[horrorphase]

hello, bee ! it's nice to hear from someone who was barely active in the rp. but let's unpack everything you said.

it was when it was your friend who continuously made jokes about their male character being shipped with ricardo despite the mun REPEATEDLY saying they don't feel comfortable with those jokes.

we can literally go through that entire discord and make a list of people making jokes about ricardo being straight and it wouldn't just be flea or me ( i'll namedrop them if u want !!! ). so to put that on flea like some kind of gotcha ??? LMAO ... and which one of her characters would flea even ship with ricardo, it's so obvious that you don't even pay attention to her characters ( i mean, again, you were barely there ). also ricardo was mostly being shipped with taylan ??? n g even entertained it like .... like lets not do some revisionist history here. check the logs !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

pair that along with the same comments every other day about how "i don't get how someone can play straight characters"

omg god forbid a queer person not get how to play a het character !!! how oppressing of straight characters !!!!! like do u know how u sound right now .... also i said that once or twice, let's not exaggerate that it was constant. but then again bee, you weren't there. also why are u trying to cook for saying i don't get how to play str8 characters when g is out here saying she don't wanna write queer men ... like let's think about that for a sec .... and literally no one ... NO ONE !!!!! is forcing her yo write mlm ships ???

and instantly trying to shove some kind of homoerotic tension into a seemingly harmless friendship between two men / masc identifying muses

??????????????? where did you even get that. you'd know that i send out EXTENSIVE plotting out messages and i always tell whoever i'm plotting with that we don't have to go with my initial ideas and that we can expand and brainstorm them. and i do that before even those relationships hit that the dash. so to say that i just shove homoerotic tension into seemingly harmless friendship between two men / masc muses is INCREDIBLY careless and making it sound like me / my muses are predatory for gay ships ??? like are u literally out of ur fucking mind ... like i don't even know where the fuck you even got that. and like damn sorry for not making them straight enough for your taste and tension-free ??? like bee, that literally sounds like what you want. like a little gay makes it harmful ???

it's one thing to crack a little "my guy would kiss your guy" joke but it becomes tiring when it's being made every day with every other guy character that enters the group.

again, an exaggeration to fit your point. but also damn people can't make kissing jokes now, which everyone makes by the way, but i guess it's a crime when it's flea and i ??? the two who play big scary mlms ??? shaking in ur boots ??? and if it was such a problem, then tell us. but then again, it would have been an issue with everyone but like most things you're bringing up, you seem to want to isolate the issue to us LMAO and making it sound like we were only thirsting after masc muses is so funny, because ... a quick look at the discord would literally disprove that.

the energy for fem / fem identifying muses was not there unless they were convenient for the plot, but the effort on your friend flea's part outside of that was nonexistent.

kieran is in love with finch, why would he want to kiss someone else. i'm literally whoring out francis and foster to everyone. henrietta is a closeted lesbian, she's not going to just kiss any fem-identifying muse. ???? LIKE IF YOU'RE NOT SEEING ENOUGH, then how is that solely on us. like i don't know there are 20+ other writers in the roleplay, so maybe you should have asked them to actively show more love to fem muses ??? like be serious. but then again, you were barely there. maybe you should have been there to do just that bc idk about u, flea and i were putting in the work !!!! also convenient to the plot, like how else do you want people write ... especially when we're trying to be mindful to keep our threads with the overall plot. and again, you can make these same arguments about other people but you seem to isolate to us. like i'm sorry that we were are actually writing !!!! many people can't relate, but how is that on us ...

i'm not the only person who felt this way, multiple other people were.

say their names !!!! but it's also funny to me that all this talk about flea and i only interacting with each other, only writing with each other, only writing with male muses, it could all be disproven with one quick look at our blogs. but what can't be disproven is other people's lack of activity then coming at us for having like one active thread together at the time ... like if we want to call people out for bubble rping, only interacting with certain muses, i can literally give you so many other names. but just because we're the most vocal in the discord, you seem to hallucinate us writing with each other more than we actually were ????

there's people who were afraid to say anything because they were afraid they'd get passive aggressive comments or start being ostracized because the weird behavior exhibited by the two of you went too fucking far and for too fucking long and it was not addressed correctly.

you and g with the whole feeling ostracized like ... we weren't constantly checking on people n their characters, LITERALLY @'ING THEM CONSTANTLY so they can be part of discussions they weren't present for, and let's talk about the weird behavior because u say that but literally what we say or do isn't isolated to just us. again, you weren't there for the most part and yet you still have a lot to say. went too fucking far ??? with what exactly ???? went too fucking long ??? the only warning i've ever received was about bubble rping which if the admins checked my blog wouldn't have ever been an issue anyway. like hello ??? i was literally the most active person and imagine me being flabbergasted to receive that. and if i was bubble rping it would have been with the admins because i had more threads with them than i did with flea ????????? like i'm sorry if any behavior was uncomfortable, but it was never brought up to me. meanwhile, g was out here literally implying nathan is racist. like rie is actively playing a racist character. or ricardo literally being rapey !!! but go off !!!!!!!!!

leaving the way you guys did was also a huge fucking embarrassment and further proves the lack of critical thinking because you singled out one person and caused a whole damn scene in front of others who had NOTHING to do with that. you fucked up the vibe of a group and heavily disrespected the admins because YALL were mad and wanted to be petty to get back at g for standing her ground and wanting to protect her peace that you consistently ignored. so maybe yall should reevaluate yourselves before trying to flip this onto her with issues she already discussed with the admins when you couldn't even take the single complaint made about you without throwing a hissy fit.

well according to you and g, other people did have something to do with that. because instead of telling us about your complaints, seems like y'all have decided to talk behind our backs and never brought up any of these "weird behaviors" to us or the admins to talk to us ???? like hello ... to me it just sounds like you were waiting to scream mlm fetishizers for your gotcha moment but it never happened so. sorry ??? you didn't get your comeuppance or whatever you're looking for ??? also i don't see any answer to the issues i brought up and like, if anyone's flipping anything it's you. but this is also goes to you g and the other people who seemed to have a problem with finch/kieran... show me one time that they overtook the chat and you couldn't jump into the conversation. show me how they made you uncomfortable that isn't just them being weird in-character... like were they being like kingsley implying nathan is racist thus rie is playing a racist ???? were they being like ricardo loves new years because of drunk girls ??? kieran n finch cant be unabashedly gay and weird but g can beg for ricardo to fuck charlotte ??? like hey, i'd take accountability for anything that actually made sense or things that other people didn't also do !!!!!!!

#nobody hates gay men .. rps just don’t need to rotate around them go join a smut rp or smth instead idk

mind you, never did we try to make everything about them ??? like their last thread was literally dated back to halloween ??? two months ago, never interacted since. all these projections is crazy. also join a smut rp is crazy homophobic ???? like you literally see gay men as just sexual objects ... like kieran n finch never even had sex ??????? it was other people making comments about them fucking in a grave and never us ??????????? like ok g, you just proved the point. thanks. also we're not sending you anon hate, g !!! sorry that's all your other opps you've made along the way !!!! and honestly the blatant homophobia in both of your responses is so appalling.

