@metroeden

honestly? the streets.

younger billy tried to stay away from his foster environment as much as he could. if the weather didn't make it too cold, he slept in the open—on stoops, benches, roofs, and bleachers in the parks. and even when the temperature made his flesh ache enough that he knew he shouldn't have come out of the house, there were enough nights when you might have found billy sleeping on the pavement, cradled within a box, if he weren't staying over at one of his homeboy's place, rather than in the apartment.

because arthur was there.

and arthur was a danger. the sort of man who thought that punishment and inappropriate violations on a teenaged boys bodies was the same thing as love, and that holding back was merely a excuse for a lesson in submission. billy knew how far he could go before he might as well have tried to kill the man.

so he liked to stay moving.

sometimes you’d see him pumping iron in the park late at night, doing reps of pull-ups or rehabilitating a bad shoulder by exercising a torn ligament that he’d never be able to get right again. this was not about appearance. this was about preparedness. giving himself something to let loose so that his rage didn’t engulf everything else.

he knew how to navigate in the gaps of this city—urban explorations was an unintentional hobby of his. he knew how to hide in places where the sunlight didn’t penetrate and people would never go. unless they're lost. billy liked to slink away in areas where no one asked any questions.

I mean, part of that was practicality. part of it was darker. it would be a lie to say there wasn’t a passive death‑wish threaded through those years. a familiarity with disappearance. dead on train tracks. dead in a gutter. dead somewhere anonymous enough that no one bothered to learn his name or could even recognize they were perceiving a human corpse. not a plan—just an option that stayed on the table.

canonically, when the doctor left billy's bleeding in the dumpster, when death came close enough to smell, his terror wasn't the pain of madani's bullets. it was the dirty solitude he didn't ask for. dying unseen under a starless sky. the idea of dying alone was one of the worse things that could happen to him. the contradiction never resolved itself—wanting to vanish, but not wanting to be abandoned.

that aside, the instincts of knowing the lay of the land never left him. he could buy out an entire floor of the towers in midtown and still know the location of every bolt hole and every exit within a 5-mile radius. luxury didn’t erase the need to know where to run. the city’s underground—tunnels, crawlspaces, forgotten infrastructure—was always there, all grossly layered beneath the illusion of order. the synagogue tunnel discovery in january 2024 was only a surface glimpse of what’s been there all along.

billy invested in that hidden geography quietly. methodically. paranoia, maybe. but it's always about preparation. comfort used to be an issue for him, but it's the simple math of surviving.

IT ALWAYS SOUNDS GOOD AT ONE IN THE MORNING, LAID UP IN DRINK WITH A HANDSOME MAN, DOESN'T IT?   escape, primarily.   but most everything else, too.

if the human condition is to hypothetically remake one's whole life while staring — sleepless — up at the shades of a dark ceiling at midnight,  than it's the shared disorder of two people — locked together in the swells of an overlarge party at an even later hour — to do something very similar after staring long enough at one another. that isn't to say that to @jehster's eyes are dark; they are, on the contrary, presumptuously blue; but rather that dove and clark callaway have been looking into one another's eyes for some time now, and subsequently starting to see shapes move within them, the way one does after peering at shadows for too long. forms and frames of something if not better, than at least different. the abyss may gaze back, but so does shangri-la.

it isn't either of their faults, really. in a time that is either before or after this or somewhere in an unclear adjacency, there is a book and a woman in it that will say i like large parties.   they're so intimate. and that is as accurate as anything else that could be said. the pair has not so much as been left to their own devices as kept to them purposefully, suspended in a little champagne cabal. above the penthouse they're billeted within, the summer moon is a big paper thing cut out by a child's loving hand. it fits thematically with all the well-dressed people in their well-tailored clothes, dressed as if by a doll-player's hand, and seems particularly appropriate to all the dustings of white powder and greasy spots of spilled liquor ⸺ eraser shavings and juice stains left behind on the edge of the artist's desk. a dream of an evening constructed by a hungry, spoiled infant.

that is, above everything else, what hollywood is.

( and this isn't the city of angels, but i digress, because hollywood is a noun, and therefore can be used to fit the definition as we've written it here tonight ⸺ )

they sit in the same plush chaise that they've occupied for the last two hours, elbows and shoulder-tips overlapping the way casual things do, or in the way that things which are not casual pretend to be.  

