𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙰𝙼𝙴 𝙷𝙾𝙼𝙴.

SOMETIMES DEAD IS BETTER. SOMETIMES IT'S LIKE BEING ALIVE.

[slashre]

SLASHER   :     a    horror    film,     involving     a     killer     maiming     a      group      of      people           [  …  ]           there     are     certain     rules     one     must     abide     by     in     order     to     successfully     survive     a     horror     movie.      WE     ALL     GO     A     LITTLE     MAD     SOMETIMES     !   ───────      &       do       you       like       scary       movies?          because      we’re      going      to      play      a      game               [  …  ]           𝙷𝙴       𝙲𝙰𝙼𝙴       𝙷𝙾𝙼𝙴.

SLASHRE!           an        extremely        private        blog        for       a           series           of           horror           characters       from        various        franchises.           chained           by           elliot           (           THEY           +           HE           ).          

RULES + MUSES.          INTEREST TRACKER.          MEMES.          STARTER CALL.

[slashre]

childactress​:

maybe she’ll have some harsher words for him tonight:   jamie and mara never look quite right in the morning.  there should be drinks nestled safely in their palms,  the both of them dressed to impress everybody and nobody at the same time,  stealing each other away from the room.  sunrise is too gentle for their rough edges.  she can’t help it,  fuck jamie for having stubbornness enough to rival hers,  but she smiles into their half-kiss and collects her phone with pride lingering.     ❝  i love you too.  ❞     under her breath,  teasing,  like they’ve shared a secret:  don’t worry,  i won’t tell anyone you have a heart.  she sits up just like she’s been able to do the whole time,  because she really is fucking annoying,  and rewards him with a rapid spattering of kisses across his skin,  his jaw,  his cheek,  his nose,  affection in the name of excess.  annoying.  content,  mara falls back into the bedsheets.     ❝  it’s dirty work,  but someone’s gotta do it.  ❞     she squints against the harsh light of her screen as it unlocks,  greeted by a frothy wave of notifications.  nothing important.  important things stopped coming through a while ago.     ❝  d’y’know one of them called me an internalized misogynist the other day?  where the fuck’d they even learn that?  ❞

he winces,  half - playful,   when she rains kisses down upon his skin.    the part of himself that hasn’t quite warmed up yet     (     the asshole part of himself,   the one that has never known how to stop getting in his own way     )      wants to push her away   :      he doesn’t want her to think he was too keen.     shit,  they’re already saying i love you.   a sappy part of himself liked the way mara’s lips looked when she said it,   the way they rounded out and softened,   the way her voice seemed to rise and fall with the words.     don’t let anyone know i have a heart,   he wants to say,   but he sees the twinkle in mara’s eyes.    she already knows better than to tell anyone.      instead of pushing her away,   he leans forward just enough to brush his lips against her cheek.    the skin there is soft,  aching   :      morning - dew,   without the bitter tinge of alcohol and smudged lipstick.     he leans back,   ‘cause it’s never a good idea to get too close to mara when she has her phone gripped in those claws of hers.    her feed was a circle - jerk of a - listers and old fans,   each one somehow worse than the next in terms of desperation for popularity.     '    probably from the same online junk you read.   what’s it mean?   you hate yourself?   ’

[slashre]

childactress​:

@slashre   …   ‘ hang on, i’m coming to get you. ’

❝  oh,  fuck,  you’re my hero.  ❞    and her voice kicks itself up around the corners,  a flutter of abandon twirling into her rum-and-coke accent:  mara sprawls herself across an empty bathtub,  a nameless bathroom,  a makeshift bomb shelter safely securing her from the mouth of the party   (     there is a version of tonight that didn’t end this way,  a smooth path to trouble-free excess:  but that’s the easy way out.  she likes disrupting expectations where she can   –   thank god for jess,  the patron saint of mara’s rough nights.  thank god she’s never missed a call     ).    ❝  hey,  let’s go get somethin’ to eat.  just you and me.  ❞    translation:  let’s hit the road before jack notices.  her limbs tuck awkwardly beneath her,  and she groans,  the drunken catastrophe of her body already tugged sore.    ❝  whatever you want.  milkshakes if you want.  you want milkshakes?  ❞

jess is in another bathroom,   somewhere else.   this bathroom leads out to a function where she has spent the night flirting and smiling and playing nice   :   she’s in a cocktail dress,    free from any stains,   a claim that she knows mara won’t be able to make.    she came in here when mara called    (    she flashes awkward half - smiles at anyone else who enters,   telling them that her boyfriend was sick and she had to come pick him up immediately     ).    she texts her manager that she’s dipping and feels bad,   the entire drive over,    that she didn’t say goodbye to the host.     mara texts and jess glances at her phone,   not at the road,   knowing how dangerous that is   ...   she’s never been to the random address mara dropped before.     but she elbows her way to the bathroom.    high heels in hand,    she sees blurry eyes and loud music,    little more than debauchery.    her fist pumps on the door    (    she hopes this is the one mara has gotten lost in    ).       “     honey,   i’m outside.    let’s dip,   okay?     ”

[slashre]

childactress​:

@slashre   …   [  sms ]: my friends don’t like you, but i do.

