* lover, scorned.

❀ *ﾟ dori sakurada. thirty-eight. nonbinary. he/they. bisexual pisces. ⇝ looks like bronson st. john blew in about a year ago and never left. they’ve proven themselves to be driven & devoted but being secretive & callous is their downfall. it’s only fitting that ex-lover’s lover by voltaire is playing when they leave the motel, where they live on the 1st floor. rumor has it that they came to the states on an illegal passport to hide from their father, wonder if that’s why the co-owner & baker at harvest of horror bakery moved out of their place in bristol, england.

(  trigger  warnings  for  abuse,  major  injury,  hospitals,  amputation,  mental  illness.  )

      in another time, maybe another place, or the very one he stood now, the text staring at him from up at his screen might have set matteo’s racing nerves to ease. would have pulled the set from his jaw and the clench of his teeth while he tried to focus on where he was. instead matteo found himself torn between arguing that he hadn’t meant to send the text in the first place and acquiescing. if ONLY for the sake of not being stuck in the forest for the rest of the night. there was hardly any time to decide, though. no time to recover a sense of balance from shaken ground when he felt like he was having an out of body experience when he answered his phone with unsure hands and an equally unsteady voice that betrayed the emotionless facade he’d worked to plaster around himself like battle armor. “if i had a decent idea then i wouldn’t be stuck out here, would i?” self depreciation pervaded the retort and splashed it in displeasure. the curly haired venezuelan had always bucked against being looked after, taken care of, didn’t know where to put warm feelings when his whole life had been soaked through in blood and violence…. survival. and the phrase already getting in the car to pick you up, so that  you don’t die from your own stupidity? that really tripped him up. had words stuck in his throat as he tried to wade to the surface of a tidal wave of things that were too big to put to name threatened the last shred of sanity teo had left.

      “i came in on the north side, stopped paying attention after one of the forks in the path about ten minutes in, i—” a deep seated sigh emptied itself from a roughened set of vocal cords, unsure of what to say next let alone with the inevitability of coming face to face with the owner of the voice on the other end of the phone. “you don’t have to. i can text someone else. call someone else. anyone else. don’t worry about it.” don’t worry about me hung unspoken yet still ringing in the silence that followed and then stretched with a telltale CLICK denoting that the call had been ended. fucking figures. there was a clawing urge to flee tearing underneath his skin; rendering it too tight on his figure while traitor feet seemed rooted to the spot in the clearing like concrete filled the boots on his feet. dichotomous emotions waged a war that made time stretch into an eternity of a tightened chest and uneven breathing that had little to do with the cocaine running throughout his bloodstream and everything to do with the unavoidable meeting matteo had been avoiding for months. branches and dead leaves crackling reached his ears, eliciting a cause and effect of the curly haired to whip around with a plush mouth pulled back around ever sharp teeth, illustrating the very nature of such a pretty face being cursed with such a darkened soul until higher thinking and the familiar face of matteo’s… something. nothing. everything. pulled him back to reality.

      no, this was no demon, spook, or other nefarious being conjured up from rumor or legend. rather a visage of a not so distant past and a sucker punch to the heart matteo had long tried to convince himself he didn’t have. the proverbial vice already wrapped around his ribcage tightened that much more as words got lost at the tip of his tongue, leaving him staring in the darkness. praying there was enough distance between them that the rapid beat of his heart in his chest wouldn’t be audible while taking a moment to check that he wasn’t hallucinating, not that a hallucination the biker could manifest would ever be as accurate as the flesh and blood human very much stood there. the phantom temptation to reach out and physically confirm for himself what he already knew manifested in fidgeting to displace the urge, unexpectedly delicate fingers twisting a ring around the opposite hand accompanied by a clear of the throat as much to break the silence as to remove the fucking lump in matteo’s throat before speaking. “eu pensei que talvez algo mais me encontrasse antes de você.” his voice came out shakier than he’d wanted it to; the slip into his second native tongue was easier than attempting to string together enough english to form a sentence. any knowledge matteo might have had flying out the window momentarily — clearly he hadn’t had much to begin with, though. “you — fuck — you didn’t have to come.”