"mm," is that all that vermont is ⸺ one purposeful night away? it seems very much to dove that a place like that should, by principle, sit somewhere farther out. harder to reach. her gaze rolls away from clark and down to the white crêpe of her gown, along the crest of one foot. with her legs crossed, it hovers very close to clark's shin. the heel, in fact, may be partially submerged under the folds of his trousers, but the angle makes it impossible to tell. "but we wouldn't get very far, would we?

i'd make you pull over at the first roadside marvel for pictures, and then you'd want for the bar," for an implausible whim it's awfully appealing, and that's why dove presses on the lining of the urge carefully, with pearl-tipped fingers, hoping it will shrink ⸺ downsize into something manageable which she can slip back into her purse or clark's pocket. her neck lays against the overstuffed backing of the couch, rested as one might in bed. conspiratorially — or perhaps conciliatorily — her hand moves from the box of the urge to clark's lapel. or is that urge to urge, whim to whim?

features turned into poker face, gaze drops on rim of crystal glass. "can't i call a friend and hang out with her just because?" you've never been like that, it's not really a surprise nobody would believe your intentions. the thing about being dead is that when you come back, it draws attention - good and bad. the bad type is the one you're currently focusing on, of course. "i do need a favour actually," and here goes nothing, if tatiana doesn't want to be involved at least you've tried.

"usually i keep quiet about my web, but i thought this might be turn into a partnership," with every new red room that is brought to life and brough back to rest, there's bound to be victims - people taken away from their lives and returning to nothing, blending back into society after something so cruel can be difficult. "there's an hotel in madripoor that could use some restoring," and if reputation is anything to take into account, you can rest assured the place would be in good hands if given to her.

the aftermath of rain cements him to the couch , stilled to the presence of warmth , as if it doesn't bring comfort , but a sense of apprehension . it feels as if the world wouldn't offer him such kind things without the ulterior of certain motives , predestined to the mere ambles of movement , like breathing alone could bring on an evil omen . the last time he was brought within the confines of a space , he was still in ... space , of all places . found hidden inside the barriers of thick insulated walls that provided heat similar to that of an incubator if it were to nurture an egg .

though he was still human , rooted to the ground bearings of earth and , here , in these parts , where he wasn't known and practically didn't have a name , he was truly safe . but when the concave of cotton thread wraps him up in several senses , that of affection and understanding , comfort and sympathy , pure and unadulterated warmth , completely void of any superficial misleadings , he still can't help , but wonder of the intentions behind a mere gesture .

'you're my lucky charm.'

HELLY R’S ENTIRE LIFE HAS BEEN ONE BIG BREAKDOWN.

it began with a short questionnaire followed by NEW EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION(!) ⠀ — ⠀ an event at which she was the only attendee. banging on doors, on walls, pleading to leave the confines of this room, of this self [or lack thereof].

gaining consciousness meant receiving a long list of rules that withdrew her autonomy as soon as she had gained it.

her breakdown is attributed to being This Helly. this helly is never away from work. she never sleeps, never gets a break ⠀ — ⠀ she is always staring at a screen, is always returning on the elevator ride. not to mention the lack of windows, of fresh air. the constant, never-ending hallways, a sea of flickering LEDs and blank white walls and empty cubicles and ⠀ —

— ⠀ honestly, she’s surprised that this ‘breakdown’ isn’t more evident. ⠀ [though, the likely explanation is that her colleagues have noticed. they just don’t care to comment on it] ⠀ she swivels around in her chair, turning to face tati.

blanket of warmth . it comes suddenly , and sweetly , in the same manner it does every time . fingers about shoulders are something similar to a fishnet , her touch , nimble and tender , drawing him in like a lost and wandering outcast of the sea . in her arms , he's reminded of home , melting confusion and discomfort from the knit of his brows when he meets senses of familiarity once again ; the thread of her clothes soft and beloved of homemade sutures , the scent of her aroma pleasant and inviting , the sincerity of cause always brought on with a nurturing love . and it's for this , these specific reasons , she conjures a distant memory that rushes to the forefront of his mind each time : ma , lovely and warmhearted all the same .

from the crook of her neck , he closes his eyes , breathes her in , forces himself to embrace the embrace , as he's enveloped in the means of something once forgotten , something he thought he could never have again . never taken for granted , he hugs her back . he always hugs her back . @1stlady

omg i love cobel ... problematic fav idc!! honestly i haven't seen the witch yet (don't look at me!!) but i am ... percieving!! carrie is also a total fave and i'll protect her forever!! also it's so funny bc my gc mentioned lady snowblood like two seconds ago ... maybe this is a hint lmao