wasn’t sure what it meant but as he draped an arm around Jisoo, something that felt a little like fear told him that he might’ve started something he wasn’t sure how to finish.

Ignoring all incoming thoughts, he felt Jisoo melt under his touch and lean against him. Perking up at the guys, he finally asked “So when’s the next party?”

… 

MAR. 27, 2019

[10:40 PM]

You knew from the start that Mark had a special place in your heart no one else had. Sure, you’ve had your fair share of relationships so you knew what loving and caring for someone felt like. It came with endless support and late night talks, making space for them in your life. 

But with him, it felt different. You loved and supported him to no end but with that, you wanted to bring the best out of him. You wanted to take away his tears and turn them into smiles, to show everyone how bright and beautiful it could be. Every minute spent with him felt like bliss, like your head was high above the clouds and all you could do was bask in his embrace. Once you had a taste of it, you could never imagine letting go. 

In the beginning, it was scary. With his reputation around your peers, you made sure to steel your heart everywhere he showed up. You didn’t want to end up like those girls who had their heart broken and lied to. Even now, after all the two of you have been through. Doubts never fail to claw their way into your mind, causing you to backtrack and think about your non-relationship relationship with Mark. 

But his smiles, laughs, secrets, and heartaches made you forget, and fall in love with the man that he was now. The party side, the joking side, the serious side–you loved them all. You knew he could feel it too, his vulnerability practically shines through his eyes every time he looks at you and maybe that’s why you choose to stay. To embrace him throughout his worse nights and to uplift him at his peak. He was your anchor and you couldn’t tell whether that was a good or bad thing. 

It was at times like these where you weren’t sure of yourself and your mind falters. Having your relationship secretive gave girls reason to approach him, to not hold back on flirting in hopes of capturing his heart. Although he claims to love you, his actions don’t always seem that way. I love you’s are lost when you see him being touchy with the “it” girls and arguments break out. But even then, somehow, they always find their way through the comfort of him sneaking into your bed late at night, whispering sweet nothings and promises you believed in.

Sometimes words weren’t enough but with him, you wanted them to be. 

“Is this what frat parties are usually like?” 

Kyungsoo’s deep voice could barely be heard over the bass as you shrug your shoulders and took another swig from your water bottle. The rapidly changing lights flashing through his eyes as he looked around the house in slight judgement.

“We can go if you’re not into it”

“I never said I wasn’t into it, I’m just wondering if a usual frat party consists of this much sweat and shot cups laying literally everywhere.” You could tell he was agitated through his stiff posture and laughed at his blatant discomfort. He sighed for what felt like the hundredth time tonight and picked up his jacket, getting ready to leave.

You followed suit, frustration peaking as you glanced down at your phone waiting for a certain someone to text. The light from it casting a glow across your face. 

9:48PM >> maaarrkk

9:48PM >> wya

9:52PM >> ???

10:03PM >> helloooooo

10:03PM >> bby, remind me who was the one who wanted me to come in the first place? 

10:36PM >> ok i’m joking but honestly mark where are you

Kyungsoo looked at you standing up with your eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t comment on your expression at the moment, his mind more worried on getting out of the party and into his own bed. He gently pushed you towards the door, causing you to roll your eyes at his insistence. Moving along, you kept your eyes on your phone, letting Kyungsoo lead the way.

10:42PM >> i’m gonna leave soon

Sighing as your thumb hovered over the text you just sent, you pocketed your phone and hastily turned towards Soo. 

You blurted out, “I need to pee” and beelined towards the hallway. Missing the way Soo rolls his eyes and call after you that he’ll be waiting outside. In a last-ditch effort to find Mark, you continued down the hallway leading you deeper into the house, knocking and opening doors you pass by.

The whole night you had felt uneasy, Mark was usually right beside you the moment you enter parties. Your stomach felt queasy the longer you searched, a feeling in your gut telling you that something bad was going to happen. You brain was mushy from all the anxiety that you hadn’t noticed you already reached the back porch. Considering how big the house was, you were surprised to still hear people nearby.

Giving up, you were about to head home before you heard boisterous laughs coming from the backyard. Curiosity getting the best of you as one laugh in particular, stood out the most to you, familiar to your ears.

Turn back. Just go back to Soo.

It couldn’t have been a coincidence that you heard his laugh at the party. Your hopes overrid the negative thoughts in your head as you walked out onto the porch. Fairy lights wound around the railings, giving the environment a warm atmosphere. You looked around in awe before your eyes settled on the group crowding around a space with hammocks and blankets. Eyes immediately drawn towards a head of black hair.

But instead of feeling relief like you thought you would, your throat started closing up in sync with their laughs. Realizing it was indeed Mark and his group of friends, you inched closer, keeping in mind to hide your presence. It was easy, considering how dark it was outside and their intoxicated minds couldn’t care to notice someone in the background.

You felt your heart drop to the ground as Jisoo was clutching onto his arm like a lifeline, with Mark making no move to shrug her off. Anger started coursing through your body as you clenched your fists. 

You don’t understand. You don’t understand how he could stand being held by another woman when he said that he loved you repeatedly. Tears started prickling your eyes and you roughly rubbed them away. This always happened. Always. 

Did he want to keep you a secret so that he could flaunt around with Jisoo? You forced your lip to stop trembling and heaved a silent sigh.

Why did you try so hard just to be treated this way?

A loud laugh broke you out of your thoughts, eyes drawn back to the couple. Mark’s phone lay in his lap, untouched before Jisoo moved it out of the way to sit on him. Your eyes widened at her bold actions as the group erupted in cheers and whistles. Jisoo bashfully turned her face into Mark’s chest as he wrapped his arms around her, unaware of your heart breaking right behind him.

Their attention was on both of them as they were hit with question after question. Everyone’s voices were slurring and melding into each other, showing just how drunk off their mind they were. Even from afar, you could see Mark’s flushed, smirking face. 

“Mark, you and Jisoo huh?”

“C’mon, y’all would be cute together!”

“We all been knew you two were fucking”

“Wait, I thought you were dating another chick though”

Your breath caught at the mention of another chick, quickly assuming it was you.

“What other chick?” Mark voice resonated throughout the yard, poking fun at your heart. 

