NATURAL VILLAIN

I DIDN'T WANT TO BE CONTROLLED.

[intcrference]

me standing here like. damn a bastard lives on i guess

[purifieds]

            “   you   feeling   okay,   man?   ”      he’s   unsure   about   atlas.   has   been,   since   he   had   the   displeasure   of   being   roughed   around   by   him   and   his   goons   at   a   party.   frankly,   its   not   the   company   he’d   choose   to   take   a   dose   of   experimental   drugs   with   in   the   backseat   of   his   car,   pulled   off   the   side   of   some   dirt   road.   but   he   trusted   dj,   and   for   whatever   god   forsaken   reason,   she   thinks   atlas   deserves   a   chance,   too.   so   it   goes.

            boy   is   curled   in   on   himself   in   an   awkward   position,   feet   pushed   up   against   the   seat   in   front   of   him   and   his   arms   draped   lazily   across   his   stomach,   his   head   a   lull   as   he   looks   over   to   the   other.   

            “   or…   anything   at   all?   don’t   freak   if   it’s   an   all   over   pins   and   needles.   the   feeling’s   what   got   me   through   the   black   eye…s   from   your   crew.   ”   crooked   little   half-smile,   micah's   gaze   lingers   on   him   with   heavy-lidded   eyes.   “   this   stuff   is   really   strong   so…   also   don’t   pass   out   on   me.   ”

@intcrference​   because   i   love    u   .

[intcrference]

he can’t hear it. the white noise that had become part of his life’s backdrop is absent. and he’s hazy, and he’s calm. his expression seems to process it; “it’s quiet,” he answers after a long moment. numbing, maybe--fading back all that dull, insidious ache. he had forgotten what normal felt like, he had forgotten what anything else sounded like.  

dark eyes slowly turn to micah’s face. a moment goes by where he’s glancing over the handy-work his crew had done on the other boy, over the burn marks up his face where the edge of his knife had ghosted over. maybe he could manage to feel guilty, but his gaze drops off. “it’s been like, uh,” he gestures loosely, tries to think of the words. “a buzzing. and everything...every nerve, like. felt on fire. every feeling, turned up to eleven, all the time.”    

he reclines back, lets the smoke from his cigarette peel out the car window--has just enough decorum not to smoke out the interior. a huff of a laugh; “shut up,” he says, without thorns, eyes following a seam on the roof of the car.  “i’ve taken worse.” maybe a bluff; party drugs are a little different, and haven’t yet been able to silence the thing in his head. a pause, and he adjusts to lean forward a bit, turns cigarette in his fingers in offering. “are you always on this shit?”

colour him curious. the fact that dj had talked any of them into getting within any range of him was remarkable in itself, probably. let alone an outsider he had made sure got the message. but then, little blonde had a face anyone would trust. but none of them knew exactly what happened at night, none of them knew he had made a choice in the matter. so he tilts his head. “i know she put you up to this. but why do you care?”

[intcrference]

atlas taking the funky sleeper repellent drug and being clear for a second and probably actually feeling terrible. and then the sleeper makes him regret it and he was right to be scared

[intcrference]

watching people do tricks w butterfly knives is stressful 

[intcrference]

while a lot of people don’t remember their violent blackouts, part of his deal was being present all the time. and he does come to understand he doesn’t want to be present all the time.

[milkywaybouquet]

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𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕚𝕗 𝕀 𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦, 𝕀 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕𝕟'𝕥 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕖 𝕟𝕖𝕚𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣.

[intcrference]

@urbanlegcnd said:  ❛ I should be dead. Why am I still here? ❜

dark old building creaks and whistles in the wind, sway of trees moving ominously outside broken windows. past the drag marks on the broken tile and the open door, it is mostly the headlights of the mustang outside that cast light into the room. this is the place that always waited in the recesses of his dreams. he doesn’t know its significance, besides an old radio station in the woods. he doesn’t have to understand. he just needs to do as the howling static asks. 

huff of a laugh, pacing by where he’s left her on the ground. he hasn’t hurt her--not yet. it hasn’t hurt her. part of him doesn’t want to, part of him hopes she’ll just listen. there’s a low whistle that resounds through hollow brick shell; “shit, barnaby. that’s kind of a heavy question to throw around.” there’s something quietly manic in his actions now, unhinging on the edge of his voice. a layer of something else, because it is louder here, under the broken rusty radio tower. it is taller than the trees, and it pulses like a heart. the butterfly knife is doing slow turns around fingers; he’s watching the windows like he’s waiting for something in the mouth of the woods. 

after a moment, he looks back at her. “...but if i had to guess,” he begins, crouching down to her level--smile like a snake. “maybe it likes you after all.” it seems to amuse him for the moment as knife turns, tip of the blade settling by the corner of his lips. “isn’t this what you wanted, francine?” he tilts his head just so; “don't you want to hear it, too? all you’d have to do is let it in.”