          if  there’s  an  ounce  of  regret  to  be  felt  in  the  moment,  bronson  finds  himself  pushing  it  down.  locking  it  away  and  acting  as  if  it  isn’t  there.  much  like  a  shadow  in  the  corner  of  your  eye,  once  you  acknowledge  it’s  there,  it  becomes  increasingly  hard  to  ignore.  it’s  an  art  form  of  sorts,  attempting  to  remain  oblivious  —  sort  of  like  a  dance,  a  tentative  one,  that  bronson  has  yet  to  master.  he’s  unsure  if  he  ever  will  and  it’s  thoughts  such  as  these  that  often  keep  him  up  at  night.  ;  among  other  things.  nightmares  and  worries  he  thought  he’d  forgotten,  they  come  to  him  in  the  night  and  remind  him  of  all  the  things  that  tear  his  heart  to  pieces.  isn’t  this  the  man  he  should  hate  ?  loathe,  even  ?  matteo’s  name  alone  should  be  enough  to  leave  the  taste  of  something  bitter  in  his  mouth,  it  should  burn  his  throat  like  poison  swallowed,  and  ...  it  doesn’t.  perhaps  it  did  at  the  start  of  all  this,  when  he  had  woken  up  in  the  hospital,  and  the  reality  of  it  all  came  crashing  down  around  him.  it  had  been  unstable  to  begin  with,  risky  and  by  no  means  foolproof.  he’d  given  himself  (  and  by  extension,  the  other  )  a  false  sense  of  hope  that  was  nothing  more  than  flimsy.

          there’s  a  million  and  one  things  that  bronson  would  never  confess  to.  a  million  thoughts  and  memories  that  plague  him  and,  were  he  given  the  opportunity  to  forget  them,  he  still  wouldn’t  take  it.  the  truth  he’s  unwilling  to  admit  is  simple  :  the  good  memories  have  found  a  way  to  outweigh  the  bad.  he’s  unsure  how,  hadn’t  been  convinced  it  was  possible,  yet  here  he  is.  here  he  is,  and  there’s  not  much  more  he  can  say  on  the  matter.  it’s  muscle  memory,  it’s  impulse  —  it’s  matteo.  that’s  what  it  all  comes  down  to,  isn’t  it  ?  he  never  thought  something  as  simple  as  another  person  (  after  he  spent  years  convincing  himself  he  was  uncaring  save  for  a  select  few  )  could  leave  a  dull,  but  permanent,  ache  in  his  chest.  it’s  always  there,  easier  to  manage  some  days  than  others,  never  fleeing.  it  has  no  place  to  go.  this  pain  is  his  own,  a  burden  he’s  meant  to  keep  like  a  secret.  

[ salem forest park; later than it should ] [ @loverscorned· ]

      there were bad choices, and then there were absolutely top of the ‘this is an incredibly stupid choice’ choices. more often than not matteo got them mixed up despite knowing better. after all, what was life without a little risk? and how risky could it be to partake in illicit substances he was familiar with before taking a nighttime stroll through the woods to clear his head? the brunette didn’t see a problem with any of it, and that was perhaps the biggest problem of all. recklessness came as naturally as his nicotine lined lungs taking in air. a means to an end in terms of keeping himself out of his own head and away from the dark layers of crimson and guilt that beckoned when there was nothing and no one left to fill his time. maybe the problem was that despite proclivities that indicated his status as a creature of the night, his attention had been anywhere but where he was going. preoccupation that came in the form of racing thoughts that were a jumble of things he couldn’t bring himself to forget and warnings from a childhood laced with little joy to not wander into woods of any sort at night. another person didn’t necessarily worry matteo, confident in his skills to either charm or fight his way out of most any situation with fellow sentient beings. but even he was smart enough to be weary of creatures that lived in woods that could easily overpower him if they so desired despite his chemical laced state.