“You know, the one you always bring coffee to and pick up from classes. Aren’t you trying to get with her? Or did you already hit it?” A round of laughs cut through the air. You felt your nails creating harsh imprints onto your palm, your brain not registering the pain compared to the one brewing inside of you. 

You were trying so hard not to walk out at that moment and confront him. Instead, you held yourself back to see what Mark would say.

Mark’s laugh pierced through your body, making it run cold. “You’re kidding, right? She’s way too uptight. I like my girls out there, not holed up in the library 24/7. You’re insulting me, Jeno” He smirked at the end of his sentence and took a swig of his cup, Jeno merely laughed.

Hot tears rimmed your eyes as you looked down, you couldn’t bare to see his face any longer and was ready to leave that second. Your chest felt so tight and everything hurt all over. You didn’t know that the voice you grew to love so much could spit such venomous words. 

Jisoo piped up, “Girls like me, right?” She batted her eyes as yours rolled in disgust. Yes, you preferred to study rather than party all the time but you didn’t know Mark minded that. You thought he loved you for it, like all the other qualities he said he loved.

Your lips tugged into a bitter smile as his lies slowly unraveled themselves right in front of you, unaware that the worse hadn’t come yet.

“Mark, you’re not one to lose bets. Don’t even think about getting your $100 before you fuck and dump Y/N like you said you would” Donghyuck bluntly added, along with a arrogant laugh. It was like your whole world was crumbling beneath your feet.

“Yeah, yeah Hyuck. Don’t worry, I’m getting there.” He snided, no longer the man you knew from before. “Honestly, please pick someone harder next time.” 

Your voice got caught in your throat, eyes shaking in fury and heartbreak. You were just a bet? A fucking bet?

You couldn’t breathe. The air felt too tight and your lungs were on the verge of collapsing. Tears were blurring your vision as you saw Mark grab Jisoo’s chin and kiss deeply into her giggling frame. That was the last straw before you turned towards the house and hurried through the hallway to get to the front.

You realized everything you knew from before were all lies. The promises, the sweet compliments, the support he gave. Everything. You couldn’t take it anymore. You didn’t care whether you were bumping into people or not, you needed to get out of there. All of Mark’s promises mocked you in your head as you finally broke out the house, sobbing uncontrollably and seeking solace from your friend. 

All the way home, Kyungsoo held onto you as you rambled and told him everything. Although you could see him wanting to scold you, he kept a tight lip and chose to comfort you without a word. You were thankful he didn’t say anything, the guilt and cries pouring out of you.

Kyungsoo agreed to stay the night and was sleeping on the other side of your bed, providing you his comforting presence but letting you have your own space. You, on the other hand, couldn’t sleep. Your body as well as your mind felt numb as you simply clutched your sheets closely to your face. Staring out the window aimlessly, your phone buzzed near your head and you looked down at the notification. 

1:14AM >> aaa sorry baby :( did you leave already?

1:14AM >> i was caught up in something but i’m done now, wya?

1:15AM >> i love you :( pls don’t be mad

You scoffed at his words and left him on read, putting your phone on do not disturb shortly after. Tears made their way down your face again as you quietly sobbed, not wanting to wake Soo.

If you had known this would happen, you would’ve never gotten close to him. Would’ve never given him the chance to touch you, be with you, then finally hurt you. Fuck. It hurt so damn much, it felt like a million weights were crushing your heart. All this time you were just a bet. He played you in his sick, twisted game and you let him. Knowing well of what he was capable of. 

Please pick someone harder next time. There’s going to be a next time, indicating that he was going to leave you eventually, and soon it seemed. His voice held an edge you didn’t know it could harbor. How oblivious were you to not notice everything? 

You eventually drifted off to sleep, carrying your heartache into your dreams. Dried up tears marked your face but nothing could’ve compared to the mark on your heart.

...

[xyfanficarchive]

Four-Letter Word

(Sequel to Firelight - Part 1 here!)

Pairing: DBH Simon x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: a little angst

Summary: The reader is a human who is dedicated to helping the people of Jericho. After seeing only three made it to jump off the roof of Stratford Tower, they are worried sick waiting to find which of the four didn’t make it.

Word Count: 1835

Author’s Note: Holy hell y’all. I don’t think anything I’ve written in my whole life has ever come easier than both parts of this story. This is like three pages long! it feels good, man. I hope you all enjoy this!

There was a faint whistling coming from all around. Outside a violent snowstorm raged, the air sounding just as angry, as biting and bitter cold as it felt, even deep down in the hold of that rusting old ship. The residents of Jericho were restless, a general discomfort and fidgety energy of unease hung heavy in the air. Everybody was nervous.

You tried to conserve your energy, reluctant to leave the little bubble of comfortable warmth your heated blanket provided you in the raised room overlooking the main chamber. You were all set up, headphones playing music, browsing the internet on your tablet, screen illuminating your features blue in the low light. To an onlooker, you might have appeared calm, almost offensively calm given your humanity and the situation, but on the inside you were almost sick with worry. It was all just an attempt to distract yourself from the weight of the situation, and the pit in your stomach growing wider, threating to swallow up your insides as the hours ticked by with no word from Markus, North, Josh, and Simon.

You were almost at the point of regretting encouraging them to go to Stratford Tower. It was a surprise when Markus had asked you for your opinion. Up until that point you had just been staying quiet about their plans, thinking it wasn’t your place as a human to be giving your thoughts at will. Yet still, after discussing it with the other three, he turned to you and asked what you thought. You’d pointed at yourself inquisitively. Did they really mean you? After shaking off the shock you’d said that… it seemed like a suicide run, given your human perspective. But if anyone at all was going to be able to pull off a heist of this magnitude, it would be a team of androids with superior reflexes and mental abilities unclouded by human perceptions. That if there was one way to grab the undivided attention of everyone in the country, it would be this. And secretly you’d thought that it was about damn time someone in this whole android commune stood up to make their voice heard, instead of hiding fearfully in the dark as you’d seen them do for over a year now.

“It’s settled then,” Markus had said determinedly. “We go to Stratford Tower tomorrow.” And you tried to not let the swell of pride you felt bubbling up in your chest spill up and over onto your face at the thought that your judgment was valued by someone here.

