PHOENIX DOWN.

under construction.

[hamletfactory-blog]

im sorry

[hamletfactory-blog]

i tried it i really did. i thought coming back would be fine and okay, but it’s more stressful than anything.

nothing i do feels original even if it is original. i feel like i really get started and then stop because i can’t handle it anymore. i feel like everything about me is fake too. i spent a long time trying to figure out who i was and im not even sure anymore. maybe i will come back under a different pseud with a different style so i don’t feel so pressured to act/write/behave like what everyone expects of me. and if i do that – i’d want people to not try to find little habits of mine and try to connect me back. im sorry to everyone who was excited to see me, but there are ways to get into contact. i have a personal tumblr, and a twitter, and a skype you can reach me on if you really want to! ASK ME FOR THEM. it’s just that the stress of keeping up appearances/pretending im not afraid of certain people has really gotten to me and im tired.

[hamletfactory-blog]

im sorry

[hamletfactory-blog]

i tried it i really did. i thought coming back would be fine and okay, but it’s more stressful than anything.

nothing i do feels original even if it is original. i feel like i really get started and then stop because i can’t handle it anymore. i feel like everything about me is fake too. i spent a long time trying to figure out who i was and im not even sure anymore. maybe i will come back under a different pseud with a different style so i don’t feel so pressured to act/write/behave like what everyone expects of me. and if i do that – i’d want people to not try to find little habits of mine and try to connect me back. im sorry to everyone who was excited to see me, but there are ways to get into contact. i have a personal tumblr, and a twitter, and a skype you can reach me on if you really want to! ASK ME FOR THEM. it’s just that the stress of keeping up appearances/pretending im not afraid of certain people has really gotten to me and im tired.

[hamletfactory-blog]

im sorry

i tried it i really did. i thought coming back would be fine and okay, but it’s more stressful than anything.

nothing i do feels original even if it is original. i feel like i really get started and then stop because i can’t handle it anymore. i feel like everything about me is fake too. i spent a long time trying to figure out who i was and im not even sure anymore. maybe i will come back under a different pseud with a different style so i don’t feel so pressured to act/write/behave like what everyone expects of me. and if i do that -- i’d want people to not try to find little habits of mine and try to connect me back. im sorry to everyone who was excited to see me, but there are ways to get into contact. i have a personal tumblr, and a twitter, and a skype you can reach me on if you really want to! ASK ME FOR THEM. it’s just that the stress of keeping up appearances/pretending im not afraid of certain people has really gotten to me and im tired.

[hamletfactory-blog]

like for a thing!

[hamletfactory-blog]

sorry for my abscence!! i’ve been busy with finals, fml.

[hamletfactory-blog]

storm’d one.

          It is as though standing before he, dumbfounded and bound to silence, would not be enough of responsiveness to the lack of any form of query. But instead, give to her the typicality of ruse. To play on the tattered fringe of reality and purgatory, to tease along the rim of what is real and what is unseen. Yet, in this momentary lapse that requires their mutual presence, it is as though time has given to them their own span to play within. But of course, in truth, this is far from true. Time goes on, the world keeps turning, passerby of the local mesh continue on with their lives. Even with the reunion of the prideful. Roseate tufts knit inward. 

             “You’re as typical as always.” Bite back your amusement, o’savior. 

“It’s a gift of mine, sweetpea,” ---- but it’s disgustingly sweet notwithstanding the current of an impassioned countenance.A shift ; obsolete to most if not for the curve to a heavy spine as if consideration to do something more beckons him closer. He doesn’t pause for once, reaches for her despite the distance he prefers as though touch is acid and she’d render him dust from the electricity of her might, and presses tempted fingers to her arm briefly. “Hey, listen... I know I just bailed last time. And it was a dick move. And I know I implied I’d never ---- fuckin’ get childish like that so. I’m sorry. Really.” It tastes of possession, unlikeliness near tainting his words with dismay ; as though he cannot believe himself.

[hamletfactory-blog]

storm’d one.

