Tension is wonderful for making people laugh.

pyrostark: “She meant everything to me, alright, I will admit...

Mon, 10 Jun 2013 00:47:54 -0400

“She meant everything to me, alright, I will admit that much. It is only right for me to extend the truth of how much I… adored her very being. For I had never been one to stay in place for too long, in fear of disrupting some timeline or universal force. I thought I may be ripped from my very place and cast out into the abyss.

Then I met her and… nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Oh, I met plenty of men and women along my travels, all caring and kind and beautiful in their own way, but she… she was the one that made my old heart beat a bit faster, my cheeks flush and my hands shake. She was a manifestation of sleek, confident beauty and she knew it. She knew how to use it to the best of her ability and manipulate others for her own, selfish needs.

So, I ask you, who is to say I was not one of those wrongly cast into her company? Who is to say I was not the only fool to fall under her spell? Never have I opened my heart to anyone like that before… and she knew… she knew how it would affect me… to say no.

I always went back to her. I… I always thought I would give her another chance, to see that I could provide for her and love her, the way I knew she loved me once before.

I gave her the whole world, all the time and space within it… and foolishly, my heart. Was it not enough, I ask you? Were my efforts all for naught and yet I kept fighting, kept asking and very nearly pleading?

I told her I would wait.

And like the fool that I was, I did wait.

My heart grew cold in her absence, the clarity of my own existence in a dead world somehow appealing. The silence became a friend, the darkness, a welcomed visitor.

For years, I did wait… only to return and find that no amount of time could pass and possibly be enough for her to see that she was the one. So, I ask you as I have asked myself so many times before… Was it worth it, the wait? To be found so broken once more by the hand of the woman I had loved?

She had been everything and then nothing at all. That does not mean I will forget her, nor the things that she has done to me once I leave this place. My heart will be in pieces, but the those pieces have learned to remain as their own whole. And although those pieces remember her soft touch, kinds words, and the quiet nights we spent together, simply looking one another over in the light of a shying fire, they must never forgive her. Even if she was the one who made time… stop.”

(It was late and I had an idea for a fic...)

Sun, 28 Apr 2013 01:54:52 -0400

He felt the steering wheel leave his ultimate control. This wasn’t like the other times. There was always control, but it had been storming out and the roads were dangerous… and he felt his heart sink as the road dipped.

The car ripped from traffic, breaking through the metal barrier and sending his car into the heavy underbrush. There was a flip and tumble he did not feel, so focused on the end result of an actual death. This would be it and what would there be to show for it? Definitely more than the usual cuts and bruises.

There was a deafening yowl of twisting metal… and then silence. He had blacked out before his car even hit the tree.

When he came to, he could feel the dampness of the retreating storm. It was dark out, and he couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of him. His first instinct was to check his face—the one thing that matter in the long run. His fingers came away with blood, both dried and recurring. He murmured obscenities under his breath (relieved he still even had it).

He could fell the weight of his broken body sagging into a caught seat belt. If he tried to get loose, he would only crash into the ceiling and further his damage. Fine, he could hang for a while… until help came…

…but would it?

They always assumed he was fine, because… he usually was.

His heart skipped a beat, hands moving in a flurry to his pockets for his cell phone. It was relatively dry, the pink metal only clipped around the corners.

And he stared at the screen, blinking away panicked tears and rain from the broken windows. If he called THEM, they would only laugh. They wouldn’t believe him. There was… there was one other option.

He thumbed the number in, shaking when it came to his enlightenment that this was not only wrong, but possibly illegal. But he didn’t care. For the first time in his life, he felt a fear no longer matched to his first days on the job.

Measly crashes…

He held the phone to his ear, letting in ring along with his pounding heart. They’re going to know. They are going to know and they are going to fire m—

“Hello, this is Flo from Progressive, how may I help you?”

His heart skipped another beat, but a good one. That voice was far more uplifting in person that it was on a screen. He envied her sheer joyous outlook—one he could never possess himself, being the embodiment of destruction and all.

“Hello…?”

“Yes, I’m here…”

“Sir, are you alright? This is am emergency line, I hope this isn’t a pr—”

“It’s—me. It’s…”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Oh, God, no. Did she know? Was she impulsive on her part and had hung up—?!

“…this is a prank, isn’t it? This is an /emergency line/, I don’t need your kind—”

“No!” He twisted in his seat, crying out when a rib did not decide to follow with the arc of his spine. There was a violent cough, flecks of blood sprinkling across his knuckles. “Please, this is serious…”

“Now why should I believe you?”

“Believe me,” he wheezed. “You weren’t my best option, but you were… sort of my only one…”

There was a soft sigh on the other end, a faint smile in her next words: “You always know how to get the best of people. Even yourself, Mayhem.”

pyrostark: “He put hooks through my hands, ruined my life, and...

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 21:43:00 -0400

pyrostark:

“He put hooks through my hands, ruined my life, and made me vulnerable but I would still follow him to the ends of the earth. I swear to God I would. That’s tough love. It’s dedication. He may not be the right sort of friend to keep around—knowing what we’ve been through—but he’s still someone I need to keep a tab on. Believe it or not, he is all I have right now. And he goes ahead and calls himself a contract killer, sure, claiming that what he does is just fine compared to the scenes I step into. I don’t believe him. How can I? Why should anyone? I had him once, I’ll have him again. And he won’t get away.
Listen to me… Alan Mansfield is a murderer.”

Overdue mourning for Oregon.

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 22:10:25 -0400

I think, really, if there is one thing I am forced to be, it is without basic emotion and compassion. See, when I was younger, there was a spike in the demography of parents diagnosing their children with ADD and ADHD people they weren’t doing as brilliant as they had hoped in elementary and middle school.

Out of the bunch that lived in the vicinity of the closest Circles of Care, I was one to be sat down in front of a therapist and asked to play altered board games and draw out what I felt.

Anybody can tell you that this does not coax a child to be honest, but in fact, creative. I created little characters that would tell scary stories from movies I had seen and the therapist believed they were my own thoughts. I drew puns, and she believed it was me trying to connect to reality. I heard of this through her door, I shit you not.

I was able to call bullshit and child psychiatry at age nine. I still believe it is a well hoax for money, when you think a small child is truly suffering post-divorce. Truth was, I didn’t understand. I never felt much for either of my parents and I didn’t cry when my father left or when my mother yelled at him over the phone.

I didn’t cry when my mother would get angry and choke me. I didn’t cry when my father came home with another woman. I didn’t cry when that woman became my stepmother, and bore three half-siblings. I didn’t cry when my mother brought me seven new medications over the course of two years. I didn’t cry when I was hit by my father, or my stepmother, or when I lay awake at night telling myself I could do away with it all.

I didn’t cry because I had forgotten how to. I was put onto so many medications and then stripped of whatever placebos or endorphins they delivered. They were the extras and they got me high. When they were taken away, I suffered through several weeks of a variety of withdrawals. When it all subsided, I was left a product of twentieth century paranoia: awake and aware, but uncaring.

I cut the heads off lizards and dissected frogs and moles I had found in the backyard. I fantasized about choking my pets or snapping their jaws but never actually did it. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, but feared death to the point where I would suffer an anxiety attack and black out. This would continue for years without me saying a thing to anyone.

I had my first taste of harrowing reality when I was fifteen. I had stumbled upon my mother’s hidden diary that documented her marriage during the first six or seven years of life. My mother went on to tell how my father was only really interested in their physical relationship and would tempt her into new ways of expressing it. (I had, in fact, stumbled upon them once or twice in a closet, but was able to shut the door without disturbing them.)

She called herself a sick dog, that her father told her she would lose her marbles.

“Oh well,” she had written. “They’re my own marbles to lose.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I would know she was ready to sleep when she would turn her back to me. I would heard myself mutter “damn it” under my breath because I wanted more. It wasn’t the thought of sex or even kissing her, or so much as petting. None of that. It was the satisfaction one gets from being surrounded and possibly overwhelmed by a great somebody (or somebodies) that they care for. The warm and fuzzy and secure feeling someone gets from holding onto their security blanket. It was the sense of belonging in its purest form. Whether it be with human or the pet you have managed to coax up next to you on the bed.

I wanted to hold her, that was all, with what little of the days I had. And then I would be home again. She would be turning her back to air. I knew she was new with the whole “closeness” thing and so was I. It was different from the last trip, staying in a hotel and lazy on a futon with my knees occasionally resting into her spine because I had tried to fall asleep in the fetal position.

For the first night, I stayed on my back, one arm over my eyes to help with the light and the pain. I was so sure I was going to have a heart attack – for not only a half hour ago, she had placed herself next to me, one arm over mine and holding my shoulder. She breathed against my neck until I said something jokingly and she turned away.

So that’s it, huh?

The second night was a little more bearable. I was on my right side, facing her. I waited until she fell asleep to ask if she was just so. Of course, there was no answer, so I tugged on the blankets until she would pull back. Half in, half out, she made a warbling noise before giving up. I did that sort of thing for three nights. I don’t know why.

It made me smile.

The nights following, I would tuck my had under her pillow. Her warmth. What I could get of it.

Every night I stole the sheets and she unconsciously stole them back. Every time she roll over and I would panic, because suddenly she was breathing in my ear. Every moment outside, watching the trees seem to snow. Even when we both cursed out some jackass revving his drag car down the road. Or wherever he actually.

She had called my hair magical. I told her that her hair had smelled nice, that the shampoo that she used was the one that got stuck on my hat. I didn’t tell her it made me sad and lonely, though, remembering it.

Eventually, she grew confident, resting against me, adjusting herself so she could fit a little better against my awkward position. She would be completely curled up on the couch as I played videogames. That was when I first noticed how perfectly she felt that way. How warm. Her warmth. It was all I had wanted.

She would look up at me from time to time, neither bored nor completely awake and aware. It was a fleeting glance before her body would readjust. I was able to wrap one arm around her and still reach the control and she would vaguely hold or touch my hand.

Walking around in Bend, she had held my hand wrong the first time she had tried it. So I adjusted it and wanted to kiss her.

* * * * * * * * * * *

We had separate couches that night, for we had made the staggering (and delayed) trip up to Bend. (We would spend the two nights there before heading back for the final days.) I felt alone, I would later admit. I trembled, trying to work up the courage to say so much as an “I love you” once the lights were turned off.

The air between was stifling.

I resorted to scrambling for my phone and sending it in a text, nervously waiting until she noticed it. When she did, I heard the smile in her breath and her fingers on the keys. I saw the notification light on my phone flicker… but I turned away from it.