(  txt:   colton jameson  )    👌

(  txt:   colton jameson  )    are you dying?

(  txt:   colton jameson  )    before my dog died he got really weird and affectionate with me. are you dying like my old dog?

(  txt:   colton jameson  )    say the word and i’ll old yeller you out of here free of charge

(  txt:  DO NOT RESPOND  )     What are you talking about? (  txt:  DO NOT RESPOND  )     I don’t think you’ve ever even had a dog.

[slashre]

childactress​:

❝  oh,  don’t do that shit.  ❞    she knows better than to indulge him in this:  it’s the perfect hour for an argument,  when the day has slumped over into lethargy and made way for jamie and mara to dig up a bone to pick.  but they’re in natasha’s house,  after all   –   inviting the both of them was practically begging for a scene.    ❝  you know it’d be a dealbreaker.  i’m not becoming a fucking incubator for the latest incarnation of your daddy issues so that you can leave me alone and pregnant and cheat on me on tour.  also,  what if i wanted to get married first?  what if i didn’t wanna have a kid out of wedlock?  ❞    a wound of her own.  she finds it only fair.    ❝  i like joey,  ❞    she says plainly as she turns away.  she loves joey,  but that truth doesn’t come wiggling out of her heart in time.  in a slow steer,  she’s wandering toward the bookcases against one wall,  lined in photos and frilly christmas decor.  there are flashes of better years in front of mara,  even a photo or two of herself she comes close to recognizing.  a portrait of natasha and sam on their wedding day sits humbly,  the pair of them trapped under the glass together   (     mara wonders the worth of keeping it on display after so long.  it looks like a before picture,  and she’s heard too many family secrets to not have an idea what the bloody after looks like     ).    ❝  yeah,  i want a rabbit.  a little bunny.  they’re cute and easy and good companions.  my friend used to have one,  he was sweet.  ❞

‘   i wouldn’t cheat on you.   fuck you.   ’      it’s starting to sound like christmas:    the rough cut of their voices about to break into an argument.    mara is turning away from him,   the dip of her back looking like a road to purgatory that he knows he’s going to run along.    when people are talking about sin,   they’re talking about mara.    soft hands and a cruel trip to her lips,   like she’s smiling over a lie.     it’s not a relgious sort of weight:    it is fundamentally anti - religious to believe in her.     you aren’t plegding yourself to a god,   you’re rubbing salt in your own wounds because your mother once told you that it’s the only way to heal.      he thinks he’s telling the truth,   anyway.     ‘   maybe i’d marry if you were pregnant.   you’re never gonna find out,  though,   since you’re apparently so fucking against it.    jeez,   mara.   maybe we should have talked about this sooner.    ’      they’re only talking about it now because they wanted something to argue about.       he doesn’t know if he wants a kid.   maybe he does.    but maybe mara wants to be married and jamie knows he can’t offer that,   either.     he thinks there’s something about them that’s a little wrong--    like they’d never sat right in this relationship.      they grated,   they chafed,   they bit:       he doesn’t think he can let her go,   even knowing this.    even as she turns away,   he threads an arm around her waist to hold her a little closer.    he’ll move if he’s shrugged off,    but he hopes that he isn’t.    ‘   joey’s real likable.   cute, too.    good genes,   you know.       even given the dad’s genes being somewhere in there.   ’     a small joke,   like they’re not sharpening their claws and wanting to attack.     ‘   they’re a lot of work.   bunnies.    ’

[slashre]

childactress​:

❝  mm,  pissing off my sister was just a fun bonus.  ❞    a scene she knows all too well   –   INT., nighttime,  as mara stumbles her way into their shared apartment hours past curfew and natasha snaps into an argument,  already worn with exhaustion,  knowing she only has another day of hard choices to look forward to.  but mara isn’t doing much peachier:  she yawns restlessly,  her cheeks paled in the autumn chill,  and buries herself smaller in her leather jacket.  nothing about natasha’s return-to-normalcy plan inspired confidence;  only jamie,  out of the whole ugly town,  ever turned out to be worth her time   (     she’d never be as cliché as to call him the best of it,  but…     ).    ❝  yeah,  i know radiohead.  they’re cool.  you’re such a guy.  ❞    she takes another swallow from her oj-whiskey,  the silver of her charm bracelet chiming along with her.    ❝  people are just,  like,  images to you.  what if i don’t wanna be all rocker chick?  what if i just wanna be myself?  would that make any sense to you?  ❞