      perhaps it was that line of thought that sent slender digits to action, searching the pockets of his bomber for a cellphone that was pulled out with all frenzy and no finesse. unlocking it in a rush as the realization that he’d wandered further than intended and was…. lost, for lack of a better term. typing out a hasty text that read, ‘it’s fine if you roast me for this later, but i’m…. lost… not lost, just can’t remember which path i took into this part of the forest’ without thinking about it before pressing send, thinking for all the world that he’d read cyrek’s name at the top of the text bar. until bleary eyes focused sharply on a very different name instead. a sense of equal parts of dread and absolutely overwhelming panic filled the venezuelan for the first time in months as he contemplated throwing his phone into the depths of the woods and allowing himself to be eaten by a bear or whatever fucking else. the pleasant haze that had quelled the majority of his thoughts cut away in sharp relief as teo wondered if it was too much to hope that bronson just wouldn’t see the text. or hated him enough to let him get swallowed up in the forest. he wasn’t really picky, nor prepared when his phone gave a telltale PING that echoed throughout the dark around him, denotaing a notification he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to see.

          bronson’s  life  has  been  nothing  more  than  learning  to  adapt  and  survive.  he’s  said  it  once,  and  he’ll  say  it  again  :  surviving  may  be  the  only  thing  he’s  good  at.  surviving  against  the  odds  may  be  the  one  thing  he  has  going  for  him.  his  father,  being  on  his  own,  the  crash  —  he  survived  it  all.  didn’t  he  ?  and  isn’t  he  supposed  to  be  grateful  to  have  survived  ?  admit  he’d  came  out  of  it  stronger,  with  priorities  in  order  and  a  new  view  on  life  ?  if  you  ask  him  (  and  believe  that  he’d  give  an  honest  answer  ),  he’d  say  he  is  grateful.  what  he  wouldn’t  say,  is  that  beneath  the  gratefulness  is  an  underlying  bitterness.  admitting  he’s  bitter  is  easier  than  admitting  how  a  certain  ghost  still  haunts  him,  no  matter  the  efforts  he’s  made.  he’s  haunted  by  memories  he  thought  were  buried  deep,  but  dare  to  make  an  appearance  at  the  most  inconvenient  of  times.  he’s  haunted  by  the  occasional  glance  in  pacing,  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  ;  the  kind  that  tightens  his  chest  and  brings  the  slightest  shake  to  his  hands.  he’s  being  haunted  and  there’s  no  exorcist  in  the  world  that  could  rid  him  of  it.  isn’t  that  equal  parts  tragic  and  dramatic  ?  he  tends  to  think  so.  you  see,  that  had  been  quite  the  turning  point  in  the  brit’s  life,  and  he  thought  —  he  thought,  foolishly  —  that  he  could  forget.  he  could  learn  to  forget  and  move  on,  because  things  have  changed.  the  bakery,  working  with  anka  and  finding  his  place  in  claire’s  life,  they’ve  all  done  wonders  to  keep  him  in  line.

@loverscorned· 

[ harvest of horror bakery. ] 

In a streak of unusual events, Anka felt as if they were making a mess of things — they had been eyeballing the wannabe wedding cake for tens of minutes, if not half an hour, as the frosting to decorate the extravagant, three-layer specialty was being mixed up and pondering if their creation was set up lopsided or cut too curtly. Saying that they were despondent would be a hair dramatic, but discouraged would suffice the longer that they agonized over it. “I don’t know if you can salvage this one, honey,” they commented to their companion, biting their lower lip and sucking it inward, hands tucked behind their back to readjust the tie of their apron, “We might have’ta scrap an’ start fresh, feed this one to the hungry critters out back. It ain’t chocolate, they’ll live, ya’know? Who don’t like yellow cake?” Pouting their lower tier outward, they sighed and wiped their hands on the front of their apron before resuming their task to slice up the requested fruit to dot the top of the cake along with the buttercream frosting, waiting studiously for the first layer before the designing part began. Admittedly, that was the part that the shorter counterpart was lacking in skill, and tended to surrender to their business partner. Their daughter’s father had always had a perspicacious eye, which Anka had attributed to being a mechanic and requiring to rifle through the probabilities of different errors that could cause vehicular breakdown; after all, Bronson had repaired their old beater of a truck more times than they coudl count and kept the wheels from falling off or the engine from melting. “What were they wanting on it again? Where’d I put that invoice?” They asked, blue eyes darting along the counter and beneath it, stooping down to shuffle for the papers.

