UP IS DOWN AND BLACK IS WHITE

dialogue prompts from don't fear the reaper by stephen graham jones.

this better be worth it.

it's sort of good to be home.

this world is shit, to not have treated you better.

sorry i was such a handful, back when.

you still believe in all that?

the grass is always greenest right above the septic tank.

tell your pretty wife to call me.

what's the last thing you remember? what were you doing?

a monster you know, or one you don't know?

you really are different, aren't you?

and i thought video was dead.

will things ever be normal between us, do you think?

just what i wanted to be reminded of.

it sucks being the last one left.

what kind of bullshit death dream is this?

you said you'd come back, and you did.

it's not easy, being a terrible person.

it's happening again, isn't it?

names don't matter. it's what they do that matters.

we survivors have to stick together, don't we?

my version of reality isn't the consensually agreed upon one.

being smart's not as easy as everyone makes it out to be.

you're never as alone as you think you are.

did you really do it?

i'm going to have to tell them, aren't i?

do i need protection?

souls are like livers: they regenerate until you poison them enough. then all they can do is kill you.

after a while, you can forget you're pretending.

i think i'm running out of lives here.

i hate you, you know.

people change. they grow up.

apology accepted. i wouldn't have listened to me, either.

i thought if i knew all the rules, nothing would happen to me.

you don't get to pick your genre.

have i always been this annoying?

you really plan for everything, don't you?

i'm not as good as you think.

there aren't any real fighters anymore: just killers and the killed.

good grief, charlie brown, give it a rest already.

who doesn't need coffee and cupcakes?

if the only scars you get are on your skin, count yourself lucky.

once you start running, you don't stop until you are stopped.

watch your 6, your 12, your 10, and 2.

sometimes it is who you think it is.

it was high school. we were all stupid, right?

1: dangle my muse over the edge of a building

2: break any bone(s) in my muse’s body

3: slap my muse

4: punch my muse 

5: drug my muse

6: shoot my muse

7: stab my muse

8: pour salt in my muse’s wound(s)

9: strangle my muse

10: step on my muse’s finger(s)

11: wake my muse with bright lights

12: hold my muse’s head under water

13: burn my muse

14: make my muse listen to loud, high-pitched noises

15: spit in my muse’s face

16: beat my muse to a bloody pulp

17: hit my muse with a vehicle

18: throw an object at my muse

19: follow my muse

20: leave my muse out in the cold

21: withhold food from my muse

22: place a cup of water just out of my muse’s reach

23: trip my muse

24: insult my muse

25: scar my muse

26: frighten my muse

27: grab a fistful of my muse’s hair

28: knee my muse in the gut

29: force my muse to stay awake

30: lock my muse in a room

31: watch my muse collapse and do nothing

32: grip my muse’s wrists

33: hit my muse over the head with a blunt object 

34: force my muse to their knees

35: force my muse to their feet

36: bite my muse

37: knock a few of my muse’s teeth loose

38: poke and prod at my muse’s injuries

39: send a disturbing package to my muse

@profanemouth

IF THERE WERE SUCH A THING AS A PERSONAL HELL, HIS WOULD BE AN IRISH BAR. of course, it's just the type of shithole that jessica jones frequents: cheap booze, shitty music, questionable looking toilets and even more questionable looking patrons. with no windows to the outside world, it's a vortex of time too; without his watch, he'd be unable to discern if it were day or night. however, it's a neutral environment; taking jones to his place would be laying himself too bare and likewise for jones taking him to wherever it is she operates, too.

so, here they are. believe it or not, he can compromise.

when their bartender sets two glasses of jameson before them, shoving a wad of bills his way before jones can get in on it. the bridge of his nose stings with every inhale he takes, and their old-school bartender spares him a look that lasts a moment too long. he hasn't looked at himself in the mirror, but judging from how much his nose hurts even after he'd haphazardly reset the bone, he must look like shit, with his eyes aching as harsh blackened bruises splotch his eyes and nose. no amount of bandaids or shitty fluorescent lighting could mask how horrible he looks, thanks to jones' heavy hand. worst of all, jones hadn't broken a sweat, hadn't exerted anything at all.

broad shoulders hunched over the bar, he nurses the cloudy glass of jameson in his hand.

she doesn't bother stopping to listen before she wraps her hand around the glass & pulls a searing gulp from it. it's harsh & hot & it washes the sting from her gums all the way to the scorched pit of her stomach. she lets the whiskey rinse around her cheeks, swallows hard. she takes another gulp to empty the glass. it's peat smoke, perfume-caustic. it doesn't need to hit her taste buds ; she just needs to feel it washing down to curb the curl of her toes in her boots & soften the razor edge of her irascibility.