Now, you sat deathly still, and deathly afraid, trying not to let your mind drift off to those places that told you would have heard from them by now, that they hadn’t made it, that they were all dead, and all because of you. All because of you, and your stupid judgement.

It was then that you’d seen it. After half an hour of fruitlessly refreshing one of your social media feeds over and over, the first post popped up. A live newscast showing a replay of the events that had just transpired. A showing of the speech that – yes, undoubtedly that was Markus without his skin – had delivered. Relief flooded your chest. They’d at least made it to broadcast their message. You didn’t take in any of the words the newscasters said, none of their fearful and negative opinions, instead waiting for a confirmation that they’d all made it to jump. It was then that the feed cut to a sweeping helicopter shot of the skyscrapers and streets of Detroit, partially obscured by snow, and one, two, three… Three. Three. Three parachutes.

All that relief in your chest dissipated in an instant, like sand falling through the cracks in your fingers. Numb fear oozed and creeped up on your limbs and into your throat, thick and black like pitch. Only three parachutes. Only three had made it to the jump. And as guilty as you felt for it, you hoped to god that it wasn’t Simon left behind to whatever unknown fate befell the last person.

You were starting to feel that fidgety, uneasy energy now. You shed your heated blanket to stand up, shivering in the chill of the air. A panic was starting to twirl in your brain, dizzying as you paced the length of the room and ran your fingers through your hair, and wrapped your coat tighter around your body. You couldn’t bear the loss of Simon, you just couldn’t.

It was true that your relationship had changed following that spring night of the storm, standing by the fire, as you spilled all your feelings about humanity and androids to him. As he touched your face so gently, so intimately, and you’d come so close to… something, so close. Not close enough before he’d pulled away and left you all alone. He’d retrieved those blankets and handed them to you wordlessly, without even meeting your eyes. You fell asleep that night feeling… disappointed? Hurt? You couldn’t really tell between the cocktail of emotions swirling in your head. The next morning you left without saying anything to anyone, and without seeing Simon.

It was different in the most painful of ways from then on. You still returned to Jericho to deliver thirium and spare parts on your normal semi-regular schedule. It took a while for him to warm back up to you, but Simon remained friendly. He kept his distance though, both emotionally and physically. You couldn’t deny that it hurt. It hurt a lot, almost more than if he had cut you out completely. It was like that moment by the fire drawn out into infinity; so close, and yet never close enough. In the months that followed you were always at arms length to him, and you tried to be okay with it, tried to convince yourself that you weren’t as messed up emotionally about this particular boundary he wanted to set, but in all truth that night had brought your feelings about him to a head. And you missed it all; the closeness, the casual touches and embraces, the conversations. You missed his warmth. You missed just being able to look into those beautiful blue-grey eyes of his and not have it be weird. Yes, you felt for him so deeply, but tried not to think about that one four-letter word for fear that it would cement this all irrevocably into reality.

Still more agonizing was the thought of him dying. The thought that he was dead somewhere on top of that broadcast tower, body destined to be hauled off and taken apart, dissected and analyzed and once they were done, simply tossed out like he was nothing more than an object. Nothing more than garbage. The thought that you would never, ever in your life see him again, the possibilities you wanted to explore with him shut off as tight as could be by the finality of death. It sent your mind into a spin, and you sat on the floor, knees tucked up into your chest, on the verge of tears for another hour yet before you heard a commotion coming from Jericho’s main room.

You knew it meant they were back. You screwed your eyes shut, and covered your ears, scared of being clued in to which three returned before you were ready to know. You knew eventually you would have to work up the courage to face it, so you counted to three, and then again, and then again before you stood yourself up. Legs shaking, fists clenched, and eyes firmly on the floor, you made your way out the door and onto the catwalk before you faced your fears and looked up to scan through the crowd.

You found the three in the center of a circle gathering around. And your heart stopped, all the noise and panic in your head stopped, the world crept to a standstill around you. Simon wasn’t there. Funny enough, once you were actually face to face with the reality of it, you didn’t know how to react. It felt like your insides were being ripped out in front of you, and you were distinctly aware of the pressure and sharp ache behind your eyes that accompanied the need to cry, but you couldn’t. You just stood there, completely still, in complete anguish but unable to do anything about it. You saw Markus tilt his head up to lock eyes with you. He shot you a sympathetic glance before turning his attention back to his people. The only thing you felt you could do was amble back to slump down in your original spot, curling up under the heated blanket.

It was a while before Markus came into the room. Jericho was celebrating the success of their mission outside, but he came up to sit down beside you. You didn’t even have the strength to look at him. The silence was palpable for a moment, before he finally spoke up.

“You’re worried about Simon, aren’t you?” He asks softly. You don’t know how to answer, so you stay quiet, but he speaks again before it becomes awkward.

“He’s not dead, you know. Or, not that we last saw him anyways,” he tells you. “He was injured. He’d been shot in the legs. We –’’ his face twisted up in an expression of pain and remorse – “We had to leave him on the rooftop. He couldn’t make the jump. We would have all been killed otherwise.” You lift your head up to see his face, looking into his heterochromatic eyes.

“We left him a gun to defend himself with. He’s smart. He’ll make it back to us,” Markus says. His voice is so smooth and comforting that you can almost believe it. The room falls back into silence, and your gaze drifts back down to the floor. He speaks up again, gently, hesitantly, quietly, as if he’s afraid to disturb the hush:

“You love him, don’t you?” Your eyes widen, as your head snaps back up towards him again. Your lips part, with words just on the tip of your tongue that refuse to leave, as you feel that barrier around your head start to come down. You meet his eyes with an expression of fear, and pain, and bewilderment on your face. “I can see it in your eyes, when you look at him,” his voice barely above a whisper.

You can feel that wall holding back your tears cracking and crumbling under the weight of it all, the pressure behind your face releasing as it twists up and you let out a sob, burying it in your hands. You love Simon. You love him. You love him. You love him.

You cry, choked sobs wracking your body, shaking your whole being, as Markus wraps an arm around your back, soothingly stroking his hand up and down your side.

“He’ll make it back. I promise.”

You just wish you could believe him.

[enterthezoid]

GET OUT! The Black Comedy

Sunday. Matinee. Jordan Peele’s Get Out receives %100 on Rotten Tomatoes. Call up the crew. My home girls slide thru. The downtown theater is sold out, Cherry creek has plenty of seats. No surprise there. Get Popcorn. Get Cozy. Get Scared. Get Out!