[ puppy racing. ]

“Ready to give it a try?” The cowgirl grinned at the curious patron that had been perusing the puppies marching around the playpen for the last couple minutes. They tried to be patient and wait for those that came by to have their fill of drinking in the sight of the pups, but their inquisitive nature got the best of them and they desired to know which one that people were drawn to placing bets on the most — the races were lighthearted, after all, and at times, one dog would knock out the whole game by tackling another to play. All in good fun. They chuckled, their rosy cheeks alit under the lit lamps as the day drew to a dreary close for the sunshine to melt away, and they swept their tattooed hands toward the Dalmatian in the corner. “Between you an’ me, I think I might have a favorite. Everyone’s got a different eye for who they think is gonna win,” they told them, winking playfully. Of course, gathering hints as to who would win running against the other pups was all but nil from the rancher — it changed too precipitately. Their dainty hands braced against the post, hoisting themselves to sit on it and smoothen their rainbow skirt down. “Next race is up in twenty.”

❀ *ﾟ dori sakurada. thirty-eight. nonbinary. he/they. bisexual pisces. ⇝ looks like bronson st. john blew in about a year ago and never left. they’ve proven themselves to be driven & devoted, but being secretive & callous is their downfall. it’s only fitting that ex-lover’s lover by voltaire is playing when they leave the motel, where they live on the 1st floor. rumor has it that they came to the states on an illegal passport to hide from their father, wonder if that’s why the co-owner & baker at harvest of horror bakery moved out of their place in bristol, england.

(  trigger  warnings  for  abuse,  major  injury,  hospitals,  amputation,  mental  illness.  )

There was a spritz of guilt to have bestowed Bronson with the shred of news in one of the darkest moments of his lifetime, but then, they had dumbly hoped that it would shape a light at the end of the tunnel. They didn’t understand ( not fully, anyway ) all the debauchery that their former partner strayed to dive into; they were merely contented to see that he was holding up alright, navigating the newfound way of life as their own wife had been attempting. Seated on the porch of their homestead, pouring out two glasses of pink lemonade, the southern belle swept the raven locks out of their face and pushed them neatly aside, tucking red-streaked flyaway strands behind their ears and looking out to the yard where their chickens were roaming freely during their outside time, clucking happily in their enclosure that Heather had ensured ( or at least, insisted ) was fox-proof and, in her words, devil dog-proof ( to which they contested that the blonde had been juicing up too many stories from the AIMS team hunting so-called “mountain monsters” in the vicinity ).

Their grey eyes maundered, occasionally, to the ashtray balancing precariously on Bronson’s knee and pondering if the visage beneath were flesh or plaited prosthetic, the latter of which they amused themselves to think it was the perfect guise to being half-Terminator. ( Lately, they had been bingeing those strange, sci-fi movies from decades ago and been hooked to ridiculous episodes of Untold Stories of the ER after grueling work shifts; they had never worked in a hospital and their CNA licensing left them far below the bar, but a girl could chuckle at the absurdity of some people. ) “How are ya, honeybee?” The sugary-sweet coated petname might have been passed around to many, but there was special reservation for fondness in that way that they executed it to him, a warm smile plastered to their visage and holding out a plate of freshly-baked, honey butter-glazed croissants that were still warm. “Have something to eat. Ya look something awful, like I ain’t bringing ya enough food to fill up your belly. I should be outsourcing the entirety of Cracker Barrel, bring ya home-cooked meals every day.” There were fractals of their relationship that were sorely missed — a gratefulness lingered for all of their partners, glowing in the depths of their orbits when they rested their gaze upon him.