          Lo, it is attentiveness that is forced into a rugged blossom. Steeled expressionism rerouting itself to the intense gruffness that is he of masculinity’s form. So let it be that as nautical oculi do fall upon that stature of his, it is also the birth of familiarity. For with the rise of self-endowed namesake, one could only question the reason. And here it is, standing before her in its BROKEN glory. To what pleasure does she owe the presence of wayward son, of a modern day cowboy.                        “—Dean.” Nigh breathless.

Once exaggerated loquaciousness could have eased entry into liquid familiarity as though this son of John’s absence did not span months ; a year, if unchecked. Acknowledged sheepishness is what tugs him to attention, ‘lashes fluttering with the weight of GUILT that has long settled in the marrow of fractured bone with discomfort twisting a heart-shaped mouth something sickly. A disruption lays momentarily forgotten in this facade -- ( the Chosen Son does not regard warily // a CURSE REMAINS IN THE TRAITOR’S BONES ) -- and finally does Dean manage a timid smile. “Hey, toots,” comes he with a joker smile that does not match the shift of his weight from foot to foot, “----miss me?”

[junprk-deactivated20170101]

    childish rich kid with a big heart !                            ( original character. )

[hamletfactory-blog]

phantasm. 

It seems menial tasks such as runs to the store to purchase steal necessities can still turn into bigger ordeals than need be. His gaze cast downwards to make sure his BIONIC arm is indeed masked by the jacket sleeve. But perhaps the exposure of his face is what gave him away. Recognition seeming to ONLY be in the cards for the green eyed stranger, if he had known the man – he would’ve remembered right? The smile is welcomed but not returned, pleasantries were not common place for a man on the run, not anymore.                 ❝Wasn’t ever planning on making a scene.❞

“It’s not for you,” Dean snorts immediately as though he’s insulted by the prospect this man might think his world revolved around him – mechanical arm or not. Dean picks at a rip in his jeans, covets forgetfulness in place of making this more complicated. “That’s my face on the TV back there, y’know, ‘stay away from this person and call the cops upon sight’ kinda TV. I’m not actually a bad person, y’know.” He tries his best at a disarming grin, wolfish when it ought to be coy, but swallows carefully around the forming lump in his throat. He tries to be nonchalant and fails. “You’re goin’ to get me out of here, no complainin’, m’kay, toots?”

[hamletfactory-blog]

unknown.

    he watches momentarily in the secretive shadows. hears the hushed request despite lacking the sensitive ears of a canine. fox eyes will GLOW as a step is taken forward to reveal his darkened silhouette. he was still a young kit ; much extensive learning to go before he discovered the endless and unbeatable power he craved and sought out for. still, he wasn’t weak. stronger than the average human once supernatural tendencies are tapped into. shin doesn’t say anything to the older male. sees no reason to. he’ll contently stare for the time being. 

It withers like flowers in spring, his patience ; begins to feel something akin to the burn of whiskey down the slide of his throat – wet and moist and giving on special occasions. Intrinsically he just knows, grips the necklace ‘round his neck like it’s a cross to pray with. Years upon years of planted consideration for his surroundings do nothing to stop him from sitting, though, from wrapping his arms around his knees and feeling every bit like the child he pretends to be when pressure isn’t breathing down his neck. “Oh well,” Dean breathes, kicking his feet in front of him. “Worse has – will happen. No point in hesitating.”

[hamletfactory-blog]

stranger.

❛   i like snow globes ‘cause it’s like a mini - world in there. a teeny tiny world. kind of sad though, don’t you think? l’il people stuck in there. trapped er something. wondering how they can get out. reaching out & it’s just glass they’re touching. do you feel like that? like a snow globe man?   ❜   / / @hamletfactory

“Like y’keep tryin’, but y’just can’t get far enough? Kinnuh like suffocatin’ I guess, desperation, or somethin’. But you try, and keep pushin’ ---- real life is just like that, don’t’cha think? Tryin’ to get places but always endin’ up back in the same spot...”

[hamletfactory-blog]

a sheathe.