[intcrference]

don’t like that atlas probably sways the people around him to drive out w him to the woods

[guidedbyviices]

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[intcrference]

today i offer you a horrible boy to fight. tomorrow? who knows

[intcrference]

i already said this i/t but atlas’ trajectory is, realistically, 2 be dead. does he get any redemption arc? unclear. i do not know if he deserves it. newsflash assholes i’ve been problematic this entire time--

[frequencydead]

@intcrference​    called in for a possessed gal!

        SHE DOESN’T KNOW WHY SHE’S HERE.  it does.  it knows why, but their thoughts are not one and the same … not entirely.  the end of one and the beginning of the other bleed and blend, but not in all things, and not all of the time.  she cannot hide from it, but it can hide from her.  it hides its reasons for pulling her from her bed, for moving her legs through her backyard, over the fence, into the WOODS.  it hides why she detoured to her kitchen, why her fingers wrapped around a knife from a drawer, and why they haven’t let go since.

         but she cannot hide the fear that floods into her mind when she sees HIM.  it is never a good thing when it brings them together.  it slips back in for a moment, eases her nerves with placating lies that atlas and she are on the same side, that he has no reason to harm her, that it brought them both here to fulfill a PURPOSE.  she despises how well it works, that her nerves settle and her breathing slows, because of the saccharine sweet words of a monster.

         she coughs when she tries to speak, somehow manages to push up darkened blood through a restrained throat.  it punishes her because she will not let it have her voice, squeezes the air out of her lungs and chokes her throat like a constricting snake.  even after it retreats more, unfurls itself enough for her to speak, the dull ache remains, and her voice comes out strained and little more than a whisper.   ❝  do - do you know why we’re here … this time  ?  ❞

[intcrference]

a strange summer night--pulled along string, beckoned by hand with a grip just short of crushing. it pulls and he drives into the woods, it pulls and it is a reminder that this is a deal, not a privilege. butterfly knife opened, turned and fidgeted with as he waits against the hood of the mustang; knows he won’t be alone tonight. sure enough, highbeams illuminate her and the glint of her kitchen knife. he pockets his lighter, and there’s a grin, too sharp. “you always fashionably late, lewell?” and an air of teasing, as though they aren’t standing in the woods white knuckling the knives in their hands.

he tilts his head as he watches her. her struggle with speaking--against it--isn’t lost on him. and he’s quietly curious, eyebrows furrow--almost worried; “why do you fight it so hard?” do what it asks, it won’t hurt you. even if it was blood on his hands-- he wouldn’t be the one gutted. it wouldn’t do to him what it had done to ronin. because it was his choice, wasn’t it? but ultimately, he does know why--doesn't need her to answer at all; dakota jane lewell is nothing like him. 

when he finally looks back at her, his words are a little distant; “it doesn’t hurt anymore, if you let it in.” he knows the voice, the scratchy static moving in his frame, he knows it can punish. he watches the blade as it flips, closes, flips, comes close to his skin--you know it can punish.

finally, he addresses her question, like blinking out of a trance.”what do you think?” knife is a slow swivel, stops the flat of it by his jaw as he tips chin toward the dark building across the clearing. “i keep dreaming of this place.” bring them here, bring them to me.

[intcrference]

anyway murder to banger songs is the aesthetic

[intcrference]

the sleeper i think convinced him so easily to let it in. he was so easy to influence and he has so much natural bitterness and violence in him. and if it said it’d keep him alive? bet.

[intcrference]

if i were you i wouldn’t love me neither  (atlas’ mix)

   001.   isombard  (  float  on  remix  )   -  declan  mckenna .     002.   style   -   foster  the  people .     003.   despicable   -   grandson .     004.   hollow life   -   coast  modern .     005.   i  don’t  even  care  about  you   -   missio .     006.   move  to  the  ocean  (  baauer  remix  )   -   brick  +  mortar .     007.   stranger boy   -   the   weeknd, flipboitamidles .     008.   no  halo   -   brockhampton .     009.   nine is god   -   wavves .     010.   forget   -   the  tech  thieves .     011.   victorious   -   panic!  at  the  disco .     012.   blood  gets  thin   -   pete  and  the  pirates . 

[intcrference]

@frequencydead​ said: ❛ Darkness never satisfies. Especially if it takes something away which it almost always invariably does. ❜ ....😔

there’s a bitter bark of a laugh, amused and sharp; “what the fuck is there to take? no one left in this town gives a shit about me, or you.” not really. not the strangers that orbit him, not the would-be ghosts in his house--and everyone knew about the lewells. amity springs could make a pretty burn mark on a map, and no one would even notice. so says the little whisper in his head, at least--and he had to admit it was making some points. and anyway, her words are too unsettling to look at so directly, even if she is delusional to be barking up this tree.

he flicks the cigarette past her into the grass and tilts his head. “you’re exhausting, lewell, you know that?” levels her with a curious look as he saunters closer, and if there’s something dark behind the eyes, it’s only for her to see. “i’m clearer than i’ve felt in a while. can you say the same?”

[intcrference]

this boy was once a hunger games oc. wack.