A whole can of black and white worms was opened up in Jordan Peele’s soon to be cult classic film Get Out. A psychological thriller that leaves one hinged horrifically balanced in what is suppose to be a suspension of reality but rather is an actual heightened extension of it. Don't worry I won't be spoiling much for you in this post, merely giving you my emotional reaction to such a ride...

We are thrown onto a cathartic balance beam bereft by a post traumatic state of reliving horrors from life on the silver screen. We make our way through the witty and blunt humor and cringe when we come to those perilous bridges constructed by race and ignorance that are all too familiar; but this is suppose to be funny right, ha ha haaaa. 

A black man in his early twenties, sporting a head wrap and army jacket sits in front of me and my peanut gallery of queens with his blonded white girl. I nudge my girlfriend and we both begin to crack up at what might be their last date.

Discomfort shifts back and forth in the seats as we merge into the muddy waters of Anywhere, America, a suburb that might host a mall with a theater like the one we are sitting in, as couples of all shades grasp and laugh, and are silent, we are methodically lowered into a 'sunken place' where all is happening to us and we can do nothing but watch.

The elegance or Jordan Peele’s writing allows us to pirouette through racism that wears the mask of success and our psychological ties to an oppressor. Our protagonist, Daniel Kaluuya, plays Chris Washington, A young African American photographer who reminds me of many friends who bridge race and class divides with the success of their skill; bringing them deeper into a culture that is far set from their own, and the certain types of women and men that lurk there. 

As Chris finds out when he goes on a weekend trip to see the parents of his fresh 5 month relationship with Rose Armitage, played by Allison Williams, who also starred in the show Girls. Balancing us yet again on this crux of black men and white women. 

This film get's out the unique fears one might feel growing up in this country as an African-American and thrown into a supposed integrated world that is far from it. The pitfalls and jabs that one feels when all alone and facing the unfiltered wave of ignorant ass supremacy.

I think now on the many laughs me and my friends have about what we feel to be far fetched fears but come to life in this film! For example the true notion that as a black man I still get uncomfortable around too many white folks, no matter the nation, age or class, especially when alcohol is involved, cuz’ we all know that when the liquor starts flowing they mouthes open and just say the darnedest things to you,

“Oh I love your hair can I touch?”

"Oh Bro what sports you play?”

“Mmmm I heard about black men, is it true what they say?”

"How is it being black?"

“Wow look at this one, your smile, your teeth are so white?”

“Wow you speak so well and would never have thought!”

or my favorite:

"Hey man is just a joke, it's funny right?"

And I'm sure some will say most of those sound like complements and genuine politeness of a person trying to empathize with another. No. It is prattle and mockingly insulting. It stems from a place that attempts to gloss over the cacophony of horrid screams from the bloody mud of this land 'tis of thee. It reeks of appropriation, and genocide. It's an unaccepting ignorance that still wants to devour its dark, mysterious, prey. 

You see, the old shrills of uncles and grandfathers speaking of dragging and lynchings from a brother who went a little too far into the white world always left my superstitious eye on the exit signs of any downtown bar, frat house, or suburban house party, that is flooded with white people. All should be taught such cautions as well, for accurate history in this country is hard to...get out.

The film gives great one liners, and double entendre that will bury themselves deep into our context as Americans in dealing with the racial divide, one in particular had me weak throughout the film for its undoubted usage to try and mask one's prejudice tendencies:

"I would have voted for Obama for a third term if I could."  says the neurosurgeon father when first meeting his daughter’s black boyfriend. I've heard many well off, liberal, white men in power, use this as a way to diffuse a remarkably racist comment that preceded it or would come shortly after.

There is also a moment our protagonist must use 'cotton' in a way to try and overcome his captors. As well as a chokehold that is slowly counted out "1 mississippi, 2 mississppi..." Small relics, symbols, and adages that are doors into our poignant history. Perhaps my favorite of these is when another black man, played by Lakeith Stanfield, who also played in ATLANTA, is taken hostage by this strange town and explains what he feels about the black man's condition,

"In this county the black man has had a overall good time, and is born with great advantages, but hey I don't know much, I haven't wanted to leave the 'house' for quite some time." Oh how this rings of old Malcolm X speeches and uncle tom's cabin remakes, leaving a stark but humorous reminder of the house nigga who loves his master, and in fact wishes to be his master...

These little gems and many more bedazzle you in a film that uses the juxtaposition of imagery and satire to unravel the unspoken myths of American culture.

Perhaps what can't be glossed over is the true evil in the film appeared to some as a utter reflection of themselves. As I noticed in the young white girlfriend sitting in front of me who kept having to ask her black boyfriend what was so funny? Or embarrassingly apologizing since she had done some of those exact things. 

While with something like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre or any other serial killer film the evil is an anomaly here it is the norm. This leaves the comments section of Get Out peppered by feelings of racism against Caucasians. Yet this is like every Hollywood film that portrays stereotypes of all other cultures in a menacing light. Not to mention as one home girl put it:

"So what about the micro aggression in suicide squad? The croc was clearly black watched bet ate Friday chicken wore velour suits with gold chain and listened to rap? I saw no white people complaining...Or when they make themselves the hero or savior of every film, last samurai, avatar, this Great Wall film that just came out; all under the guise the story won't be told/ watched if there isn't a white person in a lead role 🙄"

Oh how the kettle calls the pot! Well look, Here's an opinion of you outside of your own. good luck getting out of it!

A deep metaphor that runs through the core of this film is held in its appropriate title. Our protagonist must get out of a deep hole buried with in his subconscious, which is housed in the suburban outskirts, in a white picket fence mansion, in the heart of the white American dream. Can we escape our master's house, can we escape our master's women, can we escape our master's desires, can we escape our master? Must we escape from ourselves?

My palms were wet with sweat, gripping the theater chair arm rest as the film crescendos, and that feeling comes across you buried deep in your nerves from centuries of being hunted: Go! Go! Run! Get Out! As we have a hope that just maybe we will have a hero who runs off the psychological plantation into freedom! Away from the monstrous killer that was imbedded deep with in your own fears. Jordan Peele carried us to that deep seeded fear of the black man and white woman, that fear that underlies the belly of it all, of rape and murder and true horror.