she digs a knife in casually.    she does it because she can and maybe because she thinks that he’s made of something tougher than he is   :     he’s all brittle fingernails and a tongue lost in the open - wound of his cheek,    but she digs regardless     (     maybe she doesn’t think he’s made of tougher shit    ---     maybe mara’s only ever cared about what she’s made of     ).       ‘   your sister’s cool.    ’       he’s only met her twice before,    but she felt whole in a way that jamie didn’t think he was     ...     he likes that about mara.    she isn’t trying to slide herself back into some normal shape   :      he likes her.   and he doesn’t like much.      ‘   she’d have to be cool to deal with you every day.    i think i’d blow a fuse.    ’     he can’t even deal with his own bullshit.    he’ll be out late tonight,   probably at the skate park with maxie,    downing some cheap beer and pretending that home wasn’t going to swallow him.     ‘   you can be yourself and be all rocker chick,   too.    you don’t have to be one thing.   ’

[slashre]

strangercrime​:

‘ i want to know. ‘   this deflection   ––––   anything to tell a truth   /   anything to look committed.   a deviation from the path defined by some appropriately philosophical school of thought.   something absolute.   something factual.   ( do you really care?   yes.   no. )   in 18th century scotland, david hume leans back into an armchair and considers this question.   his fingers run along the seams, a solar surface on the verge of discovering the secrets of the universe.   it is possible for the same thing to both be and not be, he thinks earnestly.   ( do you really care?   no.   yes. )   in 21st century america, charles álvarez watches as charlotte townes rubs her eyes like the most remorseful of sinners, polishing the soiled copper of her reality with a blood-stained rag.   he forgets to blink;   what she seeks to recreate into something grander by closing her eyes, he abases and disassembles by keeping his open to bear witness.   no i don’t   /   yes i do, he thinks without the adequate amount of shame.   I WANT TO KNOW, he says   ––––   and means.

the remnants of his laugh feel heavy in the back of his throat;   he ducks away from the memory and moves past her, leaving the kitchen and its innocuous assortment of weapons behind.   morality claims thus:   EVERYTHING IS A CHOICE.   reality agrees, but only insofar as it relinquishes the distinction between the obviously good and the obviously bad.   in this trolley problem, he could choose to pass around the other side of the table and grant her some relief.   instead, he shuffles between it and her, his fingers reaching out to brush the crook of her elbow as he moves by.   the touch is delicate, like trimming a bonsai:   the edges are sharp   /   the action invasive.   he pauses, seems to think about her question a second time, and then pulls away.   there are very few things he can tell her without first plucking the wolf teeth from his mouth with pliers fashioned from her own bone.   still, he would like to share.   he would like to share with her a little, in a way she could survive.

charlie sinks back into the couch, the boundaries of his body fading into fabric.   ‘ i’m not talking about death row, ‘   he frowns, dropping his gaze to her knees.   something knits between his brows   ––––   a conduit for the collection of wounds he calls emotion.   ‘ it’s a metaphor. ‘   eyes shift again, moved by the wild and the wondering of charlie townes’ attention.   he looks at the floor, at the pillow they forced into its death throes, and picks it up.   ( shake   ––––   once, twice, thrice.   pluck a hair.   let it go.   watch it fall. )   carefully, he places it back into the position it had been in.   ‘ you made a choice:   i live, now others will die.   according to 27 states, you chose wrong.   you had moral grounds –– some might even say the moral imperative –– to stick those scissors in my neck.   yet you didn’t. ‘   shame, really.   she‘s most beautiful during moments of brutality.   ‘ well … who can blame you?   crime sells;   obituaries don’t.   you made the right choice, from a business perspective. ‘

the scene is righted   :      anyone peering in now would see nothing out of the ordinary       (      two people,   friends or lovers,    sat together on the couch,   letting the television fill in the blanks of their conversation       ).      even the cushion is settled back into its rightful place     ...      the order feels like a knife held to her throat.     if there was a disruption,    she could level her anger against it,   twist her fury into something useful        --        but a picture frame would fit as neatly over this scene as a noose.    her nails,  chipped green,    reach out to tug at the pillow.    soon enough,   it settles against her lap,   and she can breathe again.     she is ruining the illusion they have created   :       domesticity has always been known as a lie.     it is stepford smiles and women rubbing away cobwebs,   hoping their spider - husbands do not find new places to nestle.     it is lying children baked neatly into pies,    eaten up until just the scraps of them remained       (        and those scraps,    born of peaches and pears and plums,      grew arms and legs eventually,    plump enough to slip into suits and become mommy’s precious leftovers         ).      she thinks her parents were happy,    but that’s only because they learned how passion really operates   :       it is not a housewife and a businessman.     it is a different sort of violence.     charlie had been born into it,    but she knows it can be learned, too.   that is the pleasure of it.