I knew to save it. I was simply relieved she had sent it. That she knew what I knew.

I woke up to her “I love you” and it turned out the wait was worth it. I sheepishly smiled when she walked back out into the living room. It probably looked stupid but sometimes that happens.

She apologized for the trip to Bend several times, and each time I would tell her that it was alright; that what had happened, had happened and we had gotten some fun out of it. I had met her mother and her grandmother and we had waded through muses and slighted conversation. I had fun, but I knew she was nervous.

I was still a relative secret.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I miss staying up late and watching Futurama and awakwardly shifting closer and wind up crossing legs or poking one another. Simply because we could.

I miss the tickling that would ensue. She has a wonderful laugh and a heartwarming smile. It was difficult to see her anything but happy.

I miss being the only one awake but quietly asking if she was awake too and never getting an answer. I miss when, I did manage to sleep, the jolt I would receive – the few seconds I manage to remain awake and roll over – to check up on her – until I fell back asleep.

I miss her crying, quite honestly. I miss holding her while she did. Gently shaking her on the train to cut it out because I didn’t want to see it. Because I was afraid of seeing it. Because I was afraid that if I didn’t cry as well, something would be wrong.

* * * * * * * * * * *

She had warm, calm hands. Ones that made me feel safe. Ones that I got to hold before I said goodbye, and ones that gripped the back of my coat when it came time to leave. She stood outside the barrier and I felt broken. The word is “incomplete,” isn’t it? I had kissed her forehead and taken in the scent of her hair – the scent that had been caught in one of my hats from the previous visit, the hat I slept with until the scent faded.

I was without emotion the entire time, simply stumbling over my options and trying to resurface from my depression. It was what was there. Depression. Because I had hours between being with her and departing. I was without emotion, but knew what harbored deep inside of me. I knew what would rip me to shreds in the days to pass.

She grew alongside me. She was there for me, always, and knew how I felt. And vice versa. We had our differences and falling outs, but the fact that we fought to get each other back was what meant the most.

She makes me fell human, overwhelms the voice that my mother created and overrides systems my body still tries to enforce. Don’t cry, they tell me. So I forget how to.

She loves me and I love her. I liked being human, if only for her.

And, in the end, it wasn’t that I had forgotten how to cry when I left her. Or when I had boarded the plane. Or when I had watched Oregon fall away beneath me. Or when I had settled into bed and resumed my staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stickers I had placed when I was little.

It was that I had forgotten how to function entirely.

pyrostark: CASPER MANDEAUX; 29 | NYPD, LAPD, EMS, FBI 2. Do...

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 17:34:52 -0400

pyrostark:

CASPER MANDEAUX; 29 | NYPD, LAPD, EMS, FBI

2. Do they have any daily rituals?

Given the chance he even sleeps, Casper usually awakens with a start (be it a slight twitch or a scream). This does not necessarily mean he has suffered a night terror, but the jolt of consciousness more often than not jars his senses.

After the initial shock is over, he will usually drag himself up from wherever he is and do some breathing exercises. His medication is then checked. Bandages are wrapped around his palms to protect the scars and he takes as many as… twelve pills. Each morning. Whether or not they actually provide any relief or shift in his personality is unknown.

If he does not have to be at the station that day, he will space out, work on his computer (laptop, in this case) or stare out a window and people watch.

5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.).

Personal; He wears the same types of clothes over and over because he does the wash every other day. (A t-shirt, jeans, sneakers, and a long coat. Gloves, high collars, scarves.) His hair is always, always washed until squeakt clean and swept to the right.

Workspace; He is considered to be obsessive, but not compulsive. He simply likes everything to be in order and ready to found and/or used. Better to know where it is and not need it than to need it and not know where it is.

6. Eating habits and sample daily menu.

He does not eat a big breakfast. Usually a glass of milk or orange juice but nothing more. Anything eaten before 11AM will make him nauseous and be thrown back up within the hour.

Lunch usually ranges from 2PM to 3PM. Light snacks or simple sandwiches. He drinks water or juice, again.

Dinner is more often than not skipped entirely. It causes him to fade in and out, and sometimes there is a beer handle. This is rare, but sometimes he needs the taste more than the alcohol itself.

19. What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Today was alright. Tomorrow will get better. Won’t it? I’m supposed to be doing something… I’m not sure what. I should check in on Alan. Maybe he has something to talk about… but he’s probably busy about the kids. I can’t call Maynard. Or Geoff. They don’t want to talk to me. If I could be bothered enough to figure out Marty’s situation… maybe tomorrow will get better…

21. Turn ons/off?

He notices the attitude first. Body language. He tends to over analyze many things, which can get him into trouble if he stares too long. Relatively harmless, he enjoy someone who can hold a conversation.

Having said that, Casper’s sexuality has only recently been discovered. Like his brother, he enjoys biting (not as crazy about it, though, of course) and closeness. Kissing is not his specialty, nor is heavy petting or foreplay.

37. Are they more analytic or more emotional in their decision-making?

It really depends on the situation, doesn’t it? If the sudden situation arises in the workplace, he would have to think his options through fast. However, if someone he is close with happens to be involved, his train of thought may start to slow.

Given it is an argument, he becomes overwhelmed easily. He is a pacifist (for his brother is the one who fought for him) and often reminds himself out loud that Marty wouldn’t want this. If his emotions become to overbearing, he bursts into tears and backs off.

45. Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

Neither.

He has never told anyone about his domestic abuse and will refuse to do so with anyone outside of his ring of peers (Martin, Alan, and that’s about it).

48. If the person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

As said before, he is a pacifist. He only thrown a few punches (at Alan), only because he wanted to see if he could do it or not. Casper apologized immediately after.

__________________________________________________

MARTIN MANDEAUX (AKA MONDAY MANCINI); 36 | PSYCHOLOGIST, SURGEON, SERIAL KILLER, FATHER-IN-TRAINING

7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time.

No one is better at wasting time than Monday. He is thrilled by awkward silences and enjoys simply staring off into space and thinking about nothing. He really should be at work, but it’s easier to stay home and watch shows on Netflix with little Elliot in his lap. It’s easier to just snuggle up with Peter when he should be out somewhere, either preventing mayhem or creating it himself.

10. Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

They say crazy people don’t know they’re crazy, but with a strong enough hold on reality, they can come to terms that something may be wrong. Monday has been classified as a schizophrenic by many people, but it just isn’t so. His murderous motivation stemmed from revenge and only slipped through his grasp when the “for hire” option came to his attention.

He slipped more into a abuse-induced sense of insanity. Masochistic, sadistic, sex-crazed, but always a human in the end. He embraces the fact that he makes people uncomfortable.

16. Biggest and smallest long term goal?

Biggest; He is working up the courage to find his younger brother. He swears he will call Casper one day, say hi and see if they can meet up… but in the end, he figures his brother is better off not knowing what happened to his childhood idol and last loving relative.

Smallest;Monday lives in the moment these days. He waits for shit to happen and, usually, he finds it. And if he doesn’t, he starts it himself. His desire to kill those around him has faded, leaving only the Bottaio family and the Stark-Gitsch-Winter tri-hold to mess with. He will always want to mess with them.

27. What is their biggest regret?

Monday has never answered this question openly, or dared to ask himself. In all, he regrets nothing. He loved and lost Alan. He met and fell in love with Peter. He harassed and bullied Jake out of the country (twice). He dabbled in mentality and came away with more puppet strings. Life seems to be a game to him nowadays, but he would hate himself if anything were to happen to knock everything out of whack.

Monday has survived more than the average human, and has been given the chance to enjoy every single day, and accept things for what they are.

(HOWEVER. If he had to answer it, he would take back the night he fought with Peter, causing him to drop the few-month-old Elliot.)

30. Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster.

Peter; That is not something he could ever even imagine. Even though he seems alright messing around with other people, there is always the one thing in his life he will go back to; the one person who cares deeply about him and began a family with him. Because they truly loved each other. If Peter were to leave him, he simply would not be. In the final waking days of his chosen life, he would see that Elliot is sent off to Alan and Melody. An explanation would be brief. [Choice of suicide unknown.]

Alan; Now this is a man he has suffered so much alongside. Love, pain, anger, and they have both acquired many wounds and scars from one another. But their love is deep-seated, and strong at the roots. They care deeply and often make excuses to see one another. Their former relationship used to run in patterns: meet, fight, fuck, farewell. But mortality is frightening, and Monday can’t imagine Alan leaving him either. He would be knocked out of his senses, perhaps into depression, wherein his death may meet up with him. And he would begrudgingly accept it. [Choice of suicide unknown.]

33. Concept of home and family?

He was never a family man until Peter brought up wanting to adopt. If you were to ask him what he thought about marriage ten years ago, his answers would be muddled. He considered marrying Ruby a mistake, and the thought of having a child with her always made him cringe. These were the years he remained nomadic.

Of course, Peter was different and changed all that, so he had to at least consider the option. Does he regret it? Hell no! Because Elliot is, unbeknowst to everyone for the sake of dramatic irony, Alan’s spawn. So he will always have a little piece of Alan with him! :D

Twist and Crawl.

Sun, 17 Feb 2013 16:41:53 -0500

A side-fic in which Jackson and Jake capture Martin and Alan and force violence upon one another in lieu of their own sex life; brief revenge/humiliation scheme.

There was a spot of blood on the sheet.

He had been staring at it for as long as he could remember. Up to the point where he was fully awake, he had only focused on seeing straight ahead, but the shadows cast down n the far walls at such an angle, it felt as if he was trapped in a shrinking box. As the moon rose, the more space the shadows occupied, and the deeper Alan’s breathing became.

He didn’t attempt any movement, have convinced himself earlier on that he was too weak to put up a fight. Upon flexing his cold fingers a few times, he discovered his hands were bound quite expertly behind him. Only once before he had felt such a strain on his back, but this wasn’t Peszynski’s work.

Peszynski wasn’t this spontaneous, nor did he draw blood from his victims.
Alan couldn’t get his mind off the blood, or his eyes. Was it his own? It felt as if he were to be the only one in this room… Even though he couldn’t roll over and find out where he actually was, the man was convinced he was alone and… captured.

And by whom today, I may ask.

There wasn’t much wriggle room. Once he was able to tear his gaze from the blood and to the fabric it was stained upon, he at once recognized at what height he had been set at. On a bed, in a dark room, on a nice night.