Back into the woods and dark trees, where we hope our protagonist will not sink to that level that he is always portrayed, of beast, of burden, of object like they think he is, that he will not be caught, that he can find himself and get out alive with no regrets. And as the scene perches us all gripping each other, still, silent. Our protagonist becomes a hero under flashing lights.

To wash all of this down Jordan Peele naturally uses humor as the film’s saving grace. Unlike some race films like Birth of a Nation (the first one and the Nat Turner epic) Get Out doesn't leave one emotionally hateful and unstable, instead the ability to laugh at the portrayal of certain prejudices that we all have about each other allows us to experience the trauma with our serotonin popping; and with the aide of satire we can communicate why something is funny, and why something might be true.

It leaves us closer together rather than dividing us as I'm sure many will say. Embraced in a terror that lurks even here in the hazy February theater of a mall in Anywhere, America. 

This film get’s out the scariest nightmare, the one buried deep, the one you think is real. It get's out the stupidity of labels and walls that we put up because we are still ignorant of another's customs and stories and feelings. Well here we are, pressed tight together, from sea to shining sea, and from the repressed pits of a place, where we felt helpless, where we couldn't do anything, but sit there and watch TV, while our mothers and brothers, fathers and sisters, bled out in the streets and then were hung up like a deer's head in the den of your great grandfathers plantation mansion.

Here is a beautiful reflection of true horror, a real monster, dripped in gore, and fear, and honesty, as the deer’s head pierces your cornea and out oozes the greatest monster ever... a mirror. Can you get out of this image I present to you? Can you get out of your head? Can you get out of me?! But hey, it's only a joke, this is funny right?

Written by: Négré Micheaux 

for F!!!RE Magazine issue #1

[kirsisterjournals]

Undecim sat alone in her bedroom on a sunny day. She felt unwanted in her own home after her family dismissed her pleads to play. Boredom drove her to reminisce about the toys she used to play with as a child and the games she enjoyed as a preteen.

She recalled Spiffy's Space, an online role-playing game designed for a young audience to explore a colorful universe of cartoon animals. Cartoons, shortened to toons, were at war with anarchists who lost sight of their silly side and mutated into machine hybrids called Cytoons. Their battles consisted of typical cartoon violence or common gags. Undecim shifted her focus to other games but Spiffy's Space dominated her thoughts, the title repeated itself in her head as her heart raced with anxiety.

Undecim typed the link into the address bar. A colorful website featuring Spiffy appeared on the screen, he gestured to the log-in button with a cheesy grin on his face. Spiffy resembled a Border Collie with green fur, a white underbelly, and white markings on his forearms and muzzle. He wore a red cape with a yellow S printed on the back, blue jean shorts, and red boots with yellow soles. Anyone who played the game remembered his habit of ending his sentences with “Awo! Awo!”

Undecim's old username and password filled the fields on the page. Her gaze shifted back to Spiffy, who appeared to be staring at her through the screen with great anticipation.

“That's strange,” Undecim muttered.

Creepie and Undecim's accounts were inactive for three years and were likely terminated. Undecim pressed the log-in button, her screen turned black and her speakers popped as though they shut themselves off. The longer she stared at the monitor the more she struggled to look past her growing discomfort.

Undecim was exposed to a monochromatic image of a defunct amusement park. A Ferris Wheel was in the foreground with Spiffy sitting in the top cart, behind him was a series of rides ready to collapse. This was the character selection screen, which was supposed to be cheery with a bright sun and a roller coaster in the background. Her custom characters no longer existed. Spiffy was her only choice.

Undecim held her breath as she clicked on Spiffy. The game started instantly, it should have taken fifteen minutes to load. Spiffy stood in the middle of a war-torn town surrounded by burning buildings and wilted plants covered in black soot, a desaturated color gradient emphasized the tragedy that struck Funtyme's Square.

Funtyme's Square was inspired by New York. This was the starting point designed with an onslaught of tutorials for players who joined the game, then they could explore the branching neighborhood streets, enter shops, or engage in the mini-games it had to offer. The sun was always shining, the grass was always green, the flowers danced, and players heckled each other among cheerful NPCs. Now Spiffy was the only toon left in the entire town. This realization triggered discordant music to fade in and play in the background. It was a haunting melody created from a warped version of the level's original track.

Undecim looked on in shock as she tried to imagine what could have turned their whimsical world into something so desolate. She swallowed hard and tapped the up key on her keyboard, Spiffy lurched forward and stumbled to a stop. She guided the toon through an avenue and beheld abandoned buildings set ablaze like those in Funtyme's Square. Puddles of oil covered the pavement and sidewalks, accompanied by grotesquely shaped heads with metal plates grafted to them. The most prominent heads belonged to a Cytoon species called Lackey, which was based on a Golden Retriever.

The Lackey had a permanent open-mouthed smile and tightly closed eyes, though its in-game dialogue implied it was depressed or actually hated its boss. The eyes of the deceased Lackeys were wide open and their jaws hung slack to give an impression of terror, their lifeless eyes fixed on Undecim through the monitor. Cytoons were considered another brick in an industrial wall, lifeless beings who were no longer welcome in society after they gave up their individuality for a suit. They were scorned for believing what they were taught in The Academy. These soulless creatures were incapable of emotion but their gruesome expressions made Undecim think twice about their portrayals. Still, she had yet to question what kind of monster actuated others to engage in genocide.

Spiffy turned a corner and came to a halt. He gazed at a burning police station in the middle of a cul-de-sac. Undecim felt her chest tighten when she realized she could no longer move him, he shook his head in silent refusal when she tapped a key. A series of barking sounds brought Undecim's attention to blue text in the bottom left corner of the screen.

Spiffy: Burning.

Undecim moved her mouse to the X at the top of the screen but it did not respond. Sweat ran down her forehead and her breathing intensified, she feared the beast that killed the inhabitants of Spiffy's Space would make itself known.

The location changed when Spiffy turned to face the screen with a sad expression. He stood outside of The Academy, where Cytoons were“manufactured” from toons who wanted a serious approach to life. The level was bleak and foreboding, challenging players to infiltrate an amalgamation of a college institute and a penitentiary. The sun's absence left a dark gray overcast above the establishment and prevented life from sprouting in the dry black soil. Cytoons marched the premises en masse as convenient guards to protect their territory. Now it was quiet, the monochrome color scheme it boasted felt truly depressing.