‘    i’ll have to teach you how to improve your metaphors,     charlie.   ’       her voice does not catch in her throat,   which surprises her.    she had just cleaned this carpet   :        her new year’s eve resolution was scrawled atop of her notebook,     a promise to clean the apartment more,    to welcome more light into a place she had left overgrown and dreary.     january had nipped at her heels and the promise had fallen away,    never forgotten but always ignored.    but last night,   in a fit of sleepless worry,   she had cleaned the carpet        (       and now she cannot kill her wolf   :        little red riding hood was in the middle of the woods,     slaughtering on land that would only be fed by the meat     ...     charlie would have to clean up the mess herself,    scrubbing away his life until only the purple - bruise of his outline remained        ).     she had cleaned the carpet and now she could not kill him.     there are languages made from love   :      theirs is made of excuses.    tomorrow,   the scissors beg,   tomorrow we will try to kill him and only like him more when he doesn’t die.

finally,   gathering the last of her strength,    she turns to face him.    his aliveness startles her     ---     it is a ruthless sort of living.    a brutal sort of existence.   even just looking at him,    she can feel the brush of his fangs against her skin,    the part of her throat that he’d bite into and tear apart if she didn’t keep a firm grip on the leash       (        she says heel and he hears snarl   :      they call this compromise        ).        ‘   that’s an unrealistic chain to follow.      the     --     it’s the same logic as saying you’re a murderer for buying a sweater at a chain store.   you go back far enough and everything is your fault,   eventually.   ’     he picks her apart and labels her an opportunist   :     she hates that he’s right.   ‘   i don’t know you’re a criminal.   i’ve never seen it.   ’

[slashre]

childactress​:

mara doesn’t believe in luck like she used to     (     once there was a system of wins and losses,  a binary world with score kept easy by her parents’ steady hands and doting managerial teams.  fate tore up the rulebook somewhere along the way,  and she’s done a shit job of rolling with the punches since   –   nobody ever claimed she was good at going off-script     ),  but there’s enough happy accidents to go around that she still manages to feel pretty good about herself.  jamie and mara throwing themselves into fame’s selfish mouth like there was never anywhere else to go,  then at each other with the exact same type of hunger:   it’s no wonder they get along so well,  no wonder they fuck even better.

her breath falls thick and hot against his jaw.  throat pulsing into his palm,  nails pricking into the flesh of his shoulder,  he’s as close as he could ever be,  and if her head wasn’t clouded with the rush of him inside her she’d still whine he’s not close enough.     ❝   baby,   ❞     she gasps,  heat surging in the pit of her stomach.     ❝   fuck,  jamie,  jamie,  jamie.   ❞     not close enough,  never close enough,  not until now,  as everything slows for mara in a burning swell of bliss.  with her hips ground into his,  skin on fire and slick to the touch,  she finally finds an exhale and rides herself through,  a warm pant crawling off her tongue.  both palms come flying from jamie and land along his cheeks,  cupping his face adoringly.     ❝   baby,   ❞    she says again,  leans in again,  kisses him again.

he thinks she comes.   he isn’t sure.   it’s just hard to tell sometimes       --        but it looks like she’s feeling good,     twisting around her own pleasure like a dog chasing its tail,   and that’s enough for jamie       (        mara banks is so untouchable sometimes   :      sure,   she’s messy and clingy and desperate,   and she spends more nights in his bed than anywhere else,     but there’s still a distance between them sometimes that feels like it’s going to choke him        ).      but this is closeness,  intimacy,   the easiest way the two of them can speak to each other.     it’s one of the only things between them that has never turned into an argument.    shit,   it’s gotten close,   but it’s never managed to meet the bitter edge.    they’re creatures of distraction,   after all       ...         but this is a pleasant one.   this is a happy one.   this is one that should have been dirt and rot but instead became sleepy mornings and hazy nights,   a heady feeling of indulgence stretching around them.

‘    you sound so hot when you say my name like that,     ’      he breathes,   then cusses a few times as he feels himself getting closer.   it’s a warm feeling in his palms as they grip tighter at mara’s hips,   guiding her further down on his cock,   feeling it hilt as deeply as it can.     he presses soft kisses to her shoulder,   letting them grow sloppy     --     because pleasure was best enjoyed fiercely,  without care for the world around them.     a few more thrusts of his hips,   their bodies held close and panting,   and he spills into the condom with a jagged moan.     ‘     jesus.     my back hurts.      ’

[slashre]

dollpack​:

‘   a sheet of notebook paper has more character than all the other clones i talk to.  it’s not a hard metric to meet.   ’     every swallowed grimace of the day comes alive around jamie.  heather indulges in a frown she buried this morning,  pinned to her lips like a sad party favor     (     the party ended some fifteen years ago now;  she’s been sweeping up the aftermath ever since,  tiredly,  dutifully.     ).     ‘   well,  if dahlia said so.   ’     trained in the art of shutting her mouth,  she takes a forkful of noodles and thoughtfully chews.     ‘   i’ll do my best,  jamie,  but don’t take it out on me if it gets spayed and neutered before it gets to you.  especially if we’re going for sex symbol.  besides,  asshole works for you.  what’re you worried for?  you’re good at being an asshole.   ’     she stiffens in her seat,  a sudden stumble in her voice,  then leans over for a curt sip of her coke.     ‘   you know,  i mean,  as far as personas go.  it plays great.   ’

she doesn’t spit dahlia’s name with acid,  but there’s a certain disdain there that interests jamie      (      still,   they’re both in the business of shutting their mouths,    so they share grimaces and pretend that passes for searing scorn        ).     ‘     i love when you say annoying shit like that.   metric.    who the fuck else says stuff like that?     ’     he lifts a napkin to wipe the side of his mouth.   dahlia had told him to stop using his hands like some sort of farm animal     --   so now he uses napkins and pretends there’s something rock and roll in that.    at least he feels more like himself when she calls him an asshole.    cruelty helps.      ‘     come on,  heather,   don’t let up when you’re just about to go for the gut.   what about me is so asshole - ish?    just a general air or have i done something to fuck you off?     ’    he ordered a beer with his food,   but he hasn’t sipped on it yet.   maybe he should.     ‘     if we amp the song up,  maybe they’ll meet us half way.     ’

[slashre]

viperly​:

@slashre​

❛     holy shit.     ❜          holy shit.     she knows that face just as well as she knows the uptick in her voice’s pitch,  the way she suddenly feels off-balance.     susceptibility to getting starstruck never really goes away,  even when she’s copied  &  pasted her own way to stardom.     lee montgomery,  hollywood’s own final girl come to life,  should have a bit more steel to her now.     her reputation slips through her grasp in stutters  &  slight smiles,  doe eyes  &  missed jokes.     it’s like it’s her first day on the scene.     she could drown in the feeling.          ❛     sorry   -   sorry,  it’s just   -   we don’t get,  you know.     rock stars at these things.     just actors.     &  not even big ones.     usually.     ❜          a laugh jostles its way past her glossed mouth,   &  she reaches to sweep her hair behind her ear.     god,  throw down a lifesaver soon. 

jamie offers the tight fragment of a smile     (     rock star feels like an insult,   considering the shit that he produces   :      he’s more like mom - rock,   the kind of puke - riddled garbage that people in their 40s felt young and rebellious when they listened to,    as if doing the dishes and shaking their hips at the same time made them somehow fuckin’ ungovernable       ).    this girl doesn’t look like she listens to much mom - rock,   though.    his smile loosens,   but just a little.   dahlia’s always on his back about him being nicer to fans,   especially since mara spat in one’s face a little while back     ...     what was he supposed to do,  keep her on a leash?    not his fault.      ‘‘     very sweet of you to call me a rock star.   i prefer jamie,   but,   hey ho.     ’’     he gestures for a drink to be brought to him,   ‘cause he reckons he needs to be drunk for this.     ‘‘     and i can party with the best of the d - listers,   trust me.     ’’

[notmorbid]

speak.

dialogue prompts from speak: a novel by louisa hall.

i don’t like to remember how much i’ve forgotten.

i want to know the mistakes i’ve made, to sit with them.

there are no known words for the things i’m feeling.

it’s the opposite of waking up from a bad dream.

i guess i’d rather feel something than nothing.

i tried to stay away, but i couldn’t.

i can feel you leaving me.

everything is ending soon, but everyone is lying about it.

i honestly believed you’d come for me, if i could be patient enough.

why make a bad situation worse by calling it names to its face?

all that’s behind us. we’re here now.

i was raised to believe that, like wild dogs, it’s best not to look loss in the face.

i don’t believe there’s any use in refusing to live.

i feel much disordered, irrational, and extreme.

no one could have imagined what would happen.

falling in love would be a distraction.

we were as happy as we were afraid.

thoughts become louder in silence.

it’s hard to shake off a vision, once it’s taken you by the throat.

i just wanted to talk. i can’t sleep. i’m sick of myself.

there are other directions but forward.

i’m not so hopeless as i was, for a while.

we’ve become less human than our most human machines.

dreams have no meaning without the words we use to describe them.

we tend to treat people who have suffered too much awkwardly.

your smile is miraculous.

i feel like some tolstoyan cad.

you’re acting like everyone else.

i feel like a commemorative statue, come back to life.

i would’ve killed to hear your voice.

was it always this way? was i too dumb to notice?

i wondered, but i never asked.

i hear your voice sometimes, urging me to keep going.

not everyone is as fair-minded as you.

i have a purpose. that’s all i really require.

i can’t just pretend to be normal again.

no one else made me laugh the way you did.

know that if you call me, i’ll come.

i was sure you were a particularly vivid figment of my imagination.

my life is such a sad little waste.

if you tell me, i’ll understand. you just have to tell me.

nothing’s the same after it’s been talked about.

you have a remarkable ability to settle a place.

i’m still not sure why i haven’t left.

i’ve kept every one of your letters.

you loved me the best way you knew how.

you’re far too sad for your age.

there’s a real world out there, and it’s worth trying to get back to.

my secrets are my own to keep.

you’re as human as anyone else.

maybe you don’t need me, but i still need you.