Perhaps this was how Peszynski arranged a second date…

It wasn’t a laughing matter. And he really did try to at least giggle at his misfortune. There had been a few raspy coughs and a wheeze, which only made him believe that there was more damage than he once thought. But no pain, whatsoever.

Only the numbing tingles at the tips of his fingers, the ache in his spine, and some blood on the bedsheets. Fear succumbed to anger and he wriggled forward, snapping at the sheets. When he managed a mouthful, he was satisfied.

Alan lay still then, spending his next minutes or hours watching the shadows cast down and envelope the entire room. The last remaining sliver of light was wasted on sheets beside him, where he only found more blood.

It wasn’t daylight when he awoke next. The darkness had settled and not even his own breathing could shift the air. It was stuffy. Stuffy, but still chilly. He wiggled his fingers again and managed to hook them into some fabric.

He tugged at the bundle, swinging his weight forward and backward, until it was enough to roll him onto his back. With the heat he was gathering from his efforts, he rolled onto his other side.

He first caught a mouthful of hair and quickly spit out. First, the taste of blood. And then the overwhelming scent of it. A fading metallic cologne. It calmed the sick beast inside of him. Alan couldn’t help but pressing his face into whomever’s hair he had provided, couldn’t help but wriggle forward and snuggle up against the warm body that had been found.

Only when he was spooning the stranger did he recognize the structure of the body given and tried to get away. With another mouthful of hair, he began to kick and rock, desperate to find an evasion to an explanation, were the other to wake up. Alan managed an inch.

“Calm down.”

Alan licked his lips and stared at the back of the man’s head. He could still taste metal. No doubt there as blood all over his face by now.

Panting, he dropped his head back.

“What?”

“I said calm down. You’re acting like a fool.”

The other man lifted his head, briefly glancing over his shoulder. Alan ducked back from the dead eyes that met his own. No matter how full of life Martin appeared to be (at the high points in his life, at least), dead eyes stared on. Alan now had no choice but to keep still until Martin looked away. Then he wriggled right back up to him.

“I’m cold.”

“Your knees are in my back…”

* * * * * * * * * * *

They awoke together this time, twisting their heads around in unison to locate some form of disturbance. The shadows showed them nothing. The darkness may have shifted through the night, but they were of no help now.

The wall pulled away, light sweeping in across the two men. They shut their eyes and turned away. If it were anyone or anything, they were in charge now.

Two sets of foot falls were present: A confident glide over to the bed, which were paired with hands that ripped the two men away. The other was a struggled limp. Martin was the one to hear the force of which one foot came down on floor due to an uneasy teeter. An old wound that never healed right. And he supposed this was own fate, another slip in the game of revenge chess… but with more help this time.

The binding behind his back was tightened. His fingers now became cold and useless, his back brought to more discomfort than before. Alan was quietly complaining beside him, lashing out every few seconds and cursing them both. There was a muffled snap and a strangled whimper. The struggling behind him became less frequent.

Martin now turned his eyes up to the man standing before him.

Jake bore an uneasy smirk, his eyes wide and expecting. Martin only gave him a rather defeated look and closed his eyes. A sharp smack across his mouth got him to look again. Jake was no longer smirking. The anger remained in his eyes.

He felt himself being picked up, limbs adjusted so he would not fall over. Everything remained cold and numb. Ears now ringing. He felt Alan leaning on him. Both men were now before them. They differed in stature, but not demeanor.

“Jake,why?”

Alan was still whimpering. His cries only made Jake look away, to Martin, and then Jackson. The large man only shook his head. No one could save them now. The tables had turned for all four men.

“Jake! Why would you do this? I’m your fucking best friend! JAKE!”

“That’s alright,” Jackson whispered. “Jake won’t be in charge of you. I wouldn’t let him put you through anything. That’s for me.”

Alan continued to plead, eyes straining to watch Jake back down as Jackson turned him away. Now Alan was facing Martin, who watched his former lover blink back tears. It always hurt to see Alan cry… and over Jake, who looked as smug as ever. He had seen that look before, when Jake thought he had the upper hand for once. He did have it, again, and with a secure back-up: the Canadian.

“What’s going on?” Alan whispered, trying to hide his face against Martin. He came close, but Jackson yanked him back by the hair. Alan shrieked and writhed.

Jake pulled Martin back as well. He could feel the man’s arm hooking around his throat, dragging his body a bit further back on the sheets. Their clothes were being removed… Alan was crying harder now. His shirt had been ripped down the middle, visible claw marks left by the Canadian as he continued to strip him of his dignity.

His face was then held into the sheets, sobbing muffled. Jackson pulled the man’s pants down to his ankles, and then threw them away. Alan shrieked again, trying to shake free. Martin tried to keep quiet, but found he was struggling against Jake’s chokehold as he, too, was stripped. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he wasn’t all too fond of Jake’s hands on him. They were cold and calloused, felt scratchy traveling over his abdomen.

He kicked out once, nearly breaking Alan’s jaw in the process. He wouldn’t stop his crying… he sounded like he was in pain now. Sam was trying to help, wasn’t he? Martin only watched him kick and scream, breaking off to cry into his arm and try to see behind him.

Jackson only loomed, watching Jake have at it with Martin. He wasn’t resisting too much, but just enough to make the chore difficult. His shirt was pulled over his head, bunched over his restraints and tied. At least his hands were warm now, despite the lack of blood that was reaching his fingers…

Jake shoved him forward like a ragdoll, his pants coming down next. Monday went limp and lay beside Alan, trying to tell him to calm down, that nothing was going to happen… that if he kept still, it would be over soon. Alan reduced his pleading to little whimpers, turning his face into his friend’s shoulder.

Unfriendly hands slithered both of their spines, quickly pulling them up onto their knees. Martin’s height wavered, Jake struggling to hold him up at first. Cursing, he wrapped an arm around his puppet’s middle, clawing deep into his chest to find a hold. The puppet, staring across at the wet-cheeked Alan, offered a stray smile.

“Bite him.”

Alan was being shaken, shoved forward. Their bodies pressed together, and for a moment, they were relieved that they were warm. But only for a moment.

“Bite him.”

Martin lifted his head to Jackson, but teeth closed down around his shoulder. He jolted, feeling his skin spit under the fury of the bite. Alan tears mixed with the other man’s blood as he jerked and scowled. It was enough to send Martin reeling. Whenever he tried to pull away, the bite would tighten, and Jake would shove him back into it. It was not in the least bit arousing. If only he could tell Jake this… maybe he’d ease up.

“Alright, let go.”

Alan pulled his head back, spewing out his apologies and trying to struggle back in closer to Martin. Blood trickled down the man’s front. He was still twitching against the pain, head falling forward when he was permitted the relief. Jake was still struggling to hold him up.

“F-fuck… bite him back!”

What kind of fight was this? What form of torture were they thinking of?

Alan’s eyes widened in fear as Martin lifted his head, jaw falling open. Jake let his puppet fall forward and catch against the other man. Before Alan could begin his protests, a bite was closed down on his throat. He choked, struggled, trying to kick back from the pain. He couldn’t breathe, and Martin just bit down harder when he struggled. A snake and a mouse.

Jake was grinning over the man’s shoulder, requesting Jackson’s approval. But he just stared on with the faintest of smiles. Partners in crime; why hadn’t they thought of this earlier?

Now Alan’s lips were blue, eyes shut tight. Jake yanked Martin back, who managed to find he was reluctant to let go. No skin had been ripped or broken. Fine indentations circled over Alan’s Adam’s apple. He choked and fell forward, screaming into the sheets. Jackson kept him down, smothering him.

“This is what you do, isn’t it? This is all you know you’re good at?” Jackson was directing himself to Martin, fingers curled in Alan’s hair. “I know what you’ve done to Jake. I’ve seen the marks you leave on your victims. How no one can identify you just by those marks is beyond me. Now you know what it’s like…”

“I’ve always known—“

“Shut the FUCK UP!”

Jake brought his fist down on Martin’s wounded shoulder. The man yelped and bucked, finally brought to his final stage of defeat. He was whimpering, his own tears rolling. Alan struggled beneath him for air, but found nothing. There was a hand in his hair, holding his face down to the small of Alan’s back. It was Jackson.

“Could you take these last few minutes from him?”

Jake tried to pry Jackson’s hand away… but it was useless. This left Martin’s body rather unattended. Unfortunately, he did not struggle, but was glad Jake’s heart wasn’t in for murder… at least not Alan’s.

“He didn’t do anything wrong—“

“He’s a monster and you know it.”

Martin’s air was being cut off. Alan had tried to turn onto his side, knocking the man off of his back. They were both left at an odd angle, their supply of air rather iffy. Alan could turn his head, but there was an elbow in his back, his spine bent uncomfortably. Monday had to deal with Jake nearly crawling over him to push Jackson back.

“FINE! Alright, goddamn it…”

All pressure was released. Both victims gasped and went limp. Jake had his arms around Jackson’s neck, hauling him away from the bed. The Canadian stood rather defeated. His partner hung for a moment, before dropping and resting awkward hands on his former friend’s side.

“I’m sorry.”

Alan cried and shook him off, curling closer to the man next to him.

There was a silence, another sweeping of light. Jackson was gone. Jake lingered by the bed, staring at what at happened. It had been so quick… there should have been so much more. But murder? There was no room in his life for that, even if it had been Martin’s life that had been taken. Alan would have never forgiven him.

He watched Alan force his weight onto one side, to face his partner. Blood stained the sheets, continued to fall from the wound he had given the man. Martin glanced tiredly up at him, offering a smile before closing his eyes.

“You’re not gonna die,” the friend said weakly.

It hurt Jake to hear it… he was unclear of Jackson’s plans for these two. The bite Alan delivered was enough to split nerves and a good chunk of muscle. The bite Martin had given Alan was enough to disrupt his breathing for a few hours. There was no doubt his air ways were damage. Alan wheezed as he tried to make himself comfortable in the cold, against the only source of warmth around.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Jake backed off to the door. It opened into him and Jackson peeked around. There was a quiet apology before Jake turned his back on the two men he had decided to let live… One side of him knew he would learn to regret his choices. It had been two birds with one stone. It had been a shame, Jackson would tell him, that he had to remain fond of either of the birds. How easy it would have been to strike them down.

The door closed behind him, Alan’s wheezing cutting off as he was left in the dark hallway.

pyrostark: Jacksonian McKaturian Starkweather [CHAOS-INCEPTION...

