#bornhngry

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@bornhngry

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listen lmao, 📐

* once again, unfortunately, there were no masc silhouettes with long hair. but i appreciate the different body types available. (look at my scrawny-ass son next to helena's statuesque figure).

height comparison.

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“My heart doesn’t belong to me anymore. It belongs to you.”

from this meme...

the way her fingers run through the length of his hair is soothing, but it's the trace her nails leave upon his skin, like that of a ghostly dance her hand knows well, that sends a shiver down his spine. this is a sacred moment, despite its simplicity, and maybe more so because of it.

they've been here before countless times now, in the quiet of her bunk. the space is small, but it's perfect for them as they lay together in it. chris' fingertips make their way over the small mountains the sheets make as they cover the shape of her. she's like a sculpture, half-hidden in this moment, teasing to uncover herself whole. he finds her to be the most alluring thing he's ever laid eyes upon. thick curves and mounds creating a silhouette so effortlessly seductive. perfect.

chris lays his head on her shoulder, and his legs are bent to fit the extent of the bunk as he lays next to her, now slipped away from their covering. her words come out like a whisper just above him. the voice of god speaking to him. he can't help smiling when she speaks.

"mine has been yours since the first time i saw you." he says, fearing he'll chicken out if he doesn't say it now. "all of me is, really."

his words weren't empty, and he wasn't sure where the confidence to speak them was coming from now, but he was not about to stop them. they were truer than anything he's ever said before, and he thought he'd regret not uttering them if he didn't. like a last 'i love you' before you died. he had to tell her it was mutual.

he puts space between them as his arm pushes him upward and away from her, he wants to look at her. her eyes. the freckled of her face. he's no longer smiling, that dance had been danced the moment he spoke and the weight of his words became real with their utterance. he wanted to see it in her face, their confession to one another, here and now. and so he does.

there's a glimpse of sickening terror across her features, one that mirrored the one upon his own. this was what sincerity looked like, in its rawest form. in a sweet string of words whispered in this late hour of the night, in this small space which didn't even allow him to sit up properly. there are roses in full bloom across her cheeks, and he can feel the pulsing of his heartbeat in his throat. "i mean it."

@grote5querie

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i do wax rubbings of all the tombstones. i have a favorite

from this meme...

he couldn't help his brow from furrowing in a quizzical manner. a silent exhale from sliming lips came before he asked, "you do?" this shouldn't surprise him. truly. he was confident she wouldn't be put off by the location, her having a hobby such as wax rubbing tombstones should have been expected.

perhaps it was past experiences and how he walked on eggshells with prior potential dates. not her, though, never with her.

chris couldn't help the full of his teeth from making an appearance - a rarity, one could say. with helena, though. this rare event had become the norm.

the crisp of the air blew at his hair as he tried to avoid stepping on the patches of grass still managing to remain alive despite the cruel of the weather.

long legs took a couple of shaky strides as he caught up with her. moving strands of long hair out of the way and behind his ears, he watched as she positioned atop a grave with a beautiful sacred heart engraving. he stood there, blanket rolled up under his arm.

it reminded him of an autumn project he'd done once in art class in grade school... or had it been preschool? he didn't know. he was entering the age where early childhood memories tended to muddle with one another, more less between years or eras. but he remembered them using broken crayons over sheets of paper, with fallen tree leaves underneath it all. he also remembered thinking how it very much felt like cheating. like tracing, instead of drawing the leaves by hand.

without thinking, a strand of words came out of his mouth. something he immediately regretted as he heard himself say it.

"what would you like to have on your grave?"

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"&"

the thought of his head being too heavy flashed now and then since they started the movie— he was resting on her lap, laid across the couch, feet dangling over the edge of the long end.

he could feel her fingers interlaced and brushing through his hair as he laid there. at some point she began to play with his hands, his right now lifted as if ready for a high five—but her fingers traced shapes all over his palm, then his fingers, along the length of them and downward past his wrist.

it was until they reached healed skin that his eyes glanced upward, where her fingers danced across scar tissue. he wondered then, what she thought of them.

of him.

he’s never felt judged by her— never by her.

but he knew the sight of them could conjure ugly things. perhaps ghosts of things past. he thought of asking, she seemed absentminded. instead his left reached for hers, long fingers intertwined with tattooed ones, guiding hers to his lips. a small gentle kiss pressed against the back of her hand.

blue eyes closed and he sighed. remembering the traces he knew hid beneath the fabric of her pant legs, where his cheek now rested. his hand still holding hers, now against his chest. the beating of his heart unchanged but strong.

this is where he belonged, he thought. with her.

[jgoldberg]

fun fact: spatchcocking a chicken and dismembering a human involve the same six essential steps.

Yes, I know that. It’s one of the first things you find when you look up how to get rid of a fucking body online – with a VPN, thank you very much – but how do you know that? Too many true crime documentaries? Would they even mention something like that? That shit is an epidemic, I swear. Everyone's a fucking detective these days.

Now if I say I know, what does that make me? Does that fuck me over? Do you call the police so they can dig up all my darlings? I have to stay vigilant. I don't like the way you talk so casually about it – to me no less. Do you know something? Are you wired?