@den1als @pocmuzings

[pocmuzings]

Should I steer clear of that rp you were in? I love horror but now I’m nervous lol

in the interest of being transparent and honest : i was kicked out of the rp due to some ooc drama between me and one other person which i was hoping to rectify but then escalated and had another person join in and throw in an angry pointed tirade at me ( idk why bc i actually liked both ppl ooc it just seemed to go a bit bananas w miscommunication ) . it didn’t end well . but i have nothing but kindness to say for everyone else in the rp atm ! i made some really good friends and idk if they still like me bc i got booted before i could say anything really but i hold good vibes for them and the rp generally !!

[horrorphase]

hello, i'm usually very chill but angry tirade person here !!! you literally said that conversations about kieran and finch take up the gc every time you came online and made it hard for people to feel included. then say you feel that way because you want to " champion people " which is like a wild statement to make, because i feel like flea and i are always the ones reacting to people's threads, commenting about their characters, asking questions about them in the headcanon channel, and creating discussions and theories regarding other muses' involvement with the plot. and never was there any actual instances of conversations about kieran/finch ever drowning out anything. so maybe if you wanted to champion people so bad, you should have generated discussions like we were doing in the first place instead of projecting that our big scary gay muses were taking up too much space. and honestly, this whole shit really just comes down to you feeling uncomfortable with ships involving gay men. like, let's unpack that. you felt ostracized by flea because you weren't playing a queer man and said that you felt like being pressured into playing a queer man whenever she made jokes about ricardo being straight. mind you, no one actually wants to fuck ricardo whether he's gay or not ( you saying he likes new years because of drunk girls ... another thing to unpack, but i'll leave your own self-reflection with that ). like you are so vigilant to call out mlm fetishization in the rpc that you literally can't just allow queer male characters to exist without making it about your discomfort. you see our characters and god forbid we talk about them or plot relationships between them ( almost like we're in the same rp ? and as if we only plot with each other, because i'll let the record show all my plotting messages lmao. or even just flea and i's threads ... we barely even write with each other ), and go " yup, too much. " like i still honestly cannot wrap my head around the idea that i've made people feel excluded and unable to join in on conversations because it was all about kieran/finch. cannot remember a single time that ever happened. seemed like you just chose a gay ship to fixate and project your discomfort on. the only miscommunication is you making shit up and still saying you don't know why i was angry is kinda crazy. like, let's not act oblivious because that'd be bananas, sorry !!!

[gifchive]

Outer Banks (S1-S2)

[enternights]

〔　🐿️　〕　　﹕　　𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗼𝘀  𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝘀  𝗳𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿'𝘀  𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱  𝗮𝗹𝗹  𝘁𝗼𝗼  𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹  —  seen  enough  of  them  all  over  los  angeles.  the  artsy,  ambitious  types;  check  out  my  soundcloud,  my  art  exhibit,  my  self-proclaimed  self-produced  short  film  that  definitely  didn't  use  daddy's  money  to  make.  doesn't  matter  what  they  do,  in  the  end  they're  all  the  same  to  him  —  same  font,  diferent  person  —  and  yet  he's  drawn  to  them  like  a  moth  to  a  flame.  maybe  it's  because  he's  geot  the  kind  of  energy  that  attracts,  or  rather,  demands  attention.  begs  for  it,  even.  they've  always  been  told  they  couldn't  stand  to  not  be  stared  at,  hated  when  the  focus  isn't  on  them  for  even  a  second.  besides,  artists  love  a  willing  muse.  “  so  this  is  what  you  do  all  day?  sit  around  and  make  your  little  movies  until  it's  second  nature?  ”  there's  a  teasing  lilt  to  their  voice,  an  attempt  to  get  a  reaction  out  of  foster,  because  it's  what  they  do  best.  still,  carlos  can  admit  that  even  the  worst  foster  can  do  is  still  more  intriguing  than  the  best  of  what  he's  seen  before,  wonders  if  it  has  anything  to  do  with  foster's  authentically  freakish  nature  vis  a  vis  the  pseudo-idiosyncrasy  that  angeleno  artists  project.

body  shifts,  languid  but  deliberate  in  their  movements.  gaze  never  leaves  foster's  face,  amateur  flick  long  forgotten  in  favor  of  mapping  out  every  curve  and  angle  in  his  features.   “  i  figured.  ”  lets  their  knees  knock,  fingers  brush  and  linger  a  second  longer  than  he  should  when  he  picks  the  blunt  from  foster's  hand.  a  hum  into  a  low  chuckle,  tension  thicker  than  the  smoke  seeping  through  teeth  and  circling  their  sorry  excuse  of  a  living  room.  “  something  like  that,  ”   all  subtlety  is  thrown  out  window,  tongue  in  cheek  when  carlos  inches  closer,  a  familiar  game  he  hadn't  played  since  driving  up  from  the  west  coast.  “  i'll  sit  around  and  get  high  anywhere,  but  a  pretty  boy  makes  things  more  fun.  ”

[horrorphase]

🪽ㅤㅤ   *ㅤㅤ   ﹙   📹    ﹚   ﹕        𝗮 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗸𝗻𝗲𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗱, an almost unconscious sound drawn out somewhere deep and warm, and maybe a little more unguarded than foster usually liked to be. maybe, he was just this fucking easy. or maybe, he was just lonely. could never stand being alone, could not stand not knowing what to do with his hands. but either way, touch of skin on skin was effortless in how it left heat pooling in his chest. and he tilted his head ever so slightly, staring at carlos in that way he always did since they first met in this ramshackle apartment, like he was trying to feel back layers without his hands. clothes, skin, muscle and sinew, until he could see their very core. and he didn't waver, barely even blinked, already cutting the moments like reels of film, lining them up into frames in his head.     ❝      not all day. i also like to get off⸻   but sometimes i do both at the same time. 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗺𝘀 𝗿𝗶𝗽𝗲 𝗲𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗶𝘀𝗺 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻' 𝗮 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸, 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝘆𝗮 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 ?     ❞      said with that lazy little grin, each word with deliberate slowness, as if he knew just the right tone and the right speech to make everything feel just a little bit more intimate.     ❝      but yeah, it's second nature. i mean, life never pauses for you. never fucking sit still long enough for you to make sense of it. but if you can catch it on film, even in a different light, even in a different angle— just once— then you can keep it forever. pause. rewind. relive. memory is too fickle, and there's just some things i want to remember forever.      ❞      

like this very moment, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘇𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘄, all alone and without finch and june to ruin the fucking scene. foster turned away from carlos for a second, leaning forward to drag his backpack off the floor⸻   and from its depths an old camcorder emerged, scuffed plastic catching the light, a relic from the antique shop, so clunky and unapologetically analog. but foster liked it enough, had a way of making anything feel alive in his hands. he flipped it on with a quiet hum, angling the lens toward carlos, canting his head as if framing a shot he had already imagined a hundred times.     ❝      look at the camera, baby,      ❞      he coaxed, soft but insistent, a small fond smile on his lips. he took a few moments, just quietly recording carlos, every mole, every beauty mark, their eyes, until the silence turned slightly awkward.      ❝      d'you know you've got the prettiest, deepest, darkest eyes i've ever seen ?      ❞      foster whispered, like a secret spilling out, looking at them through the camcorder's small screen.      ❝      like i could just tumble into them, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹 … 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿.      ❞      foster wasn't actually sure what he was chasing here  :  perhaps a reaction, or maybe just the way the low light hit carlos' cheekbones just right, but foster adjusted the angle, catching the curl of smoke from the burning joint and the faint glint in carlos' brown eyes. and foster adjusted the angle once more, arm held out to frame them both in the scene now, proximity narrowed as shifted closer than they ever were, plucking back the joint from carlos' hand to take a slow, deep inhale. the ember flared bright, enough to light the faint smirk curling the corners of foster's mouth. and he kept the smoke in his lungs, 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗳𝘂𝗹, long enough to lean closer, closer, closer until their breaths tangled, lips touching, and the smoke slipping from foster's mouth into carlos', like a bridge connecting the little space left between them. all whilst he steadied the camcorder in his hand, couldn't let this moment slip away unbottled. 𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗺𝗼𝗸𝗲, open and unhurried, the taste of burnt paper and something heady mingling on their tongues, trying to see how long it'd take before carlos would choke on everything.