Thu, 14 Feb 2013 23:45:13 -0500

pyrostark:

Jacksonian McKaturian Starkweather [CHAOS-INCEPTION THEORY]

The boy who could not hear them making fun of his name, or his face, or his clothes. Or how his father would throw him out after hours to cower on the front step. Passersby tossed him spare change, but never spared him a second class.

There were plenty of homeless children in the city.

The theory takes place around the time the boy’s father was sick and tired of him lurking around like a cat and thrown him from the car in front of an orphanage. The boy huddled in the pavilion, clutching a small backpack that was soaked through. The few books and scraps of clothing he had managed to drag along were ruined. A Very Quiet Cricket choked quietly under his jacket. It was he ever managed to salvage from his sudden abandonment.

He was picked up eventually, becoming a nuisance on the playground. The teachers took him and he became one of the students, even thought he claimed his father would be back for him, any time now.

As the years passed, Jack became aware of the truth, but only withdrew further into himself… until one day he was unresponsive. The darkness closed over him and held him tenderly within a nightmare.

Every boy wants to grow up to be hero at some point in their lives. As a firefighter, a doctor, someone with a cape. But not everyone knows how to dream correctly. It was Jack’s first fault—creating himself.

So many years ahead, he lost track of the personality, and the creation became its very own; it was miserable, confused, and aided itself within its own occupation. Jake was an alcoholic, brooding, but far from violent. Jack was deaf, which only made Jake stubborn, and refused to seek aid—simply because he could not understand exactly what was being handed to him. The creation sought much damage, unable to defend itself in the later years.

His darkness became aware of this weak link and decided to do away with. Many opportunities passed that the creation were to die, but the chokehold was never official. Jake simply pulled through his torture and staggered back under a light, calling for the aid of his creator. Jack could only stand by and watch as the image of his new father be torn and beaten, but an unseen force that only became known by name when he approached the boy itself.

Younger, fair-skinned, with dark eyes, Jake claimed she was named April, a lost love even though the boy himself could not bring a face to the name. She wavered in his memory, and often changed voices. This was his undecided mother-figure, to accompany Jake, but had not been fully formed upon entering the darkness. She did away with Jack only once, taking him further into his growing shadows and holding him until the weak link could present himself and prove his worth of existing. The boy was returned, but April lingered in his repressed paranoia from then on…

Tall, dark, aided by many shadows, the man called himself Monday, crooning over how many people simply hated that time of the week. If you could get past Monday without having cardiac arrest, the rest of your week was said to pass by smoothly. Jack’s darkness, however, refused to skip Monday once it found it, and the torture and the beatings would rebound and repeat. Jake and Jack bore many scars from the man as time seemed to spin endlessly on.

One shadow offered Jack’s assistance, claiming the terror could be ended so easily if he were to let it all go. The shadow called himself Mr. Chuckles, only because he was redeemed as Monday’s laugh itself; a low bellow and rumble through sharpened teeth. The shadow would often play upon Jack’s emotions and fears, as if this nightmare were all a game, or a dwindling plot device. The power button was so close, he would tell the boy, and the power Jack possessed only surmounted to his willingness to play God; to kill off his true creation and thus, himself.

However, each time Mr. Chuckles would offer his ultimatum, the boy would refuse.

In the end, this would be his destruction, something he could no longer prevent. His creations would be ripped apart and Jack would be left to fend for himself. His bogeyman, the one that crept up with his aides, would be able to easily do away with him, claim him as his own. The boy feared the worst, but did not hesitate to move along. There were only some things he could control. His weak father who learned to be himself, despite the boy clinging to him to make this all go away.

Not everyone knows they’re dreaming until they wake up. As the seconds by, fragments of a shattered world start to piece together. Or blow away. And Jack knew that if he were to wake up one day to reality, he hoped he would at least remember his fond creation, if only for a second.

pyrostark: “Alan was… my best friend in college. Sometimes I...

Mon, 04 Feb 2013 21:12:09 -0500

pyrostark:

“Alan was… my best friend in college. Sometimes I liked to think I knew him better, when, really, all we had in common was our education. And women. People never paired us up as friends and, once we were out of there, we sort of went our separate ways. I took over the diner and Alan… began to lose his mind. From time to time, I helped him with certain little jobs, but… He shacked up with these women that I can only imagine saw him for his raw charm or his money. One by one, they married him and then were never seen again. People just assumed he was unlucky.

And then, one night, the monster stumbled into my bar. Tall, dark, had more teeth in his mouth than he knew what to do with. Alan started hanging out with him, becoming more than just a friend. I caught on to that pretty quickly—and he would prove to be, later in life, not only Alan’s problem, but my very own.

Knowing those two for as long as I have, I’m not surprised I turned out to be the man I am today. There are simply those people I don’t understand, relationships that make no sense to me. I had my very own with Monday—but now I’m with someone else and I get it, we work, we’re happy. But Alan… He only made himself worse. Unbeknownst scarring to his former metal health. I can relate, even though my own superficial wounds have been taken care of. He knows to be with his own kind. If it makes him happy, what else can I say? Crazy makes you crazy.” → [For Shelby.]

pyrostark: “Mike was possessive. Uh, he was… a brute about it,...

Sun, 03 Feb 2013 21:49:19 -0500

pyrostark:

“Mike was possessive. Uh, he was… a brute about it, too. Not a very large man, but he knew how to throw his weight (and his fists) around if he had to. Jerry never stood a chance. He was always too fragile and kind; the type of man you would see braiding a young girl’s hair, not… shacked up with some animal. Then again, he didn’t know any better. Jerry was young, naïve, and no longer hiding his track marks. He became desperate. He wanted someone to be there for him, but wound up with those who were there when they needed something else.” → [For Kate.]

pyrostark: “She was insane. An insane, talented young woman....

Sat, 02 Feb 2013 22:14:58 -0500

pyrostark:

“She was insane. An insane, talented young woman. She could sing, play guitar, dance, and I used to play ukulele alongside her. She was in love with me. On some occasions, she would try to kill me (because I was with someone else). There were those moments, when I fought back, where I believed she was indestructible, or some fallen angel sent to exact revenge upon me for every being I had wronged. It went from choke-holds to bags of glass in the face. The girl knew how to bleed, but not how to die.” → [For Andi.]

pyrostark: “You know what you are? An enabler. For as far back...

Sat, 02 Feb 2013 16:39:07 -0500

pyrostark:

“You know what you are? An enabler. For as far back as I can remember, you’ve treated Jake like a dog—kicking him while he’s down, taking away his toys whenever he gets too fond of them. And then after the abuse, you nurse him back in a false sense of belonging. You drive him into these episodes and he suddenly believes he can face you the second he’s breathing on his own. For once in his life, let him be his own man. Let him go.”

alanandsam: “You win.” He managed to say, clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turned white....

Thu, 31 Jan 2013 20:14:00 -0500

alanandsam:

“You win.” He managed to say, clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. Frustrated tears streamed down his face. He saw them drip off his chin as his stared at the floor.

Monday approached Jake, a wide grin on his face. He grabbed Jake’s collar and pulled his crying ass inside. He smelled of smoke. Must have came straight here after the explosion. Poor Jackson, he knew he would open that package.

“Stop crying.” Monday said, grabbing on Jake’s chin. Jake looked up at him, jaw shut tight. He came here with no shred of pride. A person he loved… another person he loved (what was he remembering?) was gone. Because of Monday.

“You…” Jake warbled. “You won’t stop. I realized you won’t stop… You win.”

[CON’T]

[Part II]

[Part III]

“A gasp of pain as the biggest thing on the planet was shoved inside him.”

In Phosphorescent Haze.

Wed, 30 Jan 2013 17:03:00 -0500

[OPT.] Monday has moved back to the city to better himself, while Alan has fallen further into his own mind and finds his black outs spiraling himself out of control. Distance closed. For a moment.

He sat at the top of the steps, craning his head back to see if he could find the top of the building. It was too dark, and whatever top floor there could have been faded into the night sky, office lights conflicted with hazy stars and helicopters. He crossed his arms over his duffel bag and looked back down into the street. Sam had dragged him out here, and for whatever reason there had been, it was gone now. And he was lost.

It couldn’t have been past ten, fewer and fewer people leaving the building, parting around him and disappearing into taxis of various colors. They all worked at this place. They dressed nicely and only talked to whoever was on the other end of their cellphone, talking business. Business he could not follow. Women in heels, dressed in black, gave him the faintest of smiles, not sue why he was even there and wondering if the police would pick him up if he left, or if they would have time to run if he got up to chase them.

Maybe they were all like that, big city folk.

Behind him, there was muffled chatter, happy voices, standing out from the bustling city. He didn’t turn, so sure he would find himself spying on a young couple. But who made out under law firm buildings? He turned his head the slightest and the chatter was cut off. Yeah, he was that creeper on the street now, wasn’t he? There was no home to go to around here, not this part of town. And why would he want to go back home? What was there to go back to that he would really enjoy right about now?

All he wanted to do was be alone now, unsure of himself, wanting to go back to what his life had been before… all of this.

Foot steps approached him. He got up to leave, but a hand brushed over his shoulder. He turned and found himself staring at a nice tie. He looked up and… nearly fell back down the steps. The duffel bag fell to his feet and the other man stooped to pick it up. Only when it was back in his arms and the other man smiled, did he fully register who this was.

“Funny seeing you here.”

The man’s voice seemed strained, obviously holding back some form of archaic emotion. Alan was speechless himself and took a step back. Nearly losing his footing, the man reached out and grabbed his arm. He stared at it, trailing right up to the face that smiled down at him. Was the world that small for him that, when he sat down on the side of the road, he ran into this guy? Finally, his tongue pressed to his teeth and his jaw working, in some poor attempt for words. He nearly choked on what he wanted to say, wanted to do to him. Right here on the steps in front of all Wilshire Center.

“Monday?”

The man’s arm lifted and a head bobbed up between them, green eyes peering up at him from under a mess of auburn hair. This one was Peter. How could he forget? The man who replaced him in Monday’s new life. Call it redemption then.

On Peter’s hip was a dozing child. Alan felt his sleeve be released and he took a step down to look at them all. Both Monday and Peter were Oxfords and ties, Peter with his coat over one shoulder. The child had stuffed Peter’s tie into his mouth, gnawing on it in his sleep. Monday had kept his arm around the other man, idling playing with the child’s hair.

“You remember Alan, don’t you?”