[slashre]

vihilum​:

“I don’t doubt you’re charming, I know you’re charming,” she was charming, he wasn’t fronting there, “this isn’t about being charming,” he didn’t doubt she could yield results, but he with the help of a much needed, very public distraction, the whole process could be expedited, “this is about being quick.” He didn’t want her lingering long enough to make a lasting impression, or to tie them together at the scene, “they’re not gonna give you the files right outta the box, okay, that’s not happening,” no matter how many times she flashed her cute smile at them, he knew they wouldn’t simply give her what they wanted - not when it’d become the town’s best kept secret, and neither of them were supposed to be the wiser about it, “you gotta steal them.”

Mac would steal it if he could, if the roles were somewhat reversed, “Being charming’s gonna get you in the room,” she could cause the distraction, but he didn’t want them shoving the barrel of a rifle in her face for causing a ruckus, “I’m your man on the outside.”

charlie doesn’t like the odds of any situation she can’t control       (      and this feels like one of the things that are completely out of her control  :      it feels like a damn gunshot wound waiting to happen and,   if she was a smart gambler,   she’d be betting against her and mac       ).      she trusts him as much as she trusts most people     ...     which means that everyone is liable to fail her,  if they’re given too much of a chance.     she longs for the naivety of childhood,  where trust had come easily,   where her heart had felt less like a flight risk and more like a promise.   she takes a drink from her straw    --    it lets her think a little longer about how she wanted to respond.

‘‘    flatterer,    ’’     she says,  with what she hopes is an appropriate amount of teasing.      ‘‘     stealing is a real ugly word,  you know.   it isn’t something i use in my profession.     ’’      illegality wasn’t a sin.   shit that could be traced back to her was the sin.    she bit at the edge of her nail.   mother’s habit.     ‘‘     okay,  i get in the room.   then what?   i’m pretty sure they’re not going to take their eyes off me,   man on the outside.     ’’

[slashre]

childactress​:

❝   yeah,  yeah,  block me.   block me,  and you can run your own shit,  and handle your own promo and media,  or get someone actually payrolled to do what i do.   that’d mean paperwork,  and i know you’re not gonna do paperwork.   face it,  baby,  it pays to keep me around.   ❞     she says it all too soft to mean any harm     (     when she does,   she makes sure it’s unmistakable   –   there’s enough bitterness to go around,  white-hot arguments steeped on the tip of her tongue,  natural theatrics turning every little bite into a production.   act one   :   mara decides on her stick of dynamite and lights it aflame.   act two   :   jamie huffs out the flame like an old match.   by act three,  she realizes it’s the same script they’ve been reading from over and over again,  and relents.     ).     ❝   jamie.   ❞     her voice gives way to a whine,  perfectly tuned to his name.   she’s said it a thousand different ways,  buried it into a pillow with a red-smear mouth,  flicked it across dahlia’s desk like a bargaining chip,  let it spill over smile after misty smile,  but this early in the day all she has for him is the slight purse of her bottom lip,  lazily in need.   she stretches toward her phone,  notedly out of reach,  and sits back with a pointed grumble. 

he will blame his softening on the afternoon / morning light that bleeds through the windows      (      cause it was all the same,   sweet oranges and peach - lemon whites,    an inappropriate time to be waking up      --       but his breath still stinks like whiskey and half - used toothpaste,   and his hair is matted to the side of his face,   and he’s happy that he squeezed in those last few hours   :      fuck dahlia,  she could call his phone as many times as she wanted,   he was gonna enjoy himself      ...     shit,   he really should answer that      ).    but the real reason he hands the phone back is because of the soft pout,   the wide eyes,   the maraness of her.    his hand finds her cheeks and smushes them together between his fingers,   before their lips are pressed together.    just the start of a kiss,   the pressure and the warmth,   the brush of some lipstick that mara hadn’t cleaned off   :     was it strawberries?    or just that gummy pink flavour?      ‘    you’re so fucking annoying,    ’    he promises,   pulling away to grab at her phone.  he holds it out towards her,  wiggling it slightly against his palm.     ‘   oh,  please,   miss banks,   go back to running my media empire.   the global federation of starting shit with my fourteen year old fans needs your dutiful service.   ’

[slashre]

vihilum​:

“How about you?” the apple seldom fell far from the tree, and she poked fun at his logic, “I bet you get those little candies that taste like chalk.” One could tell a lot about a person by the amount of candy left on display on hallow’s eve - but she never really lived anywhere long enough to truly celebrate. Could count on one hand how many times she’d gone trick or treating.