[t3nets]

𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱      :   dutch    &    utp     !

𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗿:   4:34pm.

𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻:  open to interpretation !

*      ❪       📻      ❫    ﹕  ❛ 𝗻𝗼   𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴   𝘄𝗮𝘆   𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀   𝘁𝗵𝗲   𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹   𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗲 ? ❜   he   withers   in   disbelief,   reaching   out   to   grab   the   item   from   his   companion's   hands   and   trace   over   each   edge.   there   was no way.   had   to   be   an   explanation   etched   somewhere   on   it.   a    life changing, earth - shattering   reason   as   to   why   it   costed   an   arm and a leg.   he's   scoffing,   irritability   already   piqued   and   there   to   stay   as   they   move further down the aisle, white cane replacing the canine that typically accompanies.    ❛ i   mean   i   can   do   it,   but   i   shouldn't   have   to.   i   mean  —  what   the   fuck ?    how   is   anyone   actually   affording   this   stuff ?   you'd   think   with   everything   going   on   they'd   make   shit   cheaper. ❜    oh   yes,   dutch   gore,   a   ' man   of   the   people. '    never   raised   with   a   golden   spoon   in   his   mouth   ( albeit snatched   with   the   premise   of   giving   it   to   thy   neighbor — in favor of next of kin ). the   topic   turns   heads,   curious and uncomfortable with the voice   an   octave   higher   than   the   usual   conversationalist.

[horrorphase]

🪽ㅤㅤ   *ㅤㅤ   ﹙   📹    ﹚   ﹕        ❝      𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝘄𝗼-𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗿𝘀. it's from the criterion collection, dude ...      ❞      there wasn't a rise in his voice, unflinching and without fight as he held up the newest addition to his personal compendium, looking at it as if the boxset was carved from flesh and bone⸻  too precious and priceless, hands hovering close to dutch's to make sure it was treated with deliberate care in the other man's hands.     ❝      𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗶. it's worth every goddamn penny.      ❞      the reverence was palpable in his foster's words, a smile tugging on his lips with an indulgent amusement. a dead giveaway of another one of foster's soliloquys about the world's great filmmakers. well, too bad dutch couldn't really see it nor could he escape it.     ❝      no one did it like pasolini, man. dude turned hustlers into fucking halos, sex workers into saints, pimps into contemporary prophets, vagabonds into vessels of divinity. and the real fuckin' saints ? the ones actually canonized into the roman catholic hall of fame ? he dragged them down to the dirt, through the mud, and into the grit of the fucking world. he's basically gay italian marxist jesus.      ❞      then, a quick pat to dutch's cheek, a soft laugh spilling before hands carefully taking the collector's set from the other man's grasp.     ❝      but hey, give me a raise and maybe you won't feel too bad about the cost of my interests.      ❞      

[horrorphase]

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‎ ‎

  𝗛𝗘 𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗦 𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗡𝗘𝗘𝗗, 𝗧𝗢 𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗪𝗘𝗔𝗞𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗜𝗦 𝗡𝗢 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗥 𝚋𝚢 𝙵𝙾𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙳𝙰𝚂𝙶𝚄𝙿𝚃𝙰

trigger warnings for drug use and murder.

INT. A DETERIORATING JERRY-BUILT APARTMENT AT THE HEART OF RED CREEK — CHRISTMAS EVE.

𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗮𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁  𝘄𝗮𝘀  𝗮  𝘄𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗸𝗮𝗴𝗲  𝗼𝗳  𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝘀⸻    some  completely  possessed  with  the  merry  spirit  of  the  holidays,  and  others  (  mostly  june,  really, but foster didn't want to ask why, afraid to incur their wrath  )  seemingly  apathetic  and  miffed  with  all  the  festive  cheer.  though foster  wasn't  exactly  sure  in  which  yuletide faction  he  fell  into,  he  was  just  glad  that  this  place  still  had  pulse.  hell,  he  could  feel  it  in  the  sagging  walls,  green-black  veins  of  mold  wreathing  through  the  corners  almost  as  if  an  interior  design  choice,  the  air  thick  with  years  of  nicotine and cannabis smoke  and  burnt  microwave  dinners  now  underlined  with  scent  of  uzvar  and  chocolates.  someone  even  strung  up  christmas  light  along  the  curtain  rod,  its  hesitant  flickering  a  complete  fire  hazard.  and  of  course,  in  the  corner  stood  finch's  little  charlie brown tree,  a  skeletal  thing  probably  scavenged  from  a  dumpster  and  dressed  in  scraps  of  tinsel  and  a  plastic  angel  missing  a  wing.  𝗶𝘁  𝘄𝗮𝘀  𝗽𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗲𝗰𝘁  :  like  many  things  in  red  creek.  but  as  foster  took  a  sip  of  something  that  smelled  like  burnt  sugar  and  tasted  worse,  he  let  the  space  soften  for  moment,  like  maybe the word  family  could  stretch  far  enough  to  fit  them  all.

𝗼  𝗵𝗼𝗹𝘆  𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁  !  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘀  𝗮𝗿𝗲  𝗯𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗹𝘆  𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘁  𝗶𝘀  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁  𝗼𝗳  𝗼𝘂𝗿  𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗿  𝘀𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗿'𝘀  𝗯𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗵

family  ?  family ? family ? thank  god  for  the  weed  brownies  he  bought from some guy in an alley at main street and brought here,  the  high  finally  creeping  now,  warm  and  slow  in  his  veins  before  he  could  really  give  the  sentiment  much  thought.  𝗼  𝗵𝗼𝗹𝘆  𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁  𝗯𝗲𝗴𝗮𝗻  𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗼𝗻  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗼,  too  loud  and  somehow  obscured  in  his  pseudo-nebulous  perception,  while  finch,  carlos, elyse  and  june  threw  popcorn  at  each  other,  and  the  apartment  shook  as  beefcake  kiefer  tried  to  get  his  burpees  reps  in.  so  foster  just  leaned  back  on  the  moldy  couch,  watching  the  room  spin  lazily,  as  if  this  christmas  disorder  might  still  if  he  didn't  move.  and  for  a  while,  he  felt  satisfied  with  just  being  there.  satisfied  just  being  alive.  satisfied with not being alone. he  had  never  been  the  best  at  pinpointing  his  exact  emotions,  never  been  the  best  at  really  feeling  anything  sentimental  and  deep-seated  most  of  the  time,  but  this  was  enough  for  him.  even just for tonight. then  the  warmth  in  his  veins  shifted,  not  unpleasant  but  insistent,  a  betrayal  by  his  bladder  just  when  he  finally  felt  comfortable,  ' 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲  𝗵𝗲  𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗲𝗱  𝘁𝗼  𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗽𝗶𝘀𝘀.