Spiffy's expression changed. He sprinted after a Lackey who passed by in the background.

What is his fascination with Lackeys? Undecim wondered.

She gritted her teeth when Spiffy turned to face the screen with a glare. This emotion was designed to come with a comical tantrum but Spiffy looked on with an intimidating stare. Text appeared in the bottom left corner.

Spiffy: Faces.

A mischievous smile crept across Spiffy's muzzle. A chill ran down Undecim's spine, her instincts told her to flee from the room but she remained seated and stared at the monitor.

Spiffy caught up to the Lackey with ease. Undecim hoped he would do something silly once he captured it, she uttered a nervous laugh at the thought. Spiffy tackled the Lackey and pinned it to the ground, a sound crossed between a yelping dog and grinding gears emit from the Cytoon as it struggled against him.

Spiffy amputated the Lackey's legs with a saw he pulled from hammerspace, blood sprayed from the wounds instead of oozing oil like its brethren. Undecim watched as Spiffy tied a rope around its neck. He dragged it across the barren land and kicked open the factory door, he was met with anguished screams echoing from the fire inside the building.

Undecim wanted to call for help but she could not find her voice. She watched Spiffy lug the helpless Cytoon up a flight of stairs, orange text entered itself in the corner of the screen as the Lackey pleaded for its life. The staircase led to a small balcony above a roaring pit of fire. Spiffy cornered the Lackey by a metal rail on the balcony and stabbed it with a screwdriver. High-pitched male screams blared from Undecim's speakers and forced her to cover her ears with a gasp. She hyperventilated, the painful throbbing of her heart made her body feel numb. Past the pitch shift, Undecim swore what she heard was true death.

Spiffy pulled a drill from his pocket and pressed it against the Lackey's head. The Cytoon writhed about as its distorted screams mixed with the loud whir of his tool. Spiffy looked on with a dark expression, he held his arm in place as he became drenched in blood. Spiffy dropped the drill when he grew bored and grabbed the end of the rope, he effortlessly swung the Lackey over the rail and held onto it with inhuman strength. Undecim jerked back in her seat when a brutal snap came through her speakers.

Another abrupt change took them to a place that did not exist on the map in the game. It was a grassy plain littered with the bodies of toons and Cytoons surrounded by realistic piles of viscera and pools of blood. A hill with a single tree atop of it could be seen farther away in the distance. Spiffy stood stock-still as he stared at the hellscape before him.

Tears welled in Undecim's eyes and her lip quivered. “Why?” she whimpered. She knew Spiffy could hear her even if she kept her thoughts to herself.

Spiffy's head twisted back as he ran toward the hill. Open wounds riddled his face and a terrible burn marred the right side of his head. His jaw hung slack to the left, exposing rotten, jagged teeth. His large, black eye sockets were surrounded by a gray aura, blood ran from them and seeped into the infected cuts on his muzzle. The corners of Spiffy's mouth managed to turn upward in a grin.

Spiffy: Didn't you think it was funny?

His eyebrows expressed sadness when Undecim shook her head in response. The world's colors faded to gray and grew darker the further he ran, piles of bodies materialized as he came closer to the hill. Spiffy's relentless staring made Undecim squirm in her seat.

Spiffy: Look what you have done to this beautiful place. All of these people.

“I never did anything!” Undecim shouted.

The toon's eyebrows raised and his twisted grin returned.

Spiffy: Accept your fate.

Spiffy made pained grunts as he closed in on the tree. His health points depleted and his body became frail. Spiffy's grunts turned to audio clips of a real dog whimpering by the time he stood five feet away from the base. Spiffy stumbled to a stop, fell to his knees, and flopped onto his stomach. He remained still, surrounded by bodies with hollow eye sockets. Undecim jumped in her seat when fire engulfed the corpses and grass with a loud igniting sound.

Undecim snapped out of her trance when the game closed itself out, she ran down the hall and begged Hekima for his assistance. Undecim gave her father a hasty explanation of what she had witnessed and convinced him to give her computer a complete reboot. The complex process required an electrical box in the wall, which held a “reset laser” inside of it. Hekima shouted for his family to duck as a laser ricocheted off the floor and ceiling. Undecim kept her distance from the laser. The memory of Spiffy's Space would be transferred into a person's mind if they let it come in contact with their eyes. Undecim never wanted to see Spiffy again, nor did she want her family members to suffer the same burden.

Undecim spent the rest of the dream reinstalling her programs. It was an inconvenience but she assured herself it was not so bad compared to what she went through. —- Art by @princesslovelydreams Story Excerpt from The Inner Council: Dream Journal by Casselle and Joyelle King

[maopheous]

The sunflower field

 After my mom died, I felt terribly alone. But it took some time to get to that point. It started when I came to realization that I was not going back home. I would not live with my sister or brother. I was locked in a room with no bed. None of my things. No stuffed animal I had loved. None of my movies I enjoyed to watch. A room with dust covered hardwood floors. Cob webs on the sill and corner walls. A dark closet that hung broken hangers and old sheets. A desk littered with paper work. And a window covered in insect carcass that didn’t open all the way and looked out to the neighborhood hills and the sunflower field that sheltered darkness in the distance. I was only eight years old. I had my tattered blue blankie. The faded bear on the center that more than likely represented my innocence. My purple gameboy color that my mother gifted to me my last birthday. And a torn up guide book to Poke’mon yellow version. I couldn’t go home. This was my home now. I was told. In the pit of my stomach I felt discomfort. I started to go to school there. I had two cousins who attended it with me. One pretended to not know me. The other was a little younger so I only saw him in the morning. That’s when I realized I had no friends. I think I got along with my classmates. But I remember being embarrassed all the time. I remember I didn’t want to be at school. I remember having to participate in things and I hated it. I hated the other kids, my teacher, the lunches, the classroom. I missed my friends at my first school. I missed my brother and sister. I missed my dad, and my cat that had three legs from birth deformation. I missed my home, that had the fast slamming screen door. The brown carpets that clashed with the grey multi colored lazy boy. The giant bookshelf with all the vhs movies. The heater that had colors oozing down the bottom color from the crayons that I colored onto while it was on. The giant open windows in the living room that homed my mom’s house plants. Her garden in the front, filled with wild roses and irises. I missed it all. But out of it all I missed her so much. I missed my mom. It was starting to finally settle into my brain that I was never going to see my mom again. I was never going back home again. I was never going back to the life I knew. Because everything changed. Everything was gone. They were just memories and I would never return to it.