“Wow, that’s crazy –“, I say, adding in a mild laugh sprinkled with a hint of what the fuck. I scratch at my head like an idiot that knows nothing, an uncomfortable idiot. It’s better that way. I’m not going to jail over fucking chicken.

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PART FOUR

past the brown packing paper there was a box. Chris erroneously thought it was a music box when he first saw it about a month ago at that little shop back in Jersey. his mother brought some light and told him it was a jewelry box, though to Chris, it seemed a bit too big for that. alas, he'd kept the little antique hidden. unsure of when he'd be able to give it to her... along with the little treasures he'd collected inside.

lifting the silver butterfly lock, the cherry wood interior welcomed a sight of multiple things. the first was a small chain, a hand-shaped pendant hanging from it. a flower, a forget-me-not, being held in its gentle grasp. a classic victorian symbol of mourning and remembrance. next to it, a second pendant. this one had a glass, tear-shaped bulb with some type of liquid inside. a small quantity of crimson. he'd have to find a tutorial online for this one. surely, he could make a mess of himself onstage but this wasn't the same thing. this meant something more, this mattered.

there was a third pendant. this last one without a chain or cord. an oval in dark onyx. yet another piece of mourning jewelry he'd come across. not much unlike the brooch that followed. large, oval-shaped too. framed in black, embellishments in a golden copper. lettering that read IN MEMORY OF- there was a picture of a woman at the center. faded, worn by time. cracks and discoloration, now in a shade of yellowing cream. her face remained, however. her gaze lost, as if she knew this would be the portrait they'd use after her death. a last little treasure slid about the box, a ring. not worn by time like the hand or the onyx, certainly not like the brooch. a molar adorning it like a gem. teeth and bones, things he was certain she'd like.

just below the little treasures, a piece of yellowing paper laid facedown. its edges slick, and a date on its back. 1866. when lifted, it showed more sheets beneath it. some with names, some with dates, some with nothing at all. Chris had found them, mourning portraits, at a curiosities shop. weeks ago. he'd gone with her too, but he'd make a second trip on his own. sorrowful faces of women in victorian gowns. two of them with dark veils covering their faces. one completely faceless, the other beautiful, but sad.

as tragic as the pictures were, he knew Helena would find their beauty too.

at the bottom of the box, her name emerged in off-gold text. a dark haired woman with her back to the front of the cover, the image of wings layered upon her back. a book. an accidental find. Chris hadn't read it, but it was its synopsis that, titular name aside, made him think of her. the story of a victorian woman named Helena, a mortician and funeral director. there was a reference to Mary Shelley along the way. she was a reader, he thought, this would make her smile.

a small piece of paper falls from the book. a note. his awful handwriting read: I have one last thing I wanted to include but it didn't fit in the box. Could I see you tonight? - Chris. continued? ->

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PART ONE the halloween show had been an absolute disaster. after the terrible pre show he’d given in the dressing room, the night didn’t get much better. thankfully the attendees seemed understanding enough. of course this didn’t make Chris feel any better about it. the damage control he tried to manage had been palpable.

the endless picture taking, hanging out with to Ethan and Sorch at the merch table (both of them confused and not knowing what to do with him) despite Cami’s protests.

--- it had been a strange night.

the next day, Helena’s day, had slipped through his fingers like smoke. Cami hounded the guys like misbehaved children, which didn’t sit well with Kay— the clean up, the packing, having to explain what happened the night before, having an emergency meeting with Guillermo over the phone. then Cami having to privately discuss what the venue’s management had been open to agree upon.

they were happy with Chris’ reaction post-show. and why wouldn’t they be? it was a quick recovery and prevented the audience from going feral. Séance’s members and crew, however, were not. they were thankful there had been no visit to the emergency room but they knew the toll it took nonetheless. they were not happy.

by the end of the day, as they got ready to hit the road, Chris couldn’t believe he hadn’t been able to even speak with her. Helena. he’d been waiting for a moment of privacy with her. just a few minutes— but it all had happen so fast, like a current dragging him along no matter how much he tried to swim against it. even checking his phone as they departed was pointless. she hadn’t text him at all, and he couldn’t blame her.

if he hadn’t been so stubborn halloween night. if he hadn’t cause so much trouble…

would she even want her gift now? a day later? he was sure her friends— hell, even Alex— remembered her birthday. they probably celebrated in their trailer.

Chris wondered if he should try and explain to her that he didn’t forget. that he’d been looking forward to make it special but hadn’t been able to. truth to be told, he had a feeling it would only make it worse if he tried to make it better. it was a lot like saying, I was going to get this perfect thing you wanted so badly, you see? but then I didn’t. heartbreak after the heartbreak.

he stared at the screen of his phone again. pensive. thumb to the digital reader and the screen came alive. a quick slide to his text messages, her name was the first listed. of course. she was who he spoke with the most, even via text. his thumb moved again over her tiny picture and their last messages showed. halloween morning, he'd been asking what she would do if they had the day off. Chris smiled to himself, their conversation had turned a little, well, intimate.

the more he contemplated what to say, the harder it seemed. Chris couldn't help but sigh before he started to type. it had to be done. he knew this. @bornhngry : [ 🫣hey ] continued via wire (PART TWO) ->