so  he  pushed  himself  up,  the  world  tilting  even  more  on  its  axis  as  he  moved,  stumbling  toward  the  bathroom  with  one  hand  brushing  the  wall  for  some  semblance  of  balance.  𝗯𝘂𝘁  𝗶𝘁  𝗳𝗲𝗹𝘁  𝗮𝘀  𝗶𝗳  𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲  𝘁𝗼  𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻  𝘁𝗼  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗶𝗱  𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘀  𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻  𝗮𝘀  𝗵𝗲  𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗱  𝗵𝗶𝗺𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳,  the  bathroom's  incandescent  bulb  buzzing  harshly  overheard,  so  sharp  and  relentless  as  it  spilled  a  gross  jaundiced  yellow  light.  and  of  course  the  water  wasn't  working  working  in  this  shithole again,  couldn't  even  wash  his  hands,  and  it  all  gave  him  one  terrible  woolly  headache.  foster  gripped  the  sink's  edge  for  a  moment,  letting  the  cold  seep  into  his  palms  as  he  raised  his  head  to  look  at  the  mirror.  but  it  wasn't  himself  he  saw.  𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹,  𝗵𝗲  𝘀𝗮𝘄  𝗵𝗶𝗺𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳.  well,  it  wasn't  him  anymore.  not  for  a  long  time.

𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴  𝗹𝗮𝘆  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱  𝗶𝗻  𝘀𝗶𝗻  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝗲𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗿  𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 '𝘁𝗶𝗹  𝗵𝗲  𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗱  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗹  𝗳𝗲𝗹𝘁  𝗶𝘁𝘀  𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗵

the  nine  year  old  boy  stared  back  at  him,  hair  a  shade  lighter  than  his,  cheeks  still  innocently  round,  his  scratchy  sweater  bright  with  a  cartoon  reindeer  frolicking  across  the  chest.  it  was  obvious  that  he  really  loved  christmas  if  he  was  willing  to  wear  something  so  ugly.  𝗵𝗲  𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱  𝗵𝗲  𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹  𝗸𝗻𝗲𝘄  𝗵𝗼𝘄  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝗳𝗲𝗹𝘁   :   to  live  in  blissful  ignorance  before  the  sharp  realization  that  world  was  a  cruel  place.  and  he  looked  at  the  boy's  eyes,  wide  and  naive,  untouched  by  everything  that  foster  buried  away  somewhere  deep  in  his  psyche,  unclouded  by  endless  nights  of  finding  ways  to  feed  that  hungering  loneliness,  and  all  he  could  do  was  blink  hard.  once.  twice.  thrice.  as  if  the  image  would  dissolve  if  willed  it  hard  enough.  but  the  boy  remained,  tilting  his  head  slightly,  𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵  𝗮  𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁  𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝗮𝗹𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁  𝗳𝗲𝗹𝘁  𝗮𝗰𝗰𝘂𝘀𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆.  that almost  disappointed  that  foster  wanted  him  to  disappear.

but  foster  just  couldn't  meet  those  eyes  anymore.  he  just  couldn't  stand  to  look  at  himself,  𝗮𝘁  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝗯𝗼𝘆  𝘄𝗵𝗼  𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲  𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗱  𝗶𝗻  𝗺𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗰  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝘀𝗮𝗳𝗲𝘁𝘆,  worried  that  it  might  show  in  his  face  how  both  things  felt  so  incredibly  fanciful  now.  he  pressed  a  hand  on  his  chest,  feeling  a  bit  difficult  to  breath,  the  fabric  of  his  shirt  damp  from  the  sweat  the  clung  to  his  skin,  then  finally  looked  away  from  the  boy  and  turned  toward  the  door.  and  when  he  opened  it,  the  air  shifted,  heavy  and  warm,  like  stepping  into  a  dream  that  had  been  waiting  for  him  for  a  long,  long  time.

it  wasn't  the  scent  of  the  apartment's  mildew  and  burnt  caramel  that  he  smelled  as  soon  as  he  stepped  out  of  the  bathroom,  but  something  that  gave  the  impression  of  what  a  home  was  supposed  to  smell  like  during  this  time.  pine  needles,  sugar  cookies  cooling  on  the  counter,  honey-glazed  ham  and  eggnog,  the  faint  edge  of  candlewax  that  had  been  burning  for  too  long.  but  it  was  the  light  that  really  pulled  his  body  forward,  puppeteering  every  muscle  and  sinew  toward  the  end  of  the  hallway⸻     soft  and  golden,  spilling  from  the  living  room  where  he  knew  a  large  christmas  tree  stood.  bigger  and  better  than  what  finch  had  managed  to  put  together.  and  his  breath  felt  shallow  the  closer  he  got,  an  instant  recognition.  he  knew  this  place.  every  inch  of  it.  the  vintage  wallpaper,  the  photos  of  endangered  animals  on  the  walls,  the  most  comfortable  couch  in  the  world  draped  with  his  mother's  knitted  blankets,  and  how  the  blinking  lights  on  the  tree  scattered  shapes  across  the  ceiling.

❝      fossy,  sweetie.     ❞      the  voice,  gentle  and  familiar,  stopped  him  cold.  and  he  turned  slowly,  the  sound  pulling  him  like  a  puppet  on  strings,  and  there  she  was.  his  mother.  her  red  and  green  cardigan  hanging  loosely  around  her  shoulders,  sleeves  pushed  up  to  her  elbows  the  way  they  always  were  whenever  she  was  busy.  and  she  looked  at  him  with  that  warm  teasing  smile  curving  her  lips,  eyes  brimming  with  affection  so  tangible  it  made  his  throat  tighter.     ❝      what  are  you  doing still  awake  ?  i  told  you  santa  won't  leave  any  presents  if  you're  awake  at  midnight. come on now, you want him to bring you that canon 518 you've been asking for all year, don't you ?     ❞ 

𝗮  𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗹  𝗼𝗳  𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘆  𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱  𝗿𝗲𝗷𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿  𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿  𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘀  𝗮  𝗻𝗲𝘄  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝗴𝗹𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀  𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗻

foster  tried  to  answer,  tried  to  say  something,  anything,  but  all  the  words  were  stuck  in  his  throat,  caught  on  the  weight  of  everything  he  couldn't  explain,  on  everything  his  body  had  refused  to  feel  for  so  many  years.  and  he  watched  her  tilt  her  head,  his  mother's  expression  softening.     ❝      oh,  fossy.  𝗶𝘀  𝗶𝘁  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗴𝗲𝘆𝗺𝗮𝗻  𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻  ?  i  thought  i  told  your  dad  to  chase  it  away  from  under  your  bed.      ❞      

and  finally,  with  every  sliver  of  resolve  he  could  muster,  foster  said,     ❝      no.  not—  not  the  boogeyman.      ❞      his  voice  cracked,  raw  and  uneven,  his  body  feeling  smaller  somehow,  as  if  folding  in  on  itself.  he  didn't  like  revisiting  these  memories,  didn't  like  coming  into  terms  with  how  the  minutes  and  hours  and  so  many  days  he  had  his  parents  weren't  actually  large,  that  he  had  been  without  them  for  far  longer  than  he  was  ever with  them.      ❝      i  just  thought  you  were  gone.      ❞      

her  hand  reached  out,  brushing  a  strand  of  hair  from  his  face  as  she  smiled  softly,  her  touch  featherlight  and  achingly  familiar.     ❝      oh,  honey.  we  weren't  gone.  your  father  and  i  are  always  just  here.      ❞      she  said  softly,  and  foster  took  her  hand  and  dragged  it  to  his  cheek,  keeping  it  there,  trying  to  prolong  the  moment,  for  her  mother  to  just  keep  holding  him  like  that.   and  even  when  he  refused  to  admit  it  to  himself,  this  was  always  what  he  searched  for  in  all  those  scenes  of  falling  into  bed  with  someone,  of  finding  himself  in  strangers'  bedrooms  and  motel  rooms   :   this  sensation  of  lightness,  of  safety,  of  just  being  entirely  known  and  treasured.  so  foster  closed  his  eyes,  wishing  to  fade  away  and  let  this  be  the  last  thing  he'd  ever  feel.

glass  shattered.

𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹  𝗼𝗻  𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿  𝗸𝗻𝗲𝗲𝘀  ;  𝗼  𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗹  𝘃𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲𝘀  ! 𝗼  𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁  𝗱𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗲,  𝗼  𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁  𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻  𝗰𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁  𝘄𝗮𝘀  𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗻

the  memory  rippled  and  the  room  exploded  in  sound  and  violence,  and  he  felt  the  cold  hardwood  floor  against  his  cheek  now  instead  of  his  mother's  touch,  and  his  body  hurt  so  bad,  the  scent  of  cookies  and  eggnog  replaced  with  the  harshness  of  iron  from  the  blood  spilling from his wounds and pooling  around  him.  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱  𝘄𝗮𝘀  𝘁𝗼𝗼  𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗱—  splintering  wood,  muffled  screams,  heavy  footsteps  thundering  in  his  ears,  the  unfamiliar  whispers—  then  it  was  too  quiet.

minutes  passed  and  when  foster  finally  opened  his  eyes,  there  was  his  father.  just  lying  there,  a  few  feet  away,  eyes  wide  open  and  staring.  and  foster's  gaze  locked  on  them,  on  that  dull  and  lifeless  sheen  that  had  replaced  the  spark  he  had  always  known.  and  he  waited  and  waited  and  waited  for  his  father  to  blink,  to  move,  to  reassure  him  that  this  was  just  a  bad  dream.  that  the  boogeyman  under  his  bed  was  just  playing  tricks  on  him.  but  the  eyes  didn't  change.

until  the  memory  rippled  again.  and  it  wasn't  his  father's  eyes  he  was  staring  into  anymore,  the  scent  of  antifreeze  nauseating  as  he  watched  ███████  struggle  for  air.  another  ripple  and  he  was  back  in  the  living  room,  his  father  still  on  the  floor,  his  mother  slumped  against  the  christmas  tree,  her  body  framed  by  blinking  lights  of  red,  green,  and  gold,  𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝘂𝗽  𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗿  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗶𝗴𝗮𝗻  𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆  𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆.  foster  couldn't  bring  himself  to  crawl  to  her,  couldn't  even  cry.  his  body  felt  too  heavy,  his  breaths  too  thin.  and  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  he  saw  it.  the  boogeyman  from  under  his  bed.  the  boogeyman  he  didn't  know  until  his  aunt  from  red  creek  told  him  all  the  stories.

he  wanted  to  scream,  but  the  silence  swallowed  him  whole.

 𝗼  𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁,  𝗼  𝗵𝗼𝗹𝘆  𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁,  𝗼  𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁  𝗱𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗲 !

𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗲  𝘄𝗮𝘀  𝘀𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗹𝘆  𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗱,  and  foster  was  back  in  the  apartment's  shitty  bathroom,  the  mold  on  the  ceiling  seeming  darker  now,  the  buzzing  light  sharper.  he  pressed  his  hands  to  the  sink,  gasping  for  air,  his  knuckles  turning  white  as  he  gripped  the  edge.  and  his  chest  felt  hollow  and  tight,  and  he  couldn't  breathe,  couldn't  think,  couldn't  speak,  couldn't  think,  couldn't  cry,  so  he  clenched  his  a  fist  without  thought  and  pounded  against  his  chest  as  if  brute  force  could  unravel  that  knot  of  grief  and  panic.

thud,  thud,  thud.  and  still,  no  tears  came.  but  he  was  able  to  breathe  again.  inhale,  exhale.  inhale,  exhale.  inhale,  exhale.

foster  stumbled  out,  the  dull  noise  of  finch  and  june's  apartment  washing  over  him  like  static.  and  his  gaze  landed  on  the  half-eaten  tray  of  weed  brownies  sitting  on  the  counter⸻      probably  fucking  laced  with  some  cheap  shit,  easiest  thing  to  blame  for  this  bad  trip.  so  he  picked  up  the  tray,  its  cheap  foil  crinkling  in  his  hands,  and  dumped  the  whole  thing  in  the  trash  before  any  of  them  could  eat  more  and need  to  take  a  trip  to  the  emergency  room  on  christmas  eve. the  room  was  still  spinning  slightly  as  he  sank  back  into  the  world's  most  uncomfortable  couch,  the  cushion  sagging  beneath  his  weight,  and  he  just  sat  there  staring  at  finch's  stupid  little  tree,  forcing  himself  to  breath.  slow  and  steady.  outside,  car  horns  blared  in  the  distance,  too  far  to  matter.  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱  𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱  𝗼𝗻,  indifferent  to  the  heaviness  foster  couldn't  seem  to  set  down.

[handsdom]

[kuutamosonaatti]

HANNIBAL + handyman Will

[roseillith]

TOTALLY FUCKED UP (1993) dir. GREGG ARAKI

[jjslaybank]

DREW STARKEY FOR DAZED WINTER 2025

[repentulant]

✦ ⋰ the weight on her chest dissipates as she registers the presence in front of her. ❝ henry, ❞ she sighs out, palpable relief in her voice. henrietta nivans— many people would consider her a force to be reckoned with. a  lot of them would be referencing a henry that seems impossibly far away now ; the one enjoying her years before feeling the call of the family names. another group would know her as she is now, a trailblazer who secured an impressive job out of college but made the bigger choice to return to her home. to their shared calling. back to maeve. in her eyes, this is simply  her baby sister,  come home to pick up the family crown. ❝ it’ll be okay, ❞ she echoes her words as she gazes at the house ahead of them one more time. utters it like a promise. she directs her attention entirely to henry then. hand moves from it’s protective placement over her heart to the other’s  shoulder, as endearing as it is intended to be comforting. ❝ they should consider themselves lucky that a nivans isn’t in charge, eh ? ❞ they. she treats the suspect as something inhuman ; spoken like an omnipotent figure, rather than a ruthless killer. it’s somehow easier than thinking that someone in red creek would be capable of that horrific crime. that someone in their town would send the people through this viscous grieving process again. ❝ of course i believe that everyone wants this solved just as badly as the next person, but i worry about… the available resources. ❞ ( and red creek’s historical track record. ) ❝ it seems unreal that some people never find the person responsible. i don't suppose you're here to tell me that there's buzz of a lead ? ❞

[horrorphase]