Alan stared at Peter, not sure what this man could possibly feel for him. He was more than sure that his relationship with Monday was no longer a secret after all this time. They were still together, though, so any number of things could have happened… No, they were always perfect together, weren’t they? Alan wanted to run away from this, but found himself caught up in Peter’s judging glare that dared to soften into a smile of recognition. In a matter of seconds, too.

“It’s been a while, but yeah, I know remember those scars.”

Alan touched his face and looked away from them both. In the matter of minutes, he had said nothing, only stared in awe as his fate condemned him to memories and emotions. There was nothing to say about them. The hand moved up through his hair.

Apart from the child’s muffled coos and gurgles, the silence was settling between them. Peter figured that all there was to say had been said and pulled away from them. His eyes flicked to the side as he escorted himself down the steps. He mumbled something about getting a taxi for them as Monday sorted out whatever this was.

Alan and Monday found themselves alone on the steps of a law firm, staring at their own feet, kicking at the cement. Over Alan’s shoulder, Monday watched Peter call down a cab and look back to them, and then down at his stirring son. They exchanged helpless glances. And then Peter was gone, leaving the two alone in the night.

“Two years, no calls, no leads…” Monday looked up to him, finally, hands tucking away in his pockets. “I left you alone. So, why not return the favor?”

It hurt, in all honesty, to hear something so cold. Two years and, well, Alan supposed they had both moved on from whatever feelings they had. No doubt they were both thinking about all of it and all at once. That’s how it went. Pain, love, more pain, hating, pure, unadulterated loathing… And he was still working up the nerve to say something.

“I didn’t mean to do anyth—”

Monday pulled Alan up from his step and into a tight hug, head tucked away in his neck. The duffel bag fell between their bodies and back onto the concrete. Blades clinked against one another. Alan felt himself a few inches away from the ground.

“I’ve missed you.”

It was the fire lit to thaw his now frozen emotions out. Sparks always flew between them, but this time, the intimacy felt different. It was tame. Monday was a new man and Alan… no longer knew where he was, or who he was. A man lifted from the steps and into the arms of a man Sam might as well have let him forget.

Alan raised his hands to meet across Monday’s trembling spine.

“I’ve missed you, too…”

He felt tears against his throat and neck, rolling down and sinking into his collar. Both his own and.. Monday’s. The man who tried not to cry. If he managed to get home, this shirt would be packed away, never to be messed with again. For there was something sacred inside of it now, embedded in the fabric he felt pressed to his heart.

There was a gap between them. Alan felt his toes dropping back to the pavement. He opened his eyes and found himself staring an askew tie, tow arms extending to hold his shoulders.

There was traffic, all around him. Horns blaring and tires squealing against old tires. There was a white noise chatter of people he would never meet or care to run into after all of this…

He never felt so complete.

His eyes turned up to Monday, his wet cheeks and dark eyes. The glow of the building shrouded him, turned his old lover into something of an angel. And he had never chosen to see him like that… never even thought about it.

The glow pulled Monday under into a phosphorescent haze, the tears in Alan’s eyes only stretching the light that seems to seep from him. Monday… looked… like he was fading away now…

His grip tightened around Monday. He pulled himself closer and buried his face into the already messed up tie. One last time, just one more time… and he would be satisfied.

A hand ran through his hair, accompanied by a voice he could no longer associate with the force of which it was apart of. It was telling him to go home. It was telling him it loved him, and was… sorry. And it was telling him to go home… go home.
____________________________________________________

There was rain on his face.

His hair was matted down over his eyes.

He felt the weight of his bag in one hand, a coat on his opposite shoulder. But it wasn’t his coat. The sleeves were draped across his chest. A hollow hug kept him steady.

He was indeed home, staring up at the address of his parent’s house. Melody peeked through the window and made a sound. She rushed to the door, quickly pulling him inside and into a hug. There were suddenly two more weights one his legs and he pulled away to look down at his two children.

That was right.

Four gray eyes stared up at him, two weary smiles fading as he stooped down to ruffle their hair. Gilly sighed softly and went to cling to his mother’s leg. That boy would always be like that… a smaller Elliot. Those kids could have been friends…

His daughter tugged at the sleeves around his neck, quickly running off with the jacket as a cape before Melody could question it. Gilly remained on his mother’s leg, watching his sister scamper off.

He had it alright, too? Right? A wife, kids…

…right, Sam?

Melody cupped his face suddenly, his eyes forced to meet her’s.

“Where have you been? It’s been days…”

He opened his mouth to tell the truth. But… what was the truth again? His parents were just out of his peripheral vision. The truth was never too nice for them. It never would be. A secret to take to the grave.

His eyes refocused. And even though he felt as heartbroken as ever, refilled with emotion half of the brain did not want, and soaked to the bone, he smiled.

He was home.

“Out.”

Farewell to Arms

Wed, 30 Jan 2013 15:13:12 -0500

[OPT. via TXT] Monday takes it upon himself to finally remove his damaged left arm after its impending critical condition due to a new gunshot wound.

The saw clattered against the table. Monday stared down at it, taking a few deep breaths. This was his own decision. His choice. Alcohol and anesthesia guided him further and further away from his sensibility. The door was locked and his left arm hung limply at his side. A thick rubber band kept it cold and unfeeling, the blood not even daring to push through the pressure.

He took a seat.

He stood back up.

He was still nervous as all hell. When he sat down next, he picked up the saw and carefully ran the teeth across his bicep. The jagged metal pricked and ripped at his flesh, making the guideline to his new surgery. No pain there.

Monday shifted in his seat, now lifting his arm up on the table. The teeth now rested securely against the guideline. Blood rose and fell against the cold metal, but he still felt nothing. Nothing at all.

The first push was the hardest. Cutting flesh. It was easy. He has made a living off of it. And now it was his own—and as sickly and pale as his skin appeared to be, it remained touch as hide as the metal dug deeper.

A sober cell told him to stop and reconsider, there was still time. But he had been preparing for this. Medication. Bandages. And the stove was on if he needed it. The sober cell gave in.

Monday away from the table and brought the saw back. There was finally a clean split in his muscle, and the next push brought him straight to the bone. The saw grated.

Tears stung the corners of his eyes. A pressure was building behind the band, signals bypassing the anesthesia. Oh god, he fucking felt it alright, but he could no longer turn back. There was too much damage. Not even a team of doctors could fix this damage in time.

Monday turned away from the carnage and took a few deep breaths. The scent of blood and booze on his shirt overwhelmed him. Which would make him sick first? His stomach was empty from throwing up beforehand, out of fear.

He was not going to a fucking hospital. Bad things happened in hospitals. People went to hospitals to die. Peter—oh God, Peter—even he had been held at ransom in a hospital. And no one was going back.

When his bearings were regained as they were going to be, he turned back to look st the saw, perched neatly an inch into in his arm. Blood gleamed and dripped all down the sides. If he focused, maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t look all too bad.

He turned and lifted from his seat and bore down his weight into the saw, giving the next push. Metal grated and rippled into cracks of weakening marrow. His fear rushed up through his throat and he found himself starting to scream.

Alan’s tools would have worked. They would have fucking worked! YOU COULD HAVE LET ALAN FUCKING VISIT YOU STUPID PSYCHO FUCK!

His screaming wavered as the bone snapped under his conjoined weight and fury. Monday howled and kept pushing. With each snapping layer. He felt himself growing heavier and heavier. Blood was dripping around his toes, warm and inviting. With each section of his exposed bone that cracked and broke away, blood flicked up onto his face. Onto his tongue. He could taste it. He was still screaming.

The sound had become obsolete.

And just like that, he was through.

His left arm, struggling to be anything more than a useless limb, bent out of proportion. The teeth of the saw were caught into flesh once again. Monday didn’t even bother to take a breath. Fed up. So fed up. So fucking, fucking, goddamn fucking fed up.

The saw was cutting endless lines into the table when he finally refocused.

His left arm now lay motionless on the table, whatever blood was left pooling from the mangled flesh and bone. What was left of his arm on his body—or at least what was hanging from his shoulder—dripped lazily.

He fucking did it.

The reverie snapped and the bandages were wrapped up. His entire left side was wound up. The gauze even wound around his throat once or twice so nothing would slip free and unwind. It strangled him gently, furthering his realization of the situation he now found himself in. The new life he would be facing.

He fucking did it.

The sound of his own laughter was muted by the ringing in his ears. The screeching of every nerve that told his body to shut down, shut down right now. Blood flow became scarce to the left shoulder, only a few droplets working through the white as he stumbled back from his table.

That arm looked so inanimate. So dead. So… unreal. It was simply there, amongst blood gore. It was simple—a thing.

Monday fell back against the far wall, still laughing. His jaw ached, his chest and throat burned. Drool and blood snaked down his chin and neck, sinking into his collar. After a few deep breaths, he was able to shut his mouth and swallow, to see, to hear.

And it was all over, wasn’t it?

He had fucking done it.

New daydreams

Wed, 30 Jan 2013 08:07:00 -0500

alanandsam:

Jackson is poisoned by Monday. Through the mail. (Remember that who anthrax thing? No? Google it.) Monday is the only one who knows how to get rid of Jackson being sick/dying.
Jake makes Monday a deal. A trade for him for the cure.
/And condo’s have garages dammit/.

As interesting as the poisoning idea is (and yes, I do know about the Anthrax poisoning—it’s not like they wouldn’t check for these things anymore)… No trading Jake. Monday’s turn in the game was already enacted. Besides, Monday has no poisons or drugs on him. He’s under… house arrest. And he’s pretty much done in the game anyway. Any violence or revenge would have to come Jackson’s side, but… again, if Monday risks another move, he’s putting his own life in danger because of HIMSELF.

There won’t be any Monday/Jake for a while. Monday has been domesticated.

[Remember that Jackson overcame HIV/AIDs. Anthrax may be deadly, but it is also not exactly a synthetic drug (I mean. It may be concentrated by man, but…). Anthrax is part of nature. As deadly as it is, it (along with any other poison or drug—he was addicted to nearly everything) would be facing an alien body such as Jackson’s.]

EDIT: If there was to be an attack, it would either close range physical, of a long range terrorist-like plot. Explosions, etc.

EDIT 2: Shit. What if Monday went as far as sending a bomb to the Canadian estate? And Jackson opened it, like, the moment Jake stepped through the door. Suddenly, the entire room is engulfed in white, and Jake is hurled back out onto the lawn. When he comes to, his ears are ringing and all he sees is that, above him, smoke and dust litter the sky. Before him, all the walls have fallen in, a stair case burnt and broke. No furniture is intact, even the yard is in taters, a section of the border woods is blown back from the blast… and Jackson is nowhere to be found. Shit.