" you look like shit. " she didn't pull the punch that gave him the broad swath that now serves as the bridge of his nose & she doesn't hold back now. " but i've seen you on the news, so i'm guessing that's not gonna bother you. "

she drains the rest of the glass & thunks it heavily onto the table. he's hunched like he doesn't fit here, big-shouldered & violent. jessica slouches over her elbows because it's an effort to pull herself up straight. the liquor's leeching into her posture, easing up all the tightly wound pulleys. if he has information & she has information, then they're speaking the same language.

" so what if i do? " kicks her brow up, chin hiking to get a good look at him. there's the wire snapping at his jaw, the gravel gruff coating the harsh burst of his voice. this table in this place means something. a peace offering? it dawns on her as she raises her hand to the bartender for another round. " ------- you've got beef with those jarheads. "

the flush of her tongue against the rafter of her palate breaks into a reflexive pattern, shaping street names without letting them break past her lips. she clamps it down, shifting in her seat in a way that shows annoyance better than the discomfited knowledge that when it comes to kilgrave, she will never be unbreakable.

❛ no shit. ❜

HE MUST FEEL WORSE THAN HE LOOKS, IN ANY CASE. all thanks to her. is jessica jones the sort of woman who gets satisfaction from the violence she's committed ? it's no easy task, trying to read her in the abysmal lighting of the bar, her tone over the merry folk music so loud everything else sounds far away, as if he's under water instead of sitting beside her. a comment about how this is only the eleventh time his nose has been broken but who's counting is at the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it back with the rest of his own drink. he tenses his jaw against the taste of it, remembers why he's never liked irish whiskey.

❛ my beef, ❜ it's a funny phrase for whatever exists between himself and billy russo, whose box of ashes sits in an undisclosed location. unfortunately, ashes are not all that's left of him; the remnants of anvil and valhalla are as much as bill's legacy as the hole in frank's head.

problem is, killing bill hadn't given him the sense of quiet ( peace ? ) he'd thought it would. it'd felt like nothing. most of the time, killing makes him feel alive, in a really fucked up sort of way; he'd felt nothing, staring down into bill's dead eyes, as black in death as they were in life. will this help ? will this be a final nail in the coffin ? he's not sure. he knows he can't live in a world where anything left of billy russo lives, too, outside of his own self.

❛ my beef is -- personal, ❜ he relents that information through gritted teeth, as he looks down into the dirty empty glass that he holds in his hand. when their bartender comes back, he contemplates how much he doesn't like irish whiskey before he pushes the glass back toward him for a refill. ❛ and, y'know, i think you're about as collaborative as i am, ma'am. ❜

that is to say, not at all.

his nostrils flare, fingers tapping against the side of his glass reflexively once the bartender pushes it his way. ❛ judging from your reaction, it feels personal for you. and, y'know, i'll throw you a bone here and be honest ---- my leads are going to dry out soon. and, you got strong suits i don't have. and - ❜ his fingers brush against the holster at his hip, an absent-minded gesture, ❛ likewise, for me. ❜

dialogue prompts from manhunt by gretchen felker-martin.

can you not crack jokes right now?

you make me feel so delicate.

never be where they can find you.

when was the last time you spoke to another person?

i want to feel safe again. just for a little while.

i would give anything to slap you right now. just once.

other people aren't safe.

i hate myself in ways you can't imagine.

there's a place for you, if you want it.

you see what you want, not what's in front of your nose.

i don't want you to go.

these people won't protect us.