I don’t remember how long I was there at my uncles. I just remember hating it. I was always locked up in that room. I was not allowed to watch tv. I was not allowed to choose what I wanted to eat. I don’t think I was ever asked if I wanted anything specifically to my liking. I was accused of throwing up my food and I was beaten for it. I remember being in time out a lot. Which was the kitchen table facing the corner of the wall. I was told to clean a lot. But the house was so big and I was scared of being alone. I remember my older cousin, who was kind to me also being annoyed by me. She was about my sister’s age. She would help me email my dad. She would have me shower with her. She would brush my hair before bed. She was kind. But I didn’t feel welcome. I remember getting hit a lot. I remember being yelled at a lot. I remember being cold and locked in the garage, bare foot, hungry and sweeping up saw dust and dirt. I remember always being hungry. When I got out of school I would walk home by myself. I remember having to be at the after school program. And I didn’t have to be there. The Teacher would dismiss me and tell me to go home. So I remember hiding in the sunflower field across the street. I remember hiding there until dusk. I would lay under the giant bloomed heads and play poke’mon or do my homework until I had to go back. I remember being covered in bug bites and dirt and my aunt would be so pissed that I would get beat and thrown in the shower. It was worth it.

There was something about the solace that came from the field. How comforting to walk around the cultivated dirt. The smell was almost dry and smokey. The giant stems poked and felt like splinted pins towards the bloomed heads. The heads were so ginormous. I was hidden from all the things I hated and feared. The flowers towered over me that I could easily be sheltered from all that was and that would be unkind and unwelcoming. The California sunshine would exhale over the field and create a very comforting orange and gold blanket to bask in before night came. It felt like I was in her arms. Like she would be in there with me. Holding me. Whispering in my ears with the dusk breeze. I didn’t feel alone there. I was lonely anywhere else. But something about the field. The sound of the birds that would ravish the faces of the sunflowers. The sizzle of the heat rising from the leaves and the husk of the stems. The sound of the legs marching from all and any insect that would sit in my hideaway. This fortress brought me more comfort than any of the relatives I was living with. I didn’t want to leave but I didn’t want to cause anymore trouble than I knew I would. Every weekday after school, if I stopped at the sunflower field I knew I would have been in trouble. But I couldn’t pull myself away. One cold morning on the way to school I saw some men in construction heading to the field. I knew it would be gone after school. And it was. The entire field was ripped apart. I would never see the blooms from the window ever again. I did not have a place to hide anymore. I would not feel the warm embrace from the setting sun in the towering field of the sunflowers. I would no longer be eight wishing I knew where I could call home. Yet sadly I didn’t even care.

I was allowed to be picked up by my brother and visit. I was excited. I was going home! Or so I thought. My sister had been kicked out. My brother’s friend had taken over our home. It didn’t smell like mom. It didn’t feel like home. The cat was gone. My room I shared with my sister was gone. It wasn’t home. And I remember being so sad. I asked m brother if I could live with him and come back home. And I remember him telling me no.

I got to visit my old home and my brother once a month. My sister would be there sometimes. To see me. She told me I could live with her if I liked. And I remember wanting that. But it never happened. Because she was still a minor. And then one weekend I was surprised. My dad was home. My dad had came and he wanted me to live with him. And we were on our way to the San Fransisco Airport. I was so scared. I was panicking. I knew I would be in trouble. I knew my uncle would find out, and I would be going back to their place and I’d be locked in the room after a beating and a few hours in time out. But my dad held me in his arms and told me I would never have to go back if I did not want to. He said, “Come with me to Oregon, where I live. Spend the day with me and if you don’t like it you do not have to stay.” I did not love Oregon, but I loved being with my dad. And I loved seeing him and being treated like my opinion mattered. I loved not being locked in a room. And there were cats at this place. And everyone smiled when I smiled at them. I was so happy. But I didn’t know that that was the peek of it and it would slowly disappear and become worse.

[thefaithlesstheologian]

Astral

        It is much easier to mourn the dead than the living. While losing a friend to a tragic accident or illness is certainly catastrophic there is yet more pain to be had in losing a friend but them still living. Sure with death there is either a long strenuous build up to a cold, harrowing climax or potentially sudden shock, but there is just something about losing somebody on an emotional level rather than a physical one which makes it far worse.

           Perhaps it’s the lack of closure since there is no definitive answer to the question of how they are dealing with the situation or even if they care. Maybe it’s the idea of someone who you spent so much time and energy with carrying on with their lives without you which agonizes the soul. At least in death we tend to release our regrets, our insecurities, our animalistic tendencies that we harbor in life. It is like a cold war that is not easily won and it seems that as long as both people survive it simply carries the embers of what caused the fall out to begin with to continue smoldering.

           Sometimes they suddenly burst into fits of heat that quickly sputter out or worse, linger for days at a time. This feeling is something I know well because I have had to face its consequences…

           I won’t tell you his name or why we tore each other out of our lives, because that is not the important part of this sad tale. What is important is what happened, what cruel machination forged by unextinguished animosity had caused.

           I had just finished another day at school. It had been a fairly typical day with no real consequence except that I felt drained, like the ambition had been physically sucked out of me and deposited in a distant reservoir. The day sighed with a cold discomfort and my mind felt as if it had congealed into physical ooze. I hated that day, with no regard to its actual contents but with regard to its proximity.

           The day before was when tempers flared. The wrong things were said at the wrong time and each of us was pushed to our ends. In the moment it was a surreal thing, like the words we each spoke were not our own, the pure hatred and divisive cruelty in our voices felt like demons had used us as pawns in a cosmic game. Each hiss and violent jab struck me in a post-mortem of grief and regret. I tried to tell myself that things were untenable, that it was neither person’s sole fault but it was easy to use myself as a scapegoat as I always had…

           I walked up the front steps into my home and quickly passed into my bedroom all the while ignoring my family who tried to angle me with concern. I closed the door harshly, making a distinctive hard thud which dictated to the rest of the world that I did not want to be disturbed.