❝No I am NOT kidding you.❞ Mayhaps that had been a rhetorical, those seem to be of abundance lately and all but directed at him. Being of the highest rank of angelic beings ( if not the highest ), his time with HUMANS occurring much more frequently. Habits of lying and sarcasm has arisen. it could’ve only been a matter of time before Gabriel’s influence had descended upon them. Of course Dean Winchester recognized him, his true vessel, their bodies linked, insides and destines intertwined. Had been anyhow. With Metatron on his vendetta and Abaddon rampage, the world had certainly took a turn for the WORST in recent years, prior to his outbreak of the cage. ❝better things? To which better things are you referring to, certainly not to restore Heaven and my siblings wings, the very siblings that left me to ROT in the cage. — No the better thing to be doing is right in front of my being.❞ the r i g h t e o u s man was e v e r y t h i n g. Michael could’ve denied this, could’ve gone half cocked and spun an anecdote to cover up his presence BUT the TRUTH seemed to just fall into place. Whether or not HIS hunter wanted his help or not he was going to get it; whether or not he wanted the archangel here, he was going to have his company. ❝You do well to remember RESPECT, however easily forgotten by you.❞ it’s almost as if HIS human has the knowledge that the divine being wouldn’t ever dream of hurting him

Nightmares are considerably more beautiful than this face – arguably, his hatred stems from a lack of understanding. Dean’s patience has increased these past few years, giving him the maturity to not roll his eyes into the back of his head at the self-important structure angels continue to follow after being rendered useless. It’s not as though this REVERSE BOY KING is of any importance ( deemed godlike by HEAVEN and craved by the depths of HELL, but only PURGATORY manages to lay claim to sickly skin ). “Rot more, you’re not ugly enough yet,” Dean snaps, the taste of disgust plain on his mouth. Of course Michael would want to restore his power, of course he would, because nothing is easy in the universe anymore. “Fuck me, I’ve got more respect for werewolf shit than I do for any of ya at this point. The world could go to shit – is going to shit, and I can’t pretend to give any fucks. I’m tired of feelin’ guilty, and God, I’m so sick and tired of seein’ your fuckin’ face, fuck!” He snarls, lips pulled back with vibrant hatred and curls his fingers against his side. Culpability cups his cock just the same as the past and needful is he of pillow-talk, however exhausted he might be does he still cling for kindness and happiness. He ignores the archangel as best as possible, humming Jae Park’s version of some shitty Maroon 5 to himself as he propels himself forward – and away from Michael.

[hamletfactory-blog]

stranger.

          agile and timid jameson.    a soul wasted away with a beast shoved into his bloodstream, destroying any sign of humanity like an angry virus attacking the innocent host.   yet he’s still breathing, still running, yet so worn and weary at the age of twenty-six.  at his lowest he admits when the sun is hidden and the night has crawled out to greet the city below, that he just wants it all to stop.  all he can do it want and dream and live in selfish guilt for all the decisions that led up to now, regretful of the blood that he has seeping deep within his flesh, forever stained into his memory.   ❛      stop fighting ?   you think its that EASY ?     ❜    he’s caught in a state of awe ; to hear something he longed to do said, the same words that play over and over, day after day in his mind finally spoken aloud, but yet he can’t find himself to commit to them.

Offended at the prospect of ease in any sense in a life like this, he responds with a biting tint to an otherwise warm timbre as though he’s personally been insulted. “Of course it’s not fuckin’ easy, dumbass,” Dean hisses, scathing as much as someone who understands can be. The hunter fans his fingers in front of his face, flexes and relaxes all the same ; exhaustion partakes in his sulky vibe. “I know you’re old enough, but nothin’ is fuckin’ easy in this world. But – not everyone is out to get you, y’know? Just fuckin’ trust me for two fuckin’ seconds.” The admittance that he would help ( – for someone with the motto HUNTING THINGS, SAVING PEOPLE – ) is perhaps more than he can handle on his own, but CHILD ATLAS knows what drowning feels like.

[seabois]

I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.

Sylvia Plath, Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices (via seabois)

[hamletfactory-blog]

kinslayer.