telling yourself what to feel is a brick wrapped up in silk: it looks pretty, but it hurts the same.

finally some good fucking food.

nothing worth doing is easy.

this is a real pinterest board of a place.

you look like some lost character from a donna tartt novel.

i don't know what i did. i keep going over it.

i don't want to remember anything.

i don't want to get up. i want to kiss you.

is this the kind of place where people disappear?

i don't like this. i don't like any of this.

it's not that bad, once you get used to it.

i'm always uncomfortable where there's money.

can you hold me?

you're being so selfish right now.

do you even care how i feel at all?

you have to own your power, believe in it.

i wish i looked like you. i love looking at you.

college is where they teach you to get an npr subscription.

what's going on? i dreamed someone was screaming.

don't tell me you love me. i won't believe you.

we've got to stop meeting like this.

i haven't had a friend in a long time.

you always could've done something. you were just afraid to be uncomfortable.

it's so much easier to drink than it is to think about tomorrow.

it can get rough, but we're a family, too.

i love you. i want to go where you go.

i don't care if you love me, as long as i get to be with you.

how did you disappoint your parents?

thanks for asking me to stay.

everything i've touched since i met you has turned to shit.

i was a bad friend to you.

can you kiss me? please?

@castigare said: how do you survive the peace and quiet?

❛ I WAS BORN INTO PEACE. ❜ It's an honest reflection that curls her lips in some strange mixture of a smile and a frown. The stars shine a spotlight down upon where they lay on the ground, and Diana feels a peculiar heat radiating from them, defeating the chill of the night. It's not the same night sky nor the same stars her mother is looking at, she thinks, not for the first time. This sky is tainted with pollution, it's smeared across the dark canvas by human hands. And these stars are delivering a verdict that has found them guilty for crimes that neither of them will ever quite escape. She chokes on her own guilt, a ball with claws that forms in her throat and deters her breath. Her long fingers crawl like spider legs across the inch of grass between them to find his thicker digits. She entwines her fingers with his and squeezes his with a strength that will incite mild pain, but is necessary to remind them both that they're still here. They still have each other.

❛ I resented it. Every moment, I resented it. ❜ She is the woman who denied herself a home in Paradise. Or perhaps it was Paradise that denied her. She rolls onto her side to look at his face, wishing the moon would illuminate him more so she could see his expression. It's not the first time she wishes she could hear his thoughts, and it's also not the first time she's glad she cannot. ❛ I chose war, because the truth is that I thought I could end it. But it doesn't end, does it? It goes on and on and on. ❜ And on and on and on. There is no beginning, no middle, no end. Just a continuous loop of horrors.

But she'll never stop fighting for the Peace and the Quiet. Even if she herself will never again experience those things again. She could end the wars that plague Mankind, but the wars in her mind will go on forever. She thinks that could be okay, though. As long as she has him. As long as she has Frank.

HAS THERE EVER BEEN A MOMENT WHEN FRANK CASTLE HAS BEEN AT PEACE ? at any sort of ease, unless given a direct order to be so ? it seems as if his most serene moments of his life have been the most restless; he's dangerous if he's still for too long. and it's only when he's at his most violent that he finds peace, albeit a twisted, distorted version of the feeling, or what he imagines the feeling must be. even now, he's twitching his fingers, leg shaking, unable to sit still. even diana, a bastion of peace, has been unable to find it. like all wars, the war he's created is one without end, and it's because he wants it that way; war is a beast and his own beast has no collar and no leash, no bounds to stop it.

like with all things in life, too, he sinks his claws into the ones he loves and drags them down with him. it seems impossible with diana, and he should feel guilt about it, for dragging her down by being in her presence like this. but he doesn't. there's a satisfaction, that someone as despicable as he could touch someone who is, by all means, as close to incorruptible as can exist in a world like this. does he make her worse ? does he care ? it's maybe in this way that they're kindred, of sorts; their jagged edges have no business fitting and maybe they don't, but he's never been one to believe in fate, anyway.

his head cocks, and he smiles at her in return. with one hand entwined with hers, the other reaches up to push dark hair behind her ear, knuckles brushing over her cheekbone.