#frfld

[boonvocation]

@frfld sent 💬 for a starter!

' IT'S . . . HARD. ' newest survivor hesitates, blood-splattered sneaker kicking up loose leaves and twigs littering forest floor as they walk along the edge of the campfire. ' y'know. looking for someone who can't be found. '

"hard" is an understatement. it had been grueling. maddening. torturous. like her heart had been cut — no, ripped from her body. there was nothing in the world that could have healed that gaping wound; she'd sported it for months, bloody and unsightly, haunting greenville long after the official search had ended. she had stopped going to class. she had stopped airing all things wicked. there was only one thing on her mind:

lure the entity back, and use it to find mikaela.

' i knew exactly where she was. ' she's stopped walking now, staring past dwight and into the darkness. ' i knew exactly what took her, but no one believed me. shit, i was starting to feel crazy myself, until— ' until i saw it again. tendrils of fog beckoning her towards the movie theater. a familiar voice, warped as it was, calling to her from the shadows. sa... ble...

for the first time in months, her foolish heart had begun to beat again.

' pretty stupid, huh? ' sable kicks at the ground again, sending more leaves scuttling away. ' i knew it would take me and then we'd both be trapped, but— ' i couldn't keep living without her.

[barksback]

@frfld sent 💬 for a starter!

' I WISH I HAD KNOWN YOU BEFORE. ' it's a selfish sentiment, he knows, but there's a weight to it, a truth; a heavy melancholy lit up by the orange glow of eternal campfire as gaze flits from fair leader to dancing flames. it feels pathetic, like saying you saved my life here, i wish you could've saved it before. or maybe i could've saved you before. we could've saved each other.

there's no use in considering the what-ifs, but they can't help it. ' . . . i don't think you would've liked me very much before, though. ' a sideways glance, a wry smile. ' i was a mess. '

[evilstalks]

sender bites receiver hard enough to draw blood /fuck it we ball

sometimes, michael gets bored of these trials. they are always mostly the same thing, and though he has always been someone who enjoys routines and repetitive actions, it is only when it is within his own control. he is not choosing to be here in the realm, chasing the same people and killing them over and over just to have them come back each time. death without permanence means nothing-- it takes away the fear of it, although he knows the survivors still go through hell each day. day, night. those words have no meaning here. the clocks move but time doesn't move forward. michael was twenty-one when he stepped into the realm and he is still twenty-one now. untouchable by aging or disease, but still at the hands of the entity. the claws, rather.

another trial, another task to be done. the shape does not enjoy obeying, but he knows it is what he must do so he can be rewarded with his home. the replica of his home-- he knows it is not real, but it still brings him the same feeling it did out there in the real world. he has already disposed of two survivors. two are left. he knows the entity is satisfied enough with two being taken and the other two getting maimed, but michael has been irked enough times by dwight to want to watch him die on his knife, too. so he searches for him, hunting him down like a cat searching for the mouse that snuck inside its house. it takes him longer than he'd like to find dwight, but once he does, he does not let him out of his sight. he ignores the other survivor who finishes the last generator. if they get out, it doesn't matter to him.

michael corners dwight, slashing at him with his knife and making him trip down to the dirt. with dwight on the ground, he reaches down to grab him to get him on his feet so he can properly finish him off. he does not expect the survivor to bite him like a rabid dog, sinking his teeth into the flesh between michael's thumb and pointer finger. it hurts more than michael expects it to, and when he tries to pull his hand away, dwight only bites harder. his teeth pierce through his skin and blood drips to his shoes. he tries to yank himself away again, and when it doesn't work, michael becomes enraged. he exhales in irritation and uses his boot to kick at dwight's neck, knocking him back down to the dirt. he purposely crushes the survivor's glasses by stepping on them before pressing his boot on dwight's throat, pushing his weight down on him. he looks down at him with a tilt of his head, everso curious and eager to watch the life leave his eyes. dwight would have died a bit less painfully if he hadn't decided to be a bad dog and bite.

[janeromeroshow]

@frfld : Problems are just things that need solving.

Dwight says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that Jane has half a mind to believe it. While she can't say he's never steered her or the others wrong, it has definitely happened a hell of a lot less than with the other so-called “leaders” in the ragtag group that makes up the survivors, and that fact alone makes her err on the side of trusting him.