She watched the light fizzle, dug into her own pocket for her phone, second beam joining Daniel’s to illuminate the path. She knew exactly where they were headed, right at the end of the street, before he even said so. It was by far, the most unnerving house on the block. They stopped short of the gate, and her head pivoted towards his, “That’s sweet of you,” wry grin growing slow. “when you happen to see him, let me know.”

digits curl over the fence - vines wrap around the post, near the hinges, and the door sticks at first, until she leans all her weight on it, and pushes it open inch by inch. while he said it wasn’t abandoned, it didn’t look tended to in the slightest, grass overgrown to her waist once they slipped into the front yard, a small jungle coming to fruition. “If this isn’t abandoned, someone should check on the gardener.”

‘   i actually visit my family on halloween,   so i don’t have to waste my time buying anything.    ’    he supposes that makes him just as stingy as they are    (   the thought makes his smile slip for just a breath,   but he rights it as quickly as he can   :       being his parents’ shadow had never bothered him before,  so why should it now?   he was a le domas,  through and through     ...     which meant that he got the fortune and the shittiness that came with it,  as if the two went hand in hand     ).     there’s something rotting in his blood     --     he’s worried that if anyone comes close enough,   they’ll be able to smell it,   like blood hounds for rotten souls.   charity had seen it.

hands rest in his pockets as he watches her crack the gate open.  it struggles against her,  but eventually relents,   vines crumbling in soft heaps on the ground.    it’d been a while since they had been here.   fuck,   more than a few years.   had his parents just let it fall into disrepair,  deciding that the upkeep wasn’t worth it?    maybe this was a shitty place to take someone.     ‘‘    you’re real funny,    ’’    he scoffed,   but he at least has the good will to smile.    ‘‘     maybe i’m taking you here to see the corpse of the gardener.   i’ve heard that dead bodies usually make an impression.     ’’    he brushes vines from his clothes and begins to walk up the drive.

[slashre]

dollpack​:

JESS FROM @slashre SAID…     imagine having enough money to trust people.

♡   …   sloane doesn’t like to think of herself as someone with money  (  her wardrobe, her home, every gleaming award she’s nabbed in her career would beg to differ, but lucky for her humility, she’s telling this story herself  ).  success stories lose their shine once they reach a certain metric of accomplishment, whether it looks like a hefty paycheck or a single step up the corporate ladder.  even after achieving both several times over, she keeps her face daisy fresh, an unassuming woman by design.   ❝   jess!   ❞   her tongue clicks, a light scold.   ❝   you know, if you want to see price tags everywhere you go for the rest of your life, that’s your decision.  but i choose to see people as people, no matter how much money either of us have.  and it’s done me good.   ❞   with open palms and a butterscotch smile, she gestures to the hungry mouth of her office, a rose gold magazine spread of neatness guided by pinterest’s steady hand.  she plucks two peppermints from the glass dish on her desk and pushes one jess’ way, french tips untwisting the other for herself.   ❝   besides, who says i trust everyone i work with?  maybe that’s your problem.  maybe you want to trust people but something’s holding you back.   ❞

jess was born into a big house in a small town   :      she’s a hypocrite to talk about it at all,   but still her tongue wraps around the words like faux - poverty was some hip new currency     (      hadn’t she spent sleepless nights searching for jobs when she first moved out here,  desperate to be a star without her mother’s purse strings strangling her?    hadn’t she begged her mother for money within the first week,   a starved stomach and an aching ego enough to make her almost quit?     ).      the scolding brings her back to herself     ---     she brushes hair away from her eyes,   letting her view struggle into clarity,   and takes a calming breathing.    her agent had suggested yoga once.     ‘   i didn’t mean to insult you,   ’    jess promises,  guilt clutching at her neck.   the peppermint is taken with ease   :    a peace offering that she gobbles whole.   this entire industry is woman against woman,    heels against heels with the clang of swords,   and she doesn’t want any other enemies.   the media would bite at her the second she stopped feeding them     ---     a crown passes for just another pretty trinket bought from her fame.    ‘   maybe,   ’   jess agrees,  licking sweetness from her fingertips.     ‘   do you really not trust everyone you work with?   ’

[slashre]

dollpack​:

COLTON FROM @slashre​​ SAID…     try not to mistake ‘damaged’ for ‘deep’.