           I tried to distract myself that afternoon, playing games on my computer or getting an early start on my homework. However the voices of my conscience screamed at every attempt to drown them out to the point where it felt like I was trying to drown an unwanted infant.

           Tired, cold, and alone with my own madness I decided to lie down on my bed. I pulled a quilt over my face, hiding my shameful struggle from the world or perhaps I were simply just hiding from the truth of the situation. I closed my eyes and smothered my face in the pillow, which reeked with the scent of my own foul odor.

           Soon I slipped into a cold sleep amidst the noxious fumes and a well needed blackness courted my mind. Yet I knew this peace could not last, and soon pictures began to float by my mind. Memories of my friend combined with twisted fears about my future without him. Paranoid thoughts like “Who was next to go” or “Who would take who’s ‘side’” assaulted me as a captive audience to their madness.

           It eventually faded and became replaced with something else. It was a dream more vivid than the last parade of horrors.

           I awoke to the moist scent of a sleeping forest. My eyes popped open revealing me to be at rest among the trunks of the many pine and oak trees that decorated my hometown. I quickly stood up, confused by the strangeness of my surroundings. I wore clothes which were not my own, in the form of a long sandy trench coat and noticed as I stepped I wore thick boots almost like that of a soldiers due to their hefty build.

           Something seemed to allure me, a certain instinctual feeling which pulled me through the forest. I followed it, not entirely at my own will until along an overgrown path I found a small wooden crate buried in the underbrush.

           I cast aside the clumps of moss and severed branches that had been obscuring its presence and lifted up the weathered lid carefully. Inside were only two items, one of those rectangular red gasoline containers made out of a thick plastic, filled to its brim and next to it was a small book of matches.

           I took both, tucking the matches into one of my coat’s various pockets and hefted the jug of fuel along my side, hobbling along a predestined path with no agency of my own.

           I stumbled through the woods for a short while until the trees began to part and in the distance I could see a familiar place. A two story house, with peaked roofs sat prominently amongst the trees, stretching towards the clear night sky. The dusk coated the house in a cloak of darkness, warping its pale yellow paint into a mystical hue.

           With the stars and the winking moon as my only witnesses I marched towards the back porch of the house with unbreakable purpose. The grass crunched underneath my meet as I walked and in my path I caught sight of something.

           A makeshift cross posted above a pile of disturbed soil marked one of the many reasons I hated the house’s residence. On its face was the name “Rex” carved into its face. Four years old and killed by negligence, the poor creature simply symbolized everything I hated about the swollen and arrogant yuppies that slept so peacefully in their illustrious home.

           I marched up their porch, making sure to take light steps so as not to alert anybody to my presence. I put my hand on the back door and to my surprise it slid open. Whether that was a convenience of a dream or simply their shoddy sense of overconfidence I could not tell, but regardless I walked in easily.

           Inside was a large dining room, where a finely polished oval table sat with four chairs at each distant end. A finely embroidered rug with a fanciful pattern lined the floor and above a crystalline chandelier loomed peacefully. A pungent odor filled my nostrils; it was a fake, fruity scent which always overpowered me whenever I entered this place. I took shallow breaths to minimize its noxious odor so that I could carry out my purpose, whatever it was.

           From here I began my deadly crusade, pouring the jug of fuel in a row, soaking the carpet around my entrance. The perfume was quickly overwhelmed by the raw and strangely pleasing scent of the flammable liquid. I poured it over the table and then moved on to the next room, their living room. It was another plush room full of soft, clean, albeit not of their own efforts, furniture that lacked any proper blemish. There I doused the front door with noxious fluids.

           A stairwell ran up to the next floor, which I happily walked up and then back down, leaving a slimy stream in my wake. Sinister delight welled in my chest as I conducted my wicked dance. Once done, I had used the last of my gas on the stairs, and hoped that my efforts were sufficient.

           I reached into my pocket and grabbed the match book. Suddenly I heard a door, followed by encroaching footsteps. I flipped open the tool and pulled off a match. I saw something shifting atop the stairs, and I readied myself to ignite the wicked steps.

           As I was about to strike the figure came into view. It was an effigy so familiar, a plump figure with a receding hairline that carried himself with a tactless sense of worth. His sunken in eyes looked down at me wearily through the shadows.

           “Jay?” his voice muttered as I quickly struck the match alight and threw it at him.

           A dragon’s breath launched up the stairs as well as catching the carpet alight jumping to each pool I created. The figure of my old friend was suddenly emblazoned in vengeful orange, seemingly unaware of his fate, being swallowed by flame and anger.

           As the flames formed around me, closing in like infernal walls I snapped awake, my heart racing and a clammy sensation coating my skin. I took a couple deep breaths as I awoke slowly, realizing that it was just a dream.

           As I gained lucidness I looked at my phone uneasily, it was about seven o’clock. The dream woke me up so much so I doubted I would fall back asleep, besides another school day awaited. I slipped out into the dining room on my way to shower and noticed that my mother had left the television on, as she frequently did. I went to turn it off, but caught a jarring image in the news.

           On the screen was the image of a familiar lot where a familiar house once stood. It was replaced by a smoldering pile of ash and char as the image of first responders prodding around it played on the screen. My heart paused and I was frozen in that moment. The news said it was an accident. It said there was a gas line that exploded. It said there was no sign of arson or foul play, only a tragic accident.

           It was uncanny given my dream which perhaps a nightmare or some sort of premonition. A wicked mixture of elation, pleasure and guilt swirled in my head. I felt pain as I stared, even after the news moved to another story, for on some cosmic level I felt like I caused this. After all a part of me wanted this, it must have, otherwise why would I dream of it? And after all, I was an easy scapegoat.

           Was my nightmare actually a dream? In the coming weeks I felt the vice of grief pass me by, and finally, I was able to function as normal again. Occasional embers would reignite, memories of our friendship and of that tragic night, but they would be snuffed out as quickly as they occurred unlike before. I could live once more with certainty, without distraction. It is as I said; it is much easier to mourn the dead than the living. Or perhaps I am just deluded.