🪽ㅤㅤ   *ㅤㅤ   ﹙ 🪞  ﹚ ﹕  𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀  𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗮  𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱  𝘀𝗵𝗲  𝘄𝗮𝘀  𝗲𝘅𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗹𝘆  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻  𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝘀𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿  𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁  𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝘁𝗼  𝗯𝗲⸻   wished  she  really  was  someone  so  perpetually  unshakable,  someone  undeniably  reliable,  someone  who  could  part  the  seas  just  to  find  a  way  forward.  she  wished  she  deserved  her  sister's  belief.  but  she  knew  better.  but  as  much  as  she  wished  she  couldn't  recognize  herself  anymore  beyond  all  the  smokes  and  mirrors,  beneath  all  the  masks  and  veils,  henrietta  still  knew  herself.  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝘀𝗵𝗲  𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁  𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲  𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝘀𝗵𝗲  𝘀𝗮𝘄.  a  porcelain  doll  marred  with  cracks,  a  mosaic  held  together  by  pure  fucking  will  and  necessity.  would  maeve  still  look  at  her  the  same  if  she  knew  why  she  had  gone  home  ?  if  she  knew  how  henrietta  ██████  a  man's  ████  and  █████  ███  to  ██████  ███████  himself  ?  she  wasn't  only  here  for  a  longing  to  be  back  home  or  to  step  into  that  proverbial  nivans duty,  but  because  she  needed  to  reconcile  with  the  blood  on  her  hands. everything needed to be perfect from now on ﹕ that was the only way to wash off these crimson stains.  though, sometimes henrietta  wished  she  could  still be  little  oh  henry,  that  little  girl  who  could  tell  her  big sister  everything  without  shame. ❝      except  for  bronte  in  daniela's  case  ?  i  don't  think  sheriff  kelly  has  any  leads  yet.      ❞      and  even  that  lead  wasn't  really  a  lead,  otherwise  there  would  have  been  more  buzz,  more  pitchforks  and  torches,  if  they  really  considered  her  a  person  of  interest.  all  that  loose  thread  really  did  was  unravel  the  register's  credibility  for  breaking  the  story  that  way.  but  maybe  ricardo  garcia  was  puppeteered  into  making  that  exact  decision⸻  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿,  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗽𝘂𝗹𝘀𝗲  𝗼𝗳  𝗼𝘂𝗿  𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆  !  and  if  you  couldn't  trust  that  heartbeat  ﹕  then  just  who  exactly  could  you  trust  ?  and  henrietta  almost  wanted  to  applaud  the  genius  of  it.  but  if  this  violence  was  senseless,  without  purpose  that  served  her  vision,  then  she'd  rather  just  get  rid  of  whoever  was  beneath  that  boogeyman  mask  as  quickly  as  possible.     ❝      but  weren't  alaina  and  thierry  dating  ?  maybe  he'd  have  more  insight  on  who  could  have  killed  her.  have  you  talked  to  him  about  it  ?      ❞      unless  thierry  was  involved  in  that  slaughter,  𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀  𝗼𝗳  𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻  𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗹𝘆  𝗮  𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹  𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗮.  but  of  course,  henrietta  wasn't  just  going  to  ask  maeve  if  she  thought  one  of  her  best  friends  was  a  murderer.  instead,  she  placed  a  hand  over  maeve's on her shoulder,  smiling  softly.     ❝      we  don't  have  to  talk  about  any  of  that,  though.  you  can  just  tell  me  what  i've  missed  with  your  life  ...  then  maybe  i  can  tell  you  about  my  very  dashing  fiancé,  who  may  or  may  not  have  just  secured  ownership  of  whitepine.      ❞ 

[pierppasolini]

The Doom Generation (1995) // dir. Gregg Araki

[weltenwellen]

Jennifer Saunders, from “Wait a Second, Let Me Write It Down”

[petticoat]

“She cut away at her life until it fit the gorgeous blueprint she made for it.”

— Elizabeth Winder on Sylvia Plath in “Pain, Parties, Work” (via holeintheuniverse)

[ofvolatile]

the  brush  of  kieran’s  shoulder  against  his  is  an amber pressed to frost , a quiet warmth  scraping against the edges of cold circling thoughts . kieran’s voice follows , unravelling into the stillness like a thread pulling apart the seams of the quiet . taylan doesn't listen to the words so much as let them wash over him , the offer of solving murders a ridiculous one , and  yet  it  doesn’t  feel  absurd .  it  feels familiar , a memory stirred back to life .  like  kieran  is  still  that  kid  from  their  past ,  the  one  who  never  stopped  showing  up , who never stopped pressing warmth against the coldest part of his world . something unguarded flickers in his gaze - an ember of regret , though he doesn't let it catch . he snuffs it out before it has the chance . the warmth remains , though , stubbornly refusing to fade . the mattress shifts beneath him as he moves , sinking low in the middle and drawing him into the gravity of the space they share . the pull is tangible , a tension beneath his skin that makes him itch , he should move , rip himself out of this too-small-space , but he doesn't . he stays right where he is , even as kieran's fingers tighten around his hold . it's grounding , or maybe stifling . taylan can't tell the difference anymore , can't draw the line between the comfort he need and the suffocation he fears . his breath falters , catching on the stillness between them . he  hears  the  soft rhythm of their  breathing aligning ,  shallow  and  steady , the space between pulling them into synchronicity . it not the panicked , burning gasps he remembers from the ice , the desperate claw for air . this is quieter , steadier , but no less suffocating .  “ yeah , sure . ” he  finally  murmurs ,  “ maybe it'd keep my mind off things . ” the weight of the statement drags behind him like a ball and chain . he won't talk about what he really means , won't speak of the way the though of hockey twists in his chest , coiled tight between longing and dread . he's been back to the edge a hundred times in his mind , circling like a skater testing uncertain ice . the weight of skates , the scrape of blades - it haunts him . taylan knows better than to step out onto that surface again . not without something to numb and smooth the edges . “ you on skates is a fucking disaster . you’d spend more time kissing the ice than moving on it . baby deer aren’t exactly known for their grace . ” his chuckle is faint , trailing off into something softer , laced with amusement . but his eyelids grow heavier with every passing moment , and the tiredness presses harder now , a heaviness that's deeper than sleep . curls around his limbs , dragging him under . before he can stop himself , his head tips forward , brushing against kieran's shoulder . the touch is light , almost incidental . exhaustion roots him there . tethering him to the warmth of the moment , too drained to pull away .

[horrorphase]

🪽ㅤㅤ   *ㅤㅤ   ﹙ ⚰️  ﹚ ﹕  𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲  𝘄𝗮𝘀  𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁  𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁  𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗱  𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀,  𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁  𝘁𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗮𝗻,  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝗳𝗲𝗹𝘁  𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗹𝘆  𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲.   and  kieran  could  honestly  say  that  this  was  one  of  the  best  parts  of  this  terrible  mess  they  called  life.   no  matter  how  far  or  long  they  drifted,   no  matter  the  years  or  distance,   no  matter  how  deep  the  chasm  of  words  unsaid,   this—   this  return,   this  quiet  magnetism  pulling  them  back  into  each  other's  orbits—   always  came  easy.   maybe  it  was  just  eternal,   that  familiarity,   never  faltering  between  them,   even  when  everything  else  had.   this  must  be  what  it  meant  to  really  know  someone,   of  being  young  together  and  dealing  with  adolescent  changes  together.   it  was  more  than  just  shared  memories  of  breaking  into  thorne  house  or  all  their  dine  and  dash  from  dolly's,   more  than  just  photos  of  birthdays,   wisdom  teeth  extractions,   hanging  out  behind  the  bleachers,   and  prom  buried  in  a  shoebox   ;   it  was  gravity,   an  unshakable  tether,   and  taylan  would  always  mean  something  to  kieran,   whether  they  liked  it  or  not.   and  he  saw  taylan  now  as  he  always  had   ﹕  not  as  the  broken  pieces  trying  to  stitch  itself  back  together,   but  as  the  boy  who  didn't  want  to  be  seen  by  a  father  who  demanded  too  much  and  gave  too  little,   that  piece  of  shit  kieran  hated  for  taking  out  his  inadequacies  on  his  son.   and  maybe  taylan  saw  in  him  that  boy  who  only  wanted  to  be  seen,   by  the  man  larger  than  life  he  had  for  a  father.   kieran  had  never  been  enough  for  his  father,   taylan  too  much  for  his,   𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝗶𝗻  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆,  𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆  𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱  𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵  𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿.  discovered  the  raw  and  unvarnished  truth  of  each  other,   in  ways  not  many  dared  or  cared  to. and that had been enough for a long time.