An indifferent tone shrouds Castiel’s features, and a sigh escapes his lips. He lets himself observe the other for only a moment before reaching towards the Winchester. Two fingers barely contact the human’s forehead as grace coarsely shifts. Castiel ignores the profanities and the yelling - of course he knows to do something – he’s highly aware of the pain his charge is in, but it’s hard of actual understanding. Humans, it seems, are weak creatures. Just as any. “You need to be more careful,” is what he finally offers. There’s a warmth behind his voice, though, even if his expression doesn’t seem like it. Dammit, Dean.

“Y’need to be more careful,” Dean mocks just as sentimental, if not with a tender edge to his voice that allows room for unspoken apologies. His lung is responsive to the assault ; he practices breathing if just to test it out. He trusts Castiel well enough to not let him die, to defend him, and protect him, if he is not capable of it himself. Yet it leaves an awkward taste in his mouth as it’s something he too can do with practice. Aloof, but masking of a thankful expression by focusing on the dirt on the knees of his jeans. “Are y’ever not gonna end up savin’ my ass?” ( – or get tired of it? A useless CHILD GOD in all, even name. )

[hamletfactory-blog]

soulless.

      From the depths of his innards those words must have arisen, without a doubt ––– words felt with his blood and bones and guts rather than his faltering heart. VISCERAL are indeed the sort of prayers, the kind of apologies and pleas that to her ought to be offered. Offerings in the form of TREMBLING murmurs. And yet ––– slap! ––– that hand of his she hit resoundingly: oh she might or might not have found his words gratifying, but cruel was she, but alas merciless was she. Or so it was said. Or so she said. “I know I was right. I haven’t considered I could be wrong for a single moment. I am glad thou canst agree with me now.” The vampire kneeled, right next to this man whom she observed with MOCKING tenderness. “If only thou could’st have understood it sooner! Now, art thou telling me to spare thee ––– or worse! Art thou asking me to help thee and spare thee because thou hast admitted thy defeat? Thou really art undignified, brat.”

Momentary disgust pans a broken expression, a bitter taste of fury for the one who sent him here ( – as though the son of warrior has ever been loved // peeled veins and an empty chest ; A REDESIGN OF THE BOY CHOSEN who stumbles drunkenly ‘til death ). “Don’t be a bitch?” Dean spits between crack’d lips, sabulous tone somehow tenacious considered the familiarity of spineless wont. His tone presumes assumption, yet fingers scramble for some semblance of stability lacking in the department. A vampire, of course, as though anything in his life could be easy ; and he laughs to himself ( – winces too if only for the exposure of decorated red on a white tooth ). Acceptance of death comes early for him, as always, with dreams of a reaper to sweet talk him closer to the gates of Hell. He thinks, then rethinks, then continues ; trembling fingers to pat her knee lazily. “I take it back, y’know? Not just a nasty vampy, but a bitchy one too.”

[hamletfactory-blog]

stranger.

&. @hamletfactory.

❝ i’m tired. ❞

“Hi tired,” he jokes, not staring yet looking. “I’m Dean.” A wisecrack meant for someone aged, yet slips from his maw without consideration that perhaps this witticism isn’t all that it gambles to be. Dean is often quirk’d in his own way, drollery compatible only with those familiar with his typical tone. He avoids antagonism for burlesque imitation, enjoying whatever company he seems to find when alone. Dean sobers soon enough, patting the denim on his thighs as he finds words to say that aren’t part of his repartee. “So—rest?”

[hamletfactory-blog]

storm’d one.

          Oh, it is wayward whim of stride’s will that carries her on. But it is from the depths of internally detached thought that she is dragged, nautical pools falling to one causing a ruckus that would take hold of all within the vicinity. Stranger things have occurred before her, of course. Henceforth the continuity of stride, breath released as an ease. Tense from what she had assumed was a serious matter, only to come to terms with what was actually taking place. 

Recognizance tastes like testimonials, an unlikely gasp forming between the chapped lips of a hunter deemed too unconstrained for social situations that require academism. Choler dissipates from a tanned countenance almost automatically upon sight of her, enmity forgotten ‘pon the wave of longing that crushes his ribs. “Hey, you,” he barks without thought, “Wait! Lightning—“ And the shard of anonymity is broken betwixt sulky shoulders, the scratch along Baby momentarily ignored.