It's this kind of talk around the campfire that keeps her sane, when it feels like the world ( or rather, the Entity that controls it ) is even more against her - against them all - than is usually it. Point being - she gels with Dwight, the two's minds being more alike than it may seem at first glance, and it's him that she feels she can truly speak her mind around.

“ I just wish the others would keep that in mind, ” she sighs, leaning back where she's perched in the warmth of the campfire, relative safety in both a figurative and literal sense. “ but I guess I can't blame them from panicking. It's just - ” a quick, cursory glance, to make sure she's not being eavesdropped upon - " frustrating, you know? "

[doomedflare]

@frfld said: did you want a cigarette?

' NO, I WON'T FINISH IT MYSELF. ' shaking his head at the sacred pack of red label 100s that dwight offers him, playing coy as a drag is taken from stolen cigarette. ' i was never a smoker, before. ' a lie, a lame excuse for the way jake had simply plucked the cigarette from dwight's lips, for the way he now lingers like the smoke that hangs heavy between them. another drag is taken, and jake tries not to think about how they can almost taste dwight on the filter.

' wouldn't want to be wasteful. ' a small smile - a rare sight - as they hold the cigarette back out to dwight. ' i mean, these things are fucking expensive nowadays. '

[arachnidiots]

🍓 birdie I sick :(

hi buddy :( i knoooooww. it just means you gotta take extra care of yourself for the next couple of days. your body is taking time off, nothing to do but help it by drinking lots of fluids and getting so much rest

westie, to limit myself to just one or two things is kind of insane when it comes to you. i guess i’ll take this moment to say what i’ve been struggling to say to you for a while now which is thank you. you might not ever realize it or be aware of it, but you make me comfortable with being me and maybe even coming around to some facts and truths about me. you’ve created a space with your sheer existence and trueness to self that is so… relieving. yeah. so thanks!

@ mutuals send me a 🍓 (+ an optional url) and ill compliment u!

[mostlymoved]

the western he / they convention featuring @roguedallas & @frfld

commissioned by my darling dearest friend @generous-dimensions !!

[rcdnurse]

@frfld​​ said: It’s not so bad, my darling. Being dead. It’s like being alive, only colder. /don't fuckin look at me bro/

“you know, i’d been cold for such a long time before this,” she says softly--not quite sad, not quite happy. gaze is reticent as she traces the outlines of tree branches--tries to recall leaves in warmer colours. “...do you think birds worry about that?” dying--the word is too difficult to fit teeth around. “--do they fear for their children? the unknown? or do they just fly until they can’t anymore?” there’s a genuine sort of fretfulness when she curls white shirt fabric in her fingers. comforted, always, by the pillar at her side. she is afraid of it--the unknown. to descend from the branch, to be blown away from the safety of her lighthouse.

from a slotted window in a damp basement, she had remembered wanting to be a little winged thing. she remembers it all now. the pain in the roots of her being, the trickle of poison that had once dulled her into a whisper, a shade of blue-grey among the living. it hurts less, now, as healing bruises tend to. 

she is no longer concerned with the tree branches, going to find dwight’s hand to hold, find earth with--knowing she could float away--knowing he would not allow her to.

valley of death holds them here, suspended in perfect complexity, as a snowflake before it collects below. she has seen it in a dark basement; in the ruins of a hospital. she has lived and died in returning paces here. practice, understanding, runs her into the arms of empty nothing, and so, she should be brave as her guardian--oh, but her bird bones don’t allow it. 

“...my mama said, there’s always a little piece of someone after they’re gone. sticks to you, like dandelion fluff.” upturn of a smile that splinters with the slight tremble in her lip. “so you don’t have to be... you don’t have to be sad.” blonde hair sweeps as she turns to him, finally, damp-eyed and rosy-cheeked. it’s difficult not to stumble on her words ( you are not so precise, not so capable of conveying sincerity in few words ). she holds the concurrent warmth she feels for companion, and laughs, watery, against the tightness in her throat;

“i’ll miss you the most.” she cannot fathom the ‘if i go’ or the ‘when i go’--uncertain as a pattern of raindrops on the window. but she has come to think, perhaps, that there are fates intertwined in delicate red ribbon. there is fear, and pain, and warmth, and love in all of it. knees fold up under her as she rests head gently against leader’s shoulder. peers up gently; “if you ever miss me, just look at the birds.” teartracks make silent paths down her cheeks, but she smiles, still. “...it would make me happy, to be someone’s good memory.”