 and  now,  with  taylan's  head  resting  on  his  shoulder,  exhaustion  heavy  in  the  lean  of  his  body,  kieran  froze  for  a  moment,  started  by  the  intimacy  of  the  gesture.  then  he  smiled⸻   soft,  subtle,  not  quite  sad  but  close  to  it,  𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗵𝗶𝘀  𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱  𝘁𝗼  𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀  𝗮  𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀  𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁  𝘁𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗮𝗻'𝘀  𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗿.  the  touch  lingered,  unthinking  and  completely  natural,  just  simple  gravity  that  he  felt  down  to  his  bones.      ❝      we  should  get  some  sleep,      ❞      kieran  murmured,  low  and  warm  against  the  quiet  of  the  night.      ❝      we're  gonna  need  the  energy  when  selin  corners  us  tomorrow  and  gives  me  hell  for  sneaking  into  your  room  like  we're  twelve  again.      ❞      and  mere  thought  of  it  elicited  a  soft  chuckle,  𝗻𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗴𝗶𝗰  𝗳𝗼𝗿  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲  𝗶𝗻  𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿  𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲𝘀,  the  mattress  dipping  as  kieran  shifted,  pulling  taylan  down  with  as  he  lied  on  his  side.  touch  was  kept  gentle,  careful,  as  if  the  moment  was  made  of  glass,  exhaling  as  any  tension  finally  left  his  shoulders.  and  they  settled  into  the  bed  that  felt  too  small  for  two  men  too  tall,  their  foreheads  brushing,  the  space  between  them  almost  nonexistent. for  a  moment,  kieran  just  looked  at  him,  at  the  faint  lines  of  fatigue  etched  into  taylan's  face,  always  with  that  unspoken  weight  he  carried  like  an  armor.      ❝      i  kissed  finch  tonight.  well,  he  kissed  me.  i  kissed  him  back.      ❞      kieran  admitted  in  a  whisper,  the  words  cracking  in  his  chest  before  they  made  it  out,  𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱  𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹  𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲  𝗵𝗶𝘀  𝗼𝘄𝗻  𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱  𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲  𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗵  𝗯𝗶𝘁  𝘁𝗼𝗼  𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱,  raw  and  quiet.  but  hopefully  it'd  be  enough  to  distract  taylan  from  his  own  burdens,  to  lead  him  closer  to  slumber.      ❝      but  then  he  freaked  out  and  left  me  in  the  dirt.      ❞      kieran  smiled,  a  little  melancholic,  but  he  didn't  worry  too  much.  finch  couldn't  possibly  think  he  could  get  away  from  him,  especially  now  that  kieran  had  tasted  his  spit.  but  still,  a  hand  reached  out,  his  thumb  grazing  taylan's  wrist  in  slow,  looping  circles,  grounding  himself  in  the  comfort of warmth  of  skin  on  skin.      ❝      i've  never  been  like  you,  always  bein'  chased  by  all  the  boys  and  girls.  but  maybe  you  could  teach  me  what  to  say  next  time  i  see  his  stupid  fucking  face  ...      ❞      his  eyes  drifted  closed,  but  his  hand  lingered,  cradling  taylan's  wrist  as  though  letting  go  would  make  him  disappear.      ❝       ...  tomorrow.  𝘄𝗲'𝘃𝗲  𝗴𝗼𝘁  𝘁𝗼𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄.      ❞      

[fleds]

restraint    was    a    funny    thing      —-     a    slow    burning    flare    that    had    shaped    devon’s    life    more    than    she    cared    to    admit.    it    walked    with    her    like    an    old    companion,    spoke    to    her    with    every    breath    held,    every    tongue    bitten,    with every    finger    curled    into    palms,    pressure    turning    knuckles    bone white    and    pink.    she    met    them    early,    in    a    world    where    each    thought    was    policed    by    scriptures    read and    hymns    sung.    before    she    had    the    words    to    even    name    herself,    before    she    could    look    in    a    mirror    without    the    sting    of    something    wrong    curling    in    her    chest,    she’d    learned    to    bury    herself    under    the    weight    of    it. it's shackles    molded    her    life    as    much    as    her    choices :    robes    smoothed    down    to    cover    legs    that    wanted    to    run ;     cigarettes    flicked    into    the    night    while    her    sister    slept    safe    inside ;    hands    trembling    with    the    ache    to    feel    something    real,    something    forbidden, and pulling    away    before    pleasure    gave    way    to    guilt.    she    swallowed    it    all,    the    urge    to    grow    into    herself,    locked    it    away    like    some    ugly,    shameful    secret.    it    was    easier    that    way.    and    so    restraint    became    survival.    no,    restraint    became    a    way    of    life.    so    much    so    that    even    now,    as    foster    roams    closer    and    closer    she’s    able    to    stand    still    and    not    fucking    lunge    for    his    throat.   

devon    could    see    the    simper    on    his    face,    crooked    and    charming and pleased,    as    if    a part    of    him    thought    this    was    funny.    like    there    was    humor    in    the    gun    he    held    to    her    head.    chest    heaves,    cold    air    burning    her    lungs,    teeth    clenched    so    tight    they    feel    like    they    might    break.    as    much as she wants to she knows    better    than    to    lash    out,    but    this?    her existence, her sister's existence captured beyond her control? it    was    fucking    testing    her.    “ is    that    what    that    was    to    you? ”    she    starts,    cadence    stiff    and    dangerous.    “ a    show? ”    boots    scrape    against    dirt,    a    half    step    forward    she’s    barely    aware    she’s    making, little sister placed behind her.    she    can    already    see    it    play    out    in    her    head–    knocking    the    camera    from    his    hands,    the    crack    of    it    shattering    against    the    ground,    the    weight    of    it    held when    she    smashes    it    against his    jaw, the way he'd bruise and bloom underneath her hand. ideation almost makes her want to smile.    “ you    don’t    get    to    record    me    and    you    especially    don’t get    to    record    her. ”    gravel    shifts    again,    another    step,    this    one    too    close.    “ delete    it    now.    in    front    of    me. ”

[horrorphase]

