#↷ francis wymack ﹙ threads ﹚
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ there were probably more exciting things to do on a friday night than smoking a cigarette outside of the town's lone nightclub⸻ a masochistic test of discipline, like the proverbial moth trying to deprive itself of the flame that burned and burned and burned. but attempts at restraint did not make the allure any less bright. instead, he focused on the faded scraps of paper that plastered on the building's facade, a messy collage of events posters and local business ads, fluttering in the breeze. but there were two posters that stood out— demanded attention, really. side by side, and newer than all the rest. francis took a slow drag as he stared at those two faces, smoke curling up from his mouth as he exhaled with a sigh ﹕ a sound that almost sounded profound. almost. and francis looked like he was chewing on something meaningful, maybe deep, when he beckoned a passerby closer with a sharp psst⸻ a feeling of urgency underling the noise, as if his thoughts could not wait any longer to be said out loud. “ do you see it ? ” gaze returned to the missing and wanted posters, a brief pause just to see if they would make the same discovery. and finally, “ missing girl and wanted guy. they'd make a cute couple, right ? like, opposites attract or whatever. she looks all bright-eyed and fun, and he's got that ... ” francis circled his cigarette vaguely in the air as he tried to find the words, then taking another drag. “ that i'll ruin your life but you'll love me for it thing going on. kind of hot. ” smoke billowing out as he spoke, coughing when he finished the thought with a small laugh. “ but, guess it's too late to ask if they want a third, huh ? girl's been two months missing, so she's probably⸻ ” cigarette dropped to the ground and hand raised to his neck, a slicing gesture across his throat with lazy precision before letting out a croak. @c0nnectdots
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹, 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱. his fingers stilled where they drummed absently on the table, studying the other through half-lidded eyes, searching for the crack in all that marble bravado. but for once— for once— the idea hadn't crumbled into a pile of pretentious dust. ❝ shit, ❞ the word stumbled out with a light chuckle, blinking in such a nonplussed way that it might as well come with its own cartoonish sound effect. ❝ that actually sounds good. ❞ good, but not exactly something francis would personally sit an hour and a half for⸻ would rather watch reruns of curb your enthusiasm than be an audience to that unsettling image that crawled under his skin and stuck to his ribs, refusing to leave. an image of that damn spaceman, drifting in the infinite quiet of the universe, surrounded by the emptiness he worked so goddamn hard to achieve. and he hated it. 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗶𝘁 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄, a little too familiar with desire becoming your own ruin. francis took a long drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke linger in his lungs, nicotine soothing the constant buzz of anxiety under his skin, before an exhale of smoke blown straight toward kellan's face. ❝ bleak as hell, too. but can't he fuckin' stumble upon a space station or idon'tknow, fucking aliens, instead of just being stuck there ? would make for a better story. ❞ francis said with a casual roll of eyes, tone sharp and indignant, almost offended.
he may have only been in red creek for a short time but his ownership of the movie theatre and undoubtedly , the seeming nonsense that he was always talking about had earned him glimpses of interest from those around him . spoon fed his entire life with positive attention and acclaim , it was no surprise that kellan struggled to even appear down to earth , his artistry only on par with his over inflated sense of self importance in the world of the arts . the clouds of smoke do nothing to distract from the importance that he feels is held within the manuscript he has slaved over ( sort of ) . there was some merit to his writing abilities but it was certain that his visions of grandeur were slightly skewed . " of course there is a message , isn't it obvious ? " asked with the implication that someone could derive the overarching message from the vague explanation that he had given . for all his many flaws and delusions , there was a concept at the base of each of his creations and kellan takes a moment , peering through red tinted spectacles before offering further explanation , " it's about mortality … isolation … loneliness … he spends his entire life filled with desire and longing to finally acheive his dream of being the man that lives in space and only upon that actualisation … realisation … will he realise that he has accomplished infinite loneliness . not a single being out there with him in the universe to share his greatest accomplishment . "
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ from the very first time he tasted it, francis had always sought out trouble⸻ a way to catch the attention of those supposed to look after him at first, until it became much more primal than that. he didn't want it for the chaos itself, but for the way it made him feel alive ﹕ heart hammering in the kind of rhythm that reminded him there was blood in his veins, something sharp and hot and real. there