Settling back into their seat, they took up their own glass of lemonade and sipped from it, rocking their chair back and forth ever slowly, relishing the breeze wafting in as the heat simmered down for the evening, their silky raven hair lightly swishing in the summer air. They listened to him when he spoke, their brows perking in surprise to hear that Bronson wished to know more about the child that they had labored into the world — pre-planned but unexpected to come after they had closed their chapter, and by then, they felt they had left him on too harshly of a bittersweet note. Anabelle sucked in a deep breath, pushing it through their sternum, and of course, they wished for Bronson to be part of her life, whenever he was ready. “What do ya wanna know, honey? If ya wanna see her, all ya gotta do is ask. I think she’d love to spend time with ya. Quiet girl,” and a bit ill, to their misfortune, “An’ I’m right as rain. As always.” The raven witch did their best to hold their head high, if they could. Turning their head to meet his gaze, they grinned. “Tell me how you’re doing. It’s been a minute since ya been out this way, ain’t it? The mechanic shop ain’t rearing to run ya over, is it?”

          bronson  often  found  himself  wondering,  from  time  to  time,  if  things  between  the  two  of  them  would  ever  change.  if  that  sense  of  comfort  and  ease  would  ever  fade  and  they’d  disappear  from  each  other.  phantoms  to  one  another,  nothing  more  than  faint  (  although  fond  )  memories  to  warm  them  during  the  harsh  winters  raging  war  within.  truth  be  told  (  and  to  be  fair,  this  is  not  a  truth  to  be  spoken  aloud  but  buried  deep,  underneath  whatever  else  he  dares  allow  himself  to  feel  ),  this  was  one  of  bronson’s  biggest  fears.  he  knows  it  wouldn’t  happen,  that  neither  of  them  would  allow  such  an  act,  but  he  worries.  and  worrying,  it’s  never  looked  very  good  on  him.  he  knows  better,  however  —  when  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  them  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  he  knows  better.  the  way  he  has  them  is  not  the  same  as  it  used  to  be,  but  they’re  still  here,  and  so  is  he.  which  is  more  than  enough.  it’s  more  than  enough,  knowing  they  have  someone  to  keep  them  happy,  and  safe.  it  doesn’t  have  to  be  him,  so  long  as  they  have  someone.

          there’s  more  than  an  ounce  of  appreciation  in  his  body  for  them  —  more  appreciation  and  care  than  he  could  ever  possibly  show  them.  he’s  got  a  feeling,  though,  that  they  know.  that  he  doesn’t  have  to  say  it,  because  it  radiates  from  him  every  time  he’s  within  their  general  vicinity.  no  matter  how  often  bronson  has  made  the  effort  to  appear  cold,  heartless,  and  unforgiving  ...  it’s  impossible  to  be  that  way  around  ana.  he  catches  them  glancing  every  now  and  again  and  can’t  help  but  wonder  exactly  what  they’re  thinking.  he  wonders  if  they’ve  begun  to  view  him  differently  since  the  accident  —  which  is  understandable,  and  he’d  never  hold  that  against  them,  because  it’s  been  quite  the  adjustment  on  everyone’s  part.  bronson  shifts  in  his  seat,  casting  a  glance  in  their  direction,  before  his  gaze  diverts  to  the  plate  and  ...  not  wanting  to  be  rude,  he  takes  one  and  thanks  them  with  a  nod.  “  surviving,  ”  he  says,  plain  and  simple,  not  worrying  with  details.  surviving,  that’s  it  —  that’s  all  anyone  can  do,  isn’t  it  ?  nothing  eventful  to  note  on  his  part.  “  awful,  huh  ?  are  we  sure  i  don’t  look  like  that  all  the  time,  love  ?  is  this  something  new  ?  ”  he’s  only  joking,  of  course.