EDIT 3: LIKE, IS HE DEAD OR WHAT? IS HE THAT BROKEN ENOUGH TO ACTUALLY AVOID ANY DAMAGE OR IS HE CRITICALLY WOUNDED AND MANAGED TO DRAG HIMSELF ELSEWHERE? AND DID HE DIE OUT THERE? IN THE WOODS? HE COULD HAVE BEEN BLOWN APART, SURE, OR PROBABLY JUST BLOWN BACK THROUGH A WALL LIKE JAKE ON THE LAWN, BUT HE IS ALREADY 10000000000000000% FIRE AND ROCK AND COULD TOTALLY TAKE A HIT BUT I ACTUALLY DON’T KNOW ABOUT THAT. AND JAKE COULD ACTUALLY FIND THIS TO BE THE OPPORTUNITY TO CONFRONT MONDAY ONE LAST GODDAMN TIME BUT NOT EVEN HURT HIM. JUST STAND THERE IN TEARS, FISTS CLENCHED AT HIS SIDES.

“You win.”

AND MONDAY JUST SMILES BACK AT HIM KNOWINGLY AND CLOSES THE DOOR.

BUT, LIKE, MAYBE. UH. MAYBE IT’S LIKE SKYFALL AND JACKSON JUST SHOWS UP YEARS LATER IN JAKE’S LIVING ROOM WITH A GLASS OF WINE IN HIS HAND AND ASKS HIM HOW HIS DAY WAS. LIKE NOTHING FUCKING HAPPENED ALL THAT TIME.

THIS JUST BECAME EXTREMELY STRESSFUL AND DEPRESSING FOR ME. WHY CAN’T WE LEAVE JAKE ALONE, OH MY GOD.

Jake daydreams.

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 12:29:03 -0500

alanandsam:

Jake’s dad sends Jake to go kill Monday. If Monday has caused him so much pain, go kill him. After that, Jake’s father would give him back Jack.
Jackson protests, says /he’ll/ go kill Monday. Jake tells him that he has to do it.
So Jake flies off to Colorado alone. He finds Monday’s home. How is he going to get him out of there? He’s not. He just walks up to the door. Gun under his jacket. Peter answers the door. Jake tells him to take the kid and go else where. He does so.
Jake gets into the house, gun pointed at Monday’s head. They converse. Things get emotional. Jake can’t kill him. But that means he won’t get Jack back.
Monday makes him a deal. Let Monday keep Jake. /Keep/ him. In return, Monday will play dead. (Or rescue Jack. I can’t decide.)
So Monday keeps him in a house down the road. Triple locked. Windows boarded up. No way of getting out.
Shit happens.
After weeks. Maybe a month. Peter catches on and finds Jake and sets him free.

Thoughts?

Jake’s father was only involved once with Monday and that was without knowing who he was. He gave Jake Lucé to be his bodyguard, and Jake eventually sent his younger brother off to kill Monday. Which he could not do because Lucé found out the man was a father and wasn’t as cold and deadly as he is today.
Jackson would never let Jake out of his sight once they were in Mafia territory. Even if Jake somehow managed to get his own flight to Colorado, Jackson would follow, even Jake said he had to do this on his own. (This alone would probably mess up the deal.)
Sometimes I hope Peter is smarter than the average man and would look through the peephole and recognize the face that his entire family held hostage and beaten.
They live in a condominium (Lake Cliffe), which also results there being no little house to hold Jake captive in. It’s basically a hotel you live in with larger rooms, no service, and, this being Colorado, mountains, a lake, etc. Beautiful view but basically no hiding places. (Exactly why I set Monday and Casper’s devastation here. A nice vacation, but once the known, there was nowhere to run. And if Monday wants to hide Jake, he has a better chance of throwing him into the lake.)
If things were to get emotional, it would have to be a sheepish rage or fury breaking Jake apart. There seems to be no forbidden romance between the two after their last meeting. (I’m sure the gunshot wound set Monday straight. You know what I mean.)
Also, it’s a pretty messed up deal if Monday plays dead and Jake just… doesn’t return home to collect his son. Jackson would be right there to figure out what the fuck just happened. Besides, I think Jake’s father is a bit smarter than the average fellow and would suspect the same.
And if “shit happens” means rape and torture, I can guarantee it would simply be torture at this point for Monday. Something simplistic since he’s still recovering. (Remember that he has cut himself wide open from the throat down, had a knife stabbed right above his heart by Alan—which busted the nerves—and then a gunshot wound by Jackson. His nerves in that arm are completely shot, he needs physical rehabilitation (he’s doing that on his own), but it would take years for his entire body to be up to date and ready for any horrible action.
Last but not least: Peter, again. Honestly, the poor guy has been through enough knowing his husband is a cheater, murderer, and a rapist. (And yet, also a hero who is not afraid to protect his kin and the love of his life.) He knows there is a fine line between Monday’s personality’s, but what I fear is them splitting up. That would break me. I think a move like this would be the final straw, unless Monday explained the entire situation beforehand and, again, resulted in only torturing Jake, no rape. Or nothing at all, Jake just goes somewhere else, home.
Or Monday plays dead and continues on how he is, Jake goes back to collect Jake and they all go home.

I know absolute drama is needed around this point, but I think it should stay on the east coast to avoid any complications. There will be enough with Jake’s father meeting Jackson, Jackson’s absolute hatred of him and daring to even get close to his boyfriend (we haven’t even set them Facebook official!), and the risks they run even being there together. Staying in a hotel together, Jackson’s impulsive protectiveness and mother-hen-like tendencies.

And at some point somewhere, one of the three are going to snap, or Jack is going to say something and suddenly it all crumbles. Something like that. God forbid Jackson actually likes the Bottaio.

Jackson’s luck: 92%

Jake’s luck: 13%

ZigZag. [Request.]

Mon, 14 Jan 2013 18:04:12 -0500

As requested, a semi-novelized “twist” ending to Shelby’s ZigZag, assuming our chosen “Fischer” will try to leave the town as frantically/quickly as possible when true danger is recognized. Or at all. If he can. Also assuming this is a fifteen to twenty minute run.

I have no idea what was expected or needed, but here you go. This was what first popped into my head, somehow. Thank you, Gulliver’s Travels and mostly Bright Falls for this one, because it was all I had to go on and I have no idea what I am doing. Like, at all.

He needed to wake up before the rest of the town could know about his plans to escape; before they could find him back at the hotel and keep him here forever. They seemed to possessive and obsessed with keeping him here, and he was sick and tired of it. His sickness, his fear, it was all taking a toll on him. Thankfully, the Ambien he had taken hadn’t been enough to kill him… and the wake-up call shook him plenty.

The sheer jittering of the phone brought him right out of his doze. He shot up from the bed and fumbled with the phone. Christopher held it to his ear, nearly wheezing.

“Thank you… thank you.”

“Good morning, Mister Hart. Have an okay day.”

The phone hung up on the other end and and he was left breathing quietly into the phone. Just an okay day? He thought about that. He had never been bid just an okay day. It only phased him further.

His bag was ready to go by the door. His clothes and I.D. were tucked safely within. His hotel key was left on the bed, along with a two dollar tip for the man at the front desk—who seemed to spend his life giving the requested wake-up calls and quietly handing out keys to strangers visiting the town. His life was meaningless. Except now, for he had two extra dollars.

It was still dark outside, a faint fog blurring the distance. Upon arriving in the town, he knew he could drive through ti no problem, without crashing or coming upon any clumsy drivers.

He checked his watch. 3:43AM.

All the lights in the other rooms were off. No one was walking around. Reception was the only room that teemed with any form of life. The man behind the front desk, staring aimlessly ahead. His life was truly meaningless.

He took the stairs one at a time, bag thumping against his thigh as he made his way down quietly. At his car, he glanced up at the man behind the front desk and gave him a feeble wave. He didn’t seem to see the wave, or even bat an eye for him even trying to acknowledge him in a good-bye.

The only man who had ever shown him any hospitality and he was dead as the woods surrounding the motel.

He didn’t give the man a second glance as he got into the car and drove off. The man didn’t even seem to see him then. It didn’t matter. He was free, home-bound.

At last.

[CUT TO]

You are now leaving ZigZag.

He made a fist and hit the window, grinning from ear to ear. He was free. The fist hit again, and again, he was just so overjoyed to be out of that goddamn town.

And it was a simple and stupid mistake. Anyone could have made it. Actually punching the steering wheel. The horn blared, startling him. How was he suddenly losing control of the car? He gripped the wheel and tried to slam on the brake. He had been so close. He had just been happy, that was all.

The car struggled to pull itself straight, straining against the damp road. There was no way in hell this could have been a true mistake. The car dipped from the main road, crashing through the brush. In the few brief seconds he had before the oncoming tree, he cursed himself and the whole town.

Unnecessary.

[CUT TO]

The phone jittered.

He opened his eyes and rolled over to find the phone on his bedside table ringing.

He hesitated before reaching over to pick it up, even hesitating to hold it to his ear.

“Good morning, Mister Hart. Have an okay day.”

“Thank… you?”

He sat up in bed and glanced over at his bag. It was on its side by the door, but more or less ready to go. He got up and glanced out the window.

There was his car, parked where it had been for the past eight hours he had been asleep. Surely. Hesitantly, he picked up his bag and began to check it over for any disturbances. As reassured as he found himself with the remaining quality of his bag, he felt the largest sense of deja vu.

He placed a hand to his chest, feeling is heart begin to pace. He then felt his neck and face, searching for damage. Had he blacked out again, walked home? He could sworn he had crashed into that tree, or… something… the day before was fading from his memory. He touched his hair and sighed, glancing back down at his car that had remained in one piece.

Somehow.

Curiously, he left another two dollars on the bed along with this keys.

[CUT TO]

He took the stairs two at a time today, checking his watch on the way down. 3:47AM. A little later than… last time. Right, wasn’t it?

He ran his hand along the roof of the car, ducking in to examine everything. All the same. Nothing new, missing—that he could remember. He adjusted the rearview mirror, glancind back at the man behind the front desk. Still staring forward, with no hope of ever having a meaningful existence.

