#paralyziingfears.

there's a thousand year old cavity in his chest, and he doesn't know how to fill it. deep inside blooms the need for everything all at once: life, death, craving, despising… wanting. god, he wants. he wants his father to urge him like this, to hound, to strive to connect. he wants to confess the things rotting in his core, the disease which coursed through him since the womb. but the desires never vocalise, because he feels he doesn't deserve the solace. "talk to you? you? and what, you'll give me some fatherly advice? maybe afterwards, you can teach me to play catch, and i'll tell you about my first crush." he scoffs, the sound climbing up his haggard rib-cage to rest in the cool air between them. he grasps at the receptionist desk with white knuckles, like if he lets go, he'll spiral into the depths of his self-made prison. and this time, no one will fish him out.

"or, lets talk about that girl i killed... will that make you feel useful? will you be able to sleep, knowing you're doing your duty as the responsible father, trying to help his fucked up son? how i let cordelia⸻" not cordelia. just someone else out to get you, to use and discard you when they're finished. PERHAPS YOU NEVER KNEW THE VISION-GIRL. he's tired of hating, of blaming, when angel's been true to his word. but conor francis doesn't know who he is, if he's not daniel's flesh, raised on the tale of angelus. (is that why you descended those stairs and came here? lingered like a black cat in search of a home, rather than staying in your room? you wanted @paralyziingfears to seek you out. you knew he'd follow. you're cornered, smothered by his undying love, and you crave it so desperately.) the hotel is quiet, touched by the witching hour; a grave contrast to a few short weeks prior when it was bursting with community, with promise of a healed tomorrow.

angel's voice is soft, while conor's is piercing, begging for aid. sarcasm drips into his tone, and for a moment, he looks like a regular teenager, egging his dad on for fun. that mirage scarcely lasts. "i know: we'll talk about how the whole fucking world was blinded by jasmine! how everyone, even you, felt her. in their souls, in their hearts… except for me." THE ONE LEFT BEHIND. unworthy to grasp complete and utter serenity. once prophesied for glory, now a hollow shell of the boy he failed to be. conor grows stunned and frozen by his own helplessness, (the cursed and the damned: HIS WHORE MOTHER AND DEVIL FATHER⸺) and suddenly, his face grows downcast. shoulders no longer pulled taut, breath relaxes, eyes void of accusatory fixations.

his heart thumps madly, a wild thing with no direction: it forces the question out before he can retreat. "why was i the only one who saw the truth?" help me, dad. help me understand. you let me go once... HOLD ME TIGHTER THIS TIME. he turns around, slowly, hands lowered into fists; a striking parallel to that feral child with devices strapped to his body, ready to blow it all to hell. "what's so wrong with me that i couldn't be part of something... good?" his cold bites to the bone, any remnants of warmth discovered in holtz, in jasmine, in cordelia, has died⸺ he can't comprehend why angel doesn't give up, too. it's infuriating as it is compelling. in an instant, his chin raises, features schooling back into neutrality, any show of vulnerability vanishing; he appears years beyond, opposed to a kid just needing someone to hold them.

❝ yeah … yeah, of course i will. ❞

❝ you know what i want. ❞

lila’s voice was as low as a whisper, not needing to raise or heighten her tone due to the lack of noise. the corner of her apartment the two were sitting in was dark, as it usually was: the perfect place to have these secret meetings that nobody but the moon knew of.

❝ you keep interfering with my life. ❞ with what her and dexter could have.

❝ it’s … ❞ hard to explain, hannah wanted to say, but the words simply wouldn’t form in her throat, and she knew that anything else she wanted to say wouldn’t be well—received. or, perhaps, understood.

❝ it’ll only be for a little while. ❞ she finally decided to end her sentence with, eyes flickering down.

bullshit? dexter wanted to scoff. sergeant doakes was the only one who ever had suspicions of him, the only one that could see dexter’s dark passenger behind his innocent eyes and heroic job. it never bothered him, because doakes would never find out the truth, yet he always made an attempt to break dexter, and this was another of those futile attempts.

❝ what? ❞ dexter looked up at doakes from his chair, where he had been looking at and working on his report for one of the recent murders. there was too much blood. there was always too much blood.

       Ever since she, Laurent and Ash touched down in America, their path has been fraught with danger. After complications with the plane— it was never supposed to manage such a distance twice in the span of a few days, Ash said— they'd landed closer to Virginia than Ohio.

        Luckily, Daryl had marked Alexandria on the map he'd shoved into her hands before they made their dangerous escape from the Pouvoir.

      Rick's words are supposed to be a comfort. In some light, they are, if only for the sake of the others. Ash had been incredibly tired and defeated; Laurent's optimism had been steadily waning since Losang's original attack, but being in America without Daryl pulled him into a near-depressive state. At the very least, they now have roofs over their heads and a reliable source of food.

       And yet all she can think about is the man she loves being stranded on the other side of the world.