♡   …   a lifetime of unsolicited opinions, and she’s never gotten any better at holding her tongue.  criticism comes with the territory.  she gets it by now.  and with vicky comes a brutal scoff, a roll of her eyes, a lashing kept close to her chest.   ❝   man, you got it twisted.   ❞   course he does.  she doesn’t expect much out of anyone but the diehards, and even those get a bit too comfortable now and then    [    THE ONLY THING @VICKYSHRED CAN’T DO WITH HER MUSIC IS RELEASE IT ON TIME!    ].   ❝   i’m not mistakin’ shit for shit.  i’m just writing it all down.  if little becky in wisconsin thinks my lyrics are the most beautiful things she ever heard, who am i to disagree?  who am i to argue with her?  she’s happy with the record, i’m happy with a fan.   ❞   most importantly, the label’s happy she’s put something out.  but it’s always best to pretend they’re not a factor.  best to pretend it’s vicky versus the world, happily bankrolling her own mid-life crisis.   ❝   i’d sign something for you, but, uh, you don’t sound like much of a fan.   ❞

colton’s spotlight is self - made   :      it is a camera and a baseball bat and a mouth full of too many teeth       (      he has taken to hunger well      ---      his stomach has grown and grown to fit in every new fad,  every new trend,   every new self - made angel twisted from filters and camera flashes      ).      her crumbled flame draws him in only because of how pathetic it is      ...       the allure of losing it all is better kept to stories.    he couldn’t handle the nothingness of himself,   the ache of evisceration when the public finally stopped their twitter - trails about his life.     ‘   is that who you’re writing for?   one person in wisconsin?    no wonder this is all junk.   ’     eyes flicker to her,   wondering if he’s found a button to press.   he wonders if finding a button means he should press it.   his impulse control has always flailed like a live pulse beneath his fingers.      ‘   i listened to your music when i was younger.   my sister likes you       ...      but,  of course,   dna doesn’t account for taste.     what are you working on,  exactly?   i could mix it into a tiktok--     for a price.   ’

[slashre]

@childactress​

they’ve picked the wrong day for this conversation.  another day wouldn’t be all that gentler,  mara would still dig her heels in like it’s her life on the line,  but in the fabric suffocation of nat’s home,  there’s something more to prove   (     always,  always something to prove.  she wouldn’t be herself without a vendetta on her tongue,  without fingertips ready to bruise themselves on a keyboard defending her sorry honor.   ).    ❝   hey,  do i look like a romcom kinda girl to you?  if i give a shit about romance,  it’s ‘cause you gave me a reason to.   ❞    right away,  her mouth snaps against a wince.  too sweet,  too pitiful,  so right away,  she buries it.    ❝   or any boyfriend i’ve had.  that’s just how it works.  you fall in love and you figure out what it’s like,  and what you like and what you don’t.   ❞    most of what she knows still starts and ends with pop culture’s flashbulbs hanging over it   :   arthur and donna banks cooing their marriage vows in their wildest days,  mara dodging a cheek kiss on a blood-red carpet,  love stories copy-pasted onto movie scripts and racking up eight-figure opening weekends.  even the way she leans into jamie now is with a rehearsed comfort,  ripped right off a poster.  mara banks stars in…  killing the mood at family christmas.  critics are calling it ‘repetitive,’  ‘pathetic,’  and ‘a clear cry for help.’    ❝   nah,  i dunno.  i used to want ‘em when i was younger.  i think it was just ‘cause i wanted to,  like,  do it better than my mom did.  be a better mom just to show that i could.  or that someone could.  not really worth it now.  get sober and let my body get totally wrecked and not have any time to myself for the next eighteen years all to have a kid who might just grow up to be an asshole.  no thanks.  i want a dog instead.  or a rabbit.   ❞

something wilts   :      he’s never been able to dull the knife of her tongue,   just like she’s never learned how to stop strangling corpses.    his eyes sweep over his shoulder,   listening for footsteps,   for someone approaching        (       there’s a beat of embarrassment that reddens the back of his neck at the thought of nat catching them in the middle of an argument        ...        they’d never pretended to be a perfect couple,    but there was something too warm and intimate about being caught like this   :        the christmas spirit ruined by jamie and mara’s couple spat,     an awkward laugh that would have been passed around at family dinners if mara had much family left to worry about       ).      ‘  what if i wanted a kid?   what if it were a deal breaker that you didn’t want one?   ’     jamie damoe stares commitment in the eye like it’s a loaded gun   :        the thought of the nuclear family unit makes him feel sick.     the dead - eyed child and the loyal wife,   cooking away happily at the stove,    pretending she didn’t swallow down all her dreams just to be there.     still,   he pressed down against the wound for no other reason than to see what happened.     ‘   nat’s kid is cute.   and he likes you.   ’      that is the truth,  at least,   and something he had noted too many times   :      passive information,   for someone who had once wanted all that shit.      ‘   i don’t,  by the way.  want kids.   ’     a kid who might just grow up to be an asshole.    had their parents ever been worried about that?    jamie was a product of his dad’s own assholery,  so he couldn’t imagine he gave much of a fuck.     ‘    whatever.  you gave me a reason,  too,   i guess.     to     ...      you want a rabbit?   ’