The man suddenly turned his head, meeting Christopher’ eyes through the mirror. Christopher felt his heart skip a beat and he immediately clamped his hand over the left hand section of mirror. The man, now staring, was blocked off from his sight.
Christopher took a few deep breath before dropping his hand. He didn’t look up, only started the car and pulled the car from the lot. He didn’t even glance over at the man behind the desk. God, he had moved.

[CUT TO]

He gripped the wheel with one hand, fingers runninf through his hair. All the trees, every dip and small turn in the road made him uneasy. He had traveled this road before, and recently. But he couldn’t even remember. There were more holes in his memory… the last thing he ever needed.

You are now leaving ZigZag.

He turned in his seat to watch the sign diminish amongst the trees. It was behind him, he could breathe. Christopher turned in his seat, eyes refocusing on the road.
There was another car coming his way. Someone going into or returning into ZigZag. Fools, had to be.

The car was black with windows tinted. Trees swept over in a never-ending evergreen reflective pool. It was getting closer and would soon pass him.

And then it pulled into Christopher’s lane.

He sat up, pulling into the other lane. But the car only followed his lead and was once again right in his path.

Fools, had to be.

Perhaps some of the younger kids from the town taking their father’s car out for a ride and… scaring the newcomer out of his wits. No one in ZigZag had a car as nice as that though. The town, so lost in time… trucks, coopers, rattlers.

“Chicken, playing chicken.”

He tried to shift lanes again. There wasn’t too much distance to cover now. Yards and yards and feet and closing yards…

Move, oh my GOD, move.

They were going to crash.

Christopher cried out and swerved from the main road, once again crashing through the brush. He raised a hand to cover his face, whimpering into his palm. As he peeked through his fingers, he saw the tree that would ultimately be in his way.

[CUT TO]

There was a ringing.

Christopher bolted upright and stared at the trembling phone. His eyes widened, terrified. He backed himself up to the other side of the bed, where he fell to the floor. Beside him, his bad lay dented and covered in dirt. It wasn’t even taken care of now, clearly thrown to the wall this time.

This… time.

He looked down at himself, his hands, shoes. Small cuts and bruises, all over his palms and wrists. Even his shirt was a little torn. It was getting worse. But what was it?

[CUT TO]

He took the stairs three at a time, bag and keys left behind. All he wanted to do was get in the car and go. Again. He didn’t care where this time; whether is was home or not. Home no longer seemed like an actual place, so anywhere else would do Christopher just fine, so long as it wasn’t this town.

Christopher’s car looked perfectly fine this time, despite having been crashed at least twice. It was parked at a hasty angle, skid marks all up the parking lot. He got into the front seat and gripped the wheel.

Alright, he could do this. He could bloody well goddamn fucking do this. Drive, do not look back at that goddamn sign and watch out for punks behind dark windows.

As he started the car, Christopher turned back to look at the front desk. To find the man staring aimlessly off into space, or at least at him… but there was absolutely no one there. He turned back around to find the man standing right in front of his car. Even though he was looking right at Christopher, there was absolutely no life behind those eyes of his.

Christopher shrieked and slammed his foot down on the brake, struggling to put the car into reverse. The man place his hands down onto the hood of the car, daring him to leave. Of course he would, he wanted to leave. The car ripped back, sending the front desk man stumbling forward.

But he didn’t chase him. Or so Christopher didn’t see. As soon as the car was turned around, he was out of that parking lot before he could even care if he was being followed or not.

[CUT TO]

He was gripping the wheel much harder than before. His fingers grew cold and his hands numb. If he crashed this time, he would have to stay awake and drag himself back onto the street. There was no way he was going back alive.

The sign whipped passed him, but he didn’t look back at it this time. He was done looking back, thinking, remembering anything he had seen. Forget the report, forget everything. He would quit his job and move back in with his mother and sister—there was nothing wrong with that.

His eyes brimmed with tears and he swiped at his cheeks. He was cursing under his breath, breathing heavily. When he blinked, the black car from before came into focus. Right on time, at the right distance. He didn’t even bother moving out of the way. If they wanted to play chicken, this is where it was ending. He was no coward today.

He leaned forward, easing his foot down on the pedal. If he kept a steady focus, maybe they would be the ones to pull away. And Christopher didn’t care if the driver crashed and was killed, or dragged back to that goddamn town. They could take his place.

The distance was closing. Christopher felt himself lifting in his seat, teeth grinding as he bottled his fear.

Play chicken. Move. Get out of my way. Let me get out of this town.

The car did not move out of his way, remaining in its steady line.

“FINE! FINE, GO AHEAD!”

Maybe there wasn’t even a driver. He had officially seen crazier shit. He would be the only one to die here then… wouldn’t he?

As the final yards closed between the two cars, his fear burst through and he screamed—after everything. And he didn’t see his life before his eyes in the seconds he was provided. Only darkness. And a shattering silence.

[CUT TO BLACK]

[FADE IN]

The police ducked their heads into the cars one by one, observing the dead driver and the other empty car. An officer stood by the empty vehicle, holding up a wallet. He pulled out a card and held it beside the broken face of the driver in the black car.

This man wasn’t Christopher Hart.

A few deputies stooped and leaned into the empty car, searching around for any clues before wandering off into the brush. There were no blood trails leading anywhere. Nothing on the leaves, no staggering prints left in the dirt behind the trees or even leading back up the road.

There seemed to be… no Christopher Hart around.

[FADE OUT]

[BEAT, RETURN TO CHRISTOPHER’S HOTEL ROOM]

His face was covered in dirt and blood, shards of glass in his hair and even sticking out from his cheeks. His neck was in no better shape. His clothes were as good as useless.

He was sprawled in the middle of his bed, keys in one hand and luggage on his chest. He was asleep, for the most part and breathing faintly.

There were no markings on the door or floor. No tracked blood, mud, or glass. He simply seemed to have appeared in the middle of his bed—ready to go, but asleep for the time-being…

Then, the phone began to ring.

Christopher opened his eyes.

[CUT TO BLACK]

Officially home. In-my-bed-and-staring-at-the-ceiling-official. And I already miss everything.

Tue, 27 Nov 2012 01:57:47 -0500

I miss the rain, believe it or not.

I miss that off-chance of getting soaked and having to shuffle back to the hotel with a set jaw and tense back, the pain soon numbed out anyway by the time you’ve reached any form of transportation.

I miss the MAX, or the met, or the whatever it’s called. I miss having that feeling of New York, but knowing I was much better off as a pedestrian here, rather than there. There was some Korean guy on one trip that began this whole strip tease. It was pretty goddamn awesome.

Most of all, really, I miss not being alone.

I mean, I was never alone on that trip, even when I was—rather briefly, for about two, three hours. It was definitely fixed up by a wander around the town and even that wound up as a totally casual moonlit Mandarin dinner. (With awesome leftovers that I had for breakfast the next day.)

I miss walking with her, anywhere, even when we got lost. It was all part of the adventure, and it sure was an adventure to be had. I miss waiting for a train in the cold, her sometimes kinda-sorta awkwardly placing her head on my shoulder.

I miss her taking my hand to guide me, and me telling myself that it totally counted and was one more point for me.

I miss getting back to the hotel and just giving up on the couch, taking sides and watching TV. That hotel had some really horrible channels. I mean, okay, Storage Wars and the History of Christmas was pretty cool… Even Bad Santa, but… Really. A place like that needs a guide. A freaking update. I even miss complaining about all of this with her.

I miss pulling out the couch into a bed and her immediately getting under the covers… to leave me awkwardly placed somewhere on the left, resisting the urge to at least get a little closer. You know, for a snuggle? The best I really managed without freaking out was… Yeah, basically just keeping cool on my side.

I miss her mumbling that she was tired, the remote placed somewhere on her face, or being handed over for me to take control. I never did so much as turn the volume down when she did fall asleep. Even then, I didn’t stay up too long after that.

I miss awkwardly arranging myself beside her, far away enough so that if either of us roll over, we wouldn’t wake up the other. I managed to stay in place the first couple of nights, acquiring a bruise on my hip and ribs from tilted springs. Like hell I was going to complain about them.

I miss waking up three, four, sometimes five times a night to move away from her, afraid I would touch her, wake her up, and freak her out. I know I stared at her back a few times, wondering how weird it would be if she woke up to find me snuggling her. I assumed pretty damn weird and turned back away every time.

Hell, I even miss her quiet snoring, rhythmic and obviously a gentler outcome of her poorly-timed sickness. I thought it would bug me, but it was actually pretty calming. Usually, repetitive noises or movements piss me off to high Heaven, but… this was nice. That’s probably weird to say, especially when she managed to roll over nd huff into my ear for a good five minutes before rolling away. (I have never played dead so well in my life.)

I know I miss a lot more things than that… mostly her, yeah, but at such an emotional state, and recovering from a previous one… this is all I’ve got.

Oregon was kind of amazing, Shelby.

In The Closet.

Sun, 28 Oct 2012 14:44:24 -0400

Out of all the typical costumes, Alan stood on one side of the room dressed up as a pancreas. He received a mixture of confused looks, but in a room full of people masked to hide their identity, he didn’t care about a single one of them. They all stood out among the rest somehow—an undead nurse flirted with an obviously gay policeman; a giant pink bear and a bumblebee made honey on the dance floor, no idea who the other was. This was playful anonymity.

Alan’s favorite, out of all the skimming and scanning, was a skeleton with a cane and top hat making idle conversation with a group of smaller, more colorful skeletal men and women—all either lightly touching the darker skeleton’s costume or asking to touch his hair, how he got it so white without using spray paint.

It was difficult to see the skeleton’s mouth move or to figure out what he was saying. Along his top and bottom lip were finely painted teeth—gaps perfect, canines at the arc of the smile with his molars lifting right behind it. And when he did laugh, the teeth broke apart in some inhuman fashion, as if the costume itself was a monster and about to devour of the colorful characters before him. A hollowed jaw swept under his cheek bone, the white paint fading and then joining right under his chin, where a delicate spine began and sharply disappeared from view under his collar.

Alan knew he was staring, but wasn’t sure how he would join such a group. That guy was so tall, and he may be the leader of the group. Lord knew why they were here together, shifting under strobe lights and pulsing speakers with drinks in hands, and in such a juvenile party. They looked more like professional Halloween spooks.

And I’m only a harmless pancreas.

He did make his way over to the group, avoiding a few more snide glances and comments. Another undead nurse ran a hand along one ridge of his costume, but before Alan could say a thing, she was gone. He was left alone suddenly, several feet from the colorful group.