ꜜ   ﹙   📹    ﹚   ﹕   𝗳𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿  𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱  𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿  𝗶𝗻  𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆  𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁,  how  palpable  that  desire  to  dig  her  claws  into  his  flesh,  creating  a  tension  so  brittle,  like  the  fragile  shell  of  a  cicada  clinging  to  a  branch,  split  wide  open  to  reveal  something  raw  and  quivering  beneath.  and  unfortunately  for  her,  foster  didn't  feel  like  a  prey  in  this  situation,  zero  instinct  to  flee  or  fight,  more  likely  to  invite  that  risk  of  harm  closer  than  anything.  after  all,  he  had  always  loved  these  moments⸻  where  tension  coiled  so  tight  like  the  world  itself  might  just  break,  where  something  so  visceral  and  unspoken  pulsed  in  the  air.  hell,  watching  her  step  closer  felt  like  filming  storms  when  he  was  a  kid,  clouds  tumbling  and  churning  with  the  promise  of  turbulence.  and  here,  in  silence  between  her  breaths,  in  the  dangerous  gleam  of  her  eyes,  foster  felt  the  same  charge.  something  was  about  to  break.  but hopefully  not  his  camera.  𝗵𝗲'𝗱  𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝘀𝗵𝗲  𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸  𝗵𝗶𝗺.  but  nonetheless,  foster's  wayward  smile  did  not  falter,  though  his  shoulders  dropped  slightly,  unwinding  under  her  glare  as  if  to  defuse  the  tension.  he  raised  his  camera,  clicking  open  the  side  compartment  to  reveal  the  film  nestled  inside.      ❝      it's  not  digital,  i  can't  just  delete  it.  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝗶𝘁'𝗱  𝗯𝗲  𝗮  𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗺𝗲  𝘁𝗼  𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲  𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗯𝗲𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗳𝘂𝗹.  have  you  ever  seen  8mm  films  ?  something  from  buster  keaton  maybe  ?      ❞      he  said,  low  and  steady,  voice  dipping  into  that  languid  warmth  once  again.  still,  foster  pulled  it  free  with  deliberate  care,  holding  the  cartridge  between  two  fingers  before  extending  it  to  her.      ❝      call  it  a  souvenir.  i've  already  got  the  scene  engraved  on  my  mind  anyway.  just—  don't  let  anyone  else  watch  it,  if  you  do.  you're  not  the  only  one  on  that  reel.  i'm  also  on  there,  fifteen  seconds,  very  compromising  and  intimate  position.  total  rated-r  shit.      ❞      foster  whispered  so  that  conversation  was  only  between  them,  before  spilling  a  laugh,  hopefully  made  it  clear  enough  that  he  wasn't  trying  to  capture  her  in  blackmail  material  by  handing  his  own.  𝗻𝗼𝘁  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝗵𝗲  𝗵𝗮𝗱  𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝘁𝗼  𝗯𝗲  𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗱  𝗼𝗳  𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘄𝗮𝘆.  and  his  gaze  swept  over  her  face,  lingering  a  moment  too  long,  like  he  was  cataloging  every  sharp  edge  and  soft  curve.  the  kind  of  look  that  felt  less  like  being  seen  and  more  like  being  known.  then,  attention  shifted  toward  the  bag  in  his  other  hand  then  at  her  little  sister,  angling  it  toward  the  younger  girl  instead,  the  contents  rustling.      ❝      got  some  good  stuff  in  here.  reese's  cups,  some  potato  chips,  a  whole  bunch  of  junk,  but  hey  ...  everyone  deserves  some  teeth-rotting  shi— stuff sometimes.      ❞      features  shifted  into  something  gentler,  amusement  sparkling  in  his  eyes  as  he  crouched  slightly  and  held  the  bag  out  to  the  little  shoplifter  behind  devon  with  an  exaggerated  flourish,  like  he  was  some  dashing  rogue  in  an  old  black  and  white  film.  a modern day robin hood, except he was more particular with who received his kindness. he  glanced  up  at  devon  then,  that  quiet  hum  of  tension  still  buzzing  between  them.      ❝      you've  got  nothing  to  worry  about,  i  swear.  i'm  no  fuc—  freaking  snitch. cross my heart, hope to die.      ❞      

[desbvndar]

LOCATION : red creek hardware store TIME : 6 p.m. WITH : OPEN ( capping at 0 / 5 replies )

jihoon  flicks  his  lighter  ,  the  flame  trembling  against  the  bitter  cold  as  he  lights  the  cigarette  dangling  from  his  lips  with  a  hand  stuffed  in  his  coat  pocket  .  he  hates  the  sharp  burn  of  smoke  in  his  lungs  almost  as  much  as  he  hates  the  winter  air  biting  at  his  face  ,  but  it’s  either  this  or  stew  inside  the  hardware  store  ,  staring  at  a  selection  of  couches  so  tasteless  they  feel  like  a  personal  affront  .  he  exhales  a  thin  stream  of  smoke  ,  watching  it  curl  and  disappear  before  his  gaze  shifts  to  someone  walking  toward  the  entrance.  he  watches  them  hesitate  ,  hand  hovering  near  the  door  handle  .  “  don’t  bother  ,  ”  he  says  with  a  light  snort  .  “  unless  you’re  in  the  market  for  buyer’s  remorse  .  ”

[horrorphase]

ꜜ   ﹙   📹    ﹚   ﹕   𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗮𝗶𝗿  𝗼𝗳  𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗴𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻  𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱  𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁  𝗵𝗶𝗺  𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲  𝗮  𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗸𝗲  𝗼𝗳  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗶𝗱  𝘄𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿  𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗱,  his  breath  fogging  as  he  stopped  in  his  tracks.  magdalena  gore's  fiancé.  a  seat  on  the  council.  and  dasom's  younger  brother.  dasom,  who  once  made  the  best  damn  amateur  films  foster  had  ever  seen,  unearthed  from  a  dusty  closet of upper michigan movies  at  the  video  store.  dasom,  who  could  build  a  world  out  of  a  shaky  frame  and  a  thirty-second  roll  of  tape.  dasom,  who  disappeared  long  before  foster  even  moved  to  red  creek.  and  maybe  it  was  a  little  pathetic  how he  could  probably  pick  jihoon  out  in  the  middle  of  a  sundance  crowd,  let  alone  here,  outside  a  wretched  hardware  store  in  the  dead  of  winter  while  the  other  man  probably  didn't  even  know  his  name.  but  foster  worshipped  dasom  and  her  tapes,  and  he  found  himself  pouring  over  old  yearbooks  and  clipped  newspaper  articles  to  learn  more  about  everyone  she  left  behind  in  an  attempt  to  make  sense  of  her  genius.  foster  grinned,  small  and  crooked,  canon  518  in  one  hand,  the  other  that  had  been  reaching  for  the  hardware  store's  door  handle  falling  back  to  his  side.  and  the  plan  to  pick  out  a  brand-new  couch  for  june  and  finch  dissolved  into  nothing,  forgotten  in  the  heat  of  sudden  possibility.  a  conversation  with  dasom's  brother  just  felt  infinitely  better  than  filming  the  experience  of  buying upholstery.  none  of  what  this  shithole  had  to  offer  was  architectural  digest-worthy  anyway.     ❝      i  was  going  to  look  for  a  replacement  to  my  friends'  moldy  little  couch—  but  if  a  trustworthy  handsome  hotshot  lawyer  like  you  thinks  there's  nothing  for me here,  then  my  oh  my,  i  think  i'm  inclined  to  trust  you.  i'll  just  buy  'em  a  bunch  of  creams  for  their  next  fungal  infection,      ❞      foster  stepped  closer,  a  laugh  catching  in  his  throat,  clouding  the  air  between  them  with  his  breath.  he  looked  at  the  cigarette  between  jihoon's  teeth,  and  foster  wished  he  could  just  held  his  camera  up  and  film  this  pretty  little  scene  before  him⸻     𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿  𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁  𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗽𝘀  𝗼𝗳  𝗱𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁,  𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲  𝗮  𝘁𝗶𝗻𝘆  𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗮𝗻𝘁  𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿.     ❝      so  what's  the  deal,  terrible  discounts  or  d'you  just  like  hanging  out  here  ?      ❞