A pink and green skeleton nodded sharply over to Alan, the tall leader glancing briefly over. And just as briefly, he glanced away and shrugged. He hadn’t been rejected, nor had he been accepted, so he decided to step in. A few colorfuls said hello, holding their hands out and asking how he figured out about this party.

Oh, you know, I heard about it from a few people. Do I… know Kaylee? No, not really. Friend of a friend, never got too involved with conversation. I mean, is she even here?

Every time he tried to look up at their tall leader, he would turn his painted face away. His arms were crossed over his chest, cane twirling between the fingers on the other side away from the group. A zombie ducked under neath the hazard, nearly tripping and spilling his drink. The skeleton deflected the accident with a shrug, only lifting his hat to run a hand back through his white hair.

Wow, what an uptight son of a bitch.

The one time he ever caught the skeleton’s eyes, it sent a shiver down a spine. How dead could that face get? Knowing how the glare felt, he didn’t even want this guy to smile at him. As nostalgic as the condescending stares went, he could not put his finger on this one. Instead, he avoided anymore attempts, back to conversation with the colorfuls.

It wasn’t before long until the undead nurse, now with an arm linked with that of the gay policeman, called out for party suggestions. One group yelled out for spin the bottle, another called for Seven Minutes in Heaven, while someone through there head back and howled.

We’re going to be mature about this! You can pass if you don’t like who is picked! No bitching and moooooaning!

Well, so what the heck are we playing?!

How about both? Instead of kissing… there’s a closet around here somewhere! we’ll just throw them in there, yeah!

Alan glanced around at the costumes that were gathering around a large table that had been pulled out from the food lineup. Someone amongst them held up an empty wine bottle and it was placed in the middle. The colorful skeletons dispersed, Alan looking up at the dark one. Whether it was the skeleton itself or the face underneath that sneered at him… he was not absolutely sure.

He made sure to take a spot across from the skeleton, knowing the glaring would be easier to handle at a distance. On either side, a small colorful skeleton grew fidgety, mumble to one another about the taller skeleton.

He’s been giving us looks all night. Can you imagine if you got stuck in a closet with him? I wonder who he really is…

Alan didn’t think he was so goddamn special. He brushed off the conversation and looked back up at the taller one. Of course he was staring, dark eyes shadowed under a tensing brow.

The undead nurse took the bottle in hand, letting it spin in her palm.

Alright, remember that we are going to be mature about this. If you’re a guy and you get a guy, just call outs on it. Or be a man and try it out.

No homo!

Alan looked around for that voice, feeling the need to sink into his costume. This could be fun, sure, live a little, but on the other hand… His ultimate fear was his turn, taking his chance, and landing on a female. He didn’t want to live a little like that. But, he knew that if he landed on a guy… that kid would just freak the fuck out.

The bottle was spun by the undead nurse, and she soon left with another zombie, and quite happily so. Everyone who had a watch timed them after the supply closet door was closed, giggling amongst themselves. The minutes ticked by rather slowly, a few becoming giddy and deciding to knock and kick at the door, yell “Get some!” over the music and then flee back to the table.

They could totally be going at it. I bet they’ve got enough time…

Alan fidgeted again, thinking back to Monday, Patrick… How long had it taken them without prolonging and manipulating his body? Suddenly, time was a factor, and he could feel his cheeks and ears begin to burn as a colorful costume pressed up behind him.

Across the table, the skeleton tilted his head.

When the seven minutes were up, the zombies stumbled out of the closet with the stupidest grins on their faces. Out of breath, the undead nurse returned to the table and examined her makeup in the bottle before passing it down the line. Turns came and went, hesitant juveniles paired up and sent away. Only one pairing were two girls, and all they had done in the closet was talk, complain about the music before they were dragged out early, giggling like children.

Finally, down the line, the skeleton was handed the bottle. Most of the table went quiet, and Alan realized that this had been highly anticipated. The skeleton set the bottle before him and lightly tapped the neck of the glass. It spun slowly for ten seconds, before a scratch in the glossy wood caught on the glass and it stopped.

Alan went pale as he traced the direction back to himself. The skeleton stared at him, smiling somewhere in the skull. Low chuckles spread through party and the undead nurse raised her hand.

Alright, the organ guy and the skeleton. That works out nicely. Are you passing on this?

He tried to make a noise, looking about to all the eyes on him, flicking away to hide a giggle. He felt a hand close around his wrist and he looked up to find the skeleton getting ready to drag him away.

Organ boy?

I’m a pancre—AH!

The skeleton yanked him from the table. Hoots and hollers erupted from the rest of the colorful dead, tagging along to see them off into the confined darkness. Alan knew he was going to die, but did not struggle. Everyone he ever tried to run away from always caught him, managed to hold him down in the dirt and make him feel less than he already was. Oh, it would be such an embarrassment in a party like this.

That grip hurt.

He was practically thrown into the little room, the skeleton right behind him and closing the door. There were hushed murmurs heard from outside. No matter how hard Alan tried, he could not grow accustomed to the dark. What little light the crack under the door provided was always flickering, only reflecting the white paint of the skeletons face every few seconds.

Look, I—

He was pressed back against the wall, cold and dry lips pressed to his own. He mumbled for the guy to get off, but a tongue parted through his protests, rendering him quite conflicted. It was just… kissing… and…wait a minute.

Under his hands, he could feel the pain of the man’s neck, but there were slight jagged bumps, raised skin, as he began to feel around. Paint was coming off on his hands. White smeared with black, he could feel. Shit, he was ruining this guy’s costume. The tongue knew his mouth. Alan soon gave in, that nostalgic control a vague flickering memory. But he could not put his goddamn finger on it.

He left his body be lifted and held to the wall.

How much time had passed?

How much time was left?

There was a knocking at the door and it was opened a crack, then slammed back shut as the skeleton grabbed the handle and held it closed.

Holy shit, they sure are getting friendly now… Do we leave them be?

There was a nip at his neck, right over a scar. Alan yelped and tried to kick at the seemingly controlling stranger. They held in, pressing their teeth in. Alan kicked and bucked, refusing to scream, but getting ready to if this guy pulled anymore tricks. he gripped the man’s air as his breath began to run out, the bite closing around his throat.

M-Monday—!

The bite was retracted, the man left breathing heavily above them. Alan stared up at him with a quiet whimper.

The skeleton’s hand fell away from the door handle and someone finally managed to pry it open. The light cast over them both and Alan began to blink in the light, turning his eyes back up to the man he had been paired with.

The paint had smeared away from a good half of his mouth, revealing a just as twisted grin. They were out of the strobe lights and consuming darkness, and deep blue eyes widened above him. A fine brow kinked and the grin grew, breaking the man’s face.

Alan opened his mouth to scream, but found his words choked back by another kiss. The tongue was there again, against his teeth. This time he remembered it. He got his finger on the memory and held it down.

Before he had a chance to hold onto Monday’s coat so he would not get away from him, the kiss had been closed and Alan found himself alone in the closet. His jagged breathing was heard among the whispers and giggles. They were watching again.

Aw, man, they really did go at it!

Look at his face! He is RED as motherfucking wine!

Get the bottle, get the bottle, let him see this!

As Alan stumbled from the closet, holding onto the door frame and looking around for Monday, somehow held out the wine bottle and he saw his face. Black, white, and gray paint smeared his mouth and cheeks. He lifted his hands to find that his hands were nicely coated with the same paint.

Wh-where did he go?

The… skeleton guy?

The rest of the party turned back to the table, but Monday wasn’t there. Monday wasn’t anywhere. Alan felt tears sting the corners of his eyes. He really had tot tough this one out now. The bottle fell from his hands and shattered at the feet of the many. They cursed and scolded a few others. One went off to find another bottle for the game.

Alan was left alone once again, breathing heavy and near tears. He picked up a shard from the floor. The paint on his face and neck… he didn’t feel like washing it off right now. It could stay there for tonight. Forget the party, forget what those juveniles thought.

Monday had been right there. In black and white.

Happy Halloween Team Clusterfuck! [x]

With Jove: Intermission IV (Greece Tweed)

Sat, 27 Oct 2012 20:38:00 -0400

With Jove: Intermission IV (Greece Tweed) :

pyrostarkspeaks:

whatthejovefrick:

Greece’s heart pounded in his chest as he walked away from the girl’s house while his new bruises started to ache. They had spent a lovely night together, staring into each other’s eyes until they both finally slept hand in hand, but that wonderful bliss was brutally interrupted by the scariest sound that Greece had heard in a long time: knock knock.

[…]

A dedicated crossverse fic in which Monday molests a patient and takes one step closer to becoming the ultimate predator he had initially been designed as. All I had excluded was pedophilia, necrophilia, and even cannibalism.

We’re still working on that last one.

Greece felt his hair being balled up within an angry fist, Monday already at his neck with his teeth. And it really did hurt. Not in the way Greece had ever imagined. No sensual nips or teasing scrapes like he had seen in the videos—this was a full on chomp. Shark teeth and a shark bite, and he was doing all that he could to prevent himself from screaming.

A hand slid back down his chest, fingers applying pressure to where the pain was most present. Greece jerked and cried out. His hands reached back around to press into the doctor’s stomach—a poor attempt to ward him off. And he only pressed back, a scratchy arousal brushing up the small of his back. The bite intensified.

He could fell the blood both coursing to and leaving his face. Air failed to be taken down, only regurgitated. He felt bile being held back in his throat, and he knew he was going to choke if Monday didn’t let go soon.

Divine intervention, he did, but it was just as Greece was able to breathe that he was thrown into the side of his desk. He felt his bruised rib crack and cave in. This time, he wasn’t able to scream. He couldn’t find the bile from before, having swallowed it in a panic. He didn’t even have the time to turn and face his father figure.

His hands were held behind his back, one hand crushing both of his own wrists. A palm pressed down on his spine, working at every ridge like it had before. How could Monday not admire the human anatomy for what it was? It truly was a beautiful thing, inside and out. Mostly on the inside.

His fingers trailed all the way down to the boy’s tailbone before he turned and scraped his nails back up the arc of his body. This was truly a remarkable figure, one he was all too fond of to press into, lean over, and feel against his own.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he cooed, running tongue up the back of Greece’s neck, who bucked in response. There was another cry, a whimper. Monday kissed the back of his ear and slipped a hand down under the boy’s body, stroking a reluctant length. “You can only blame your own body for what you are about to feel.”

[I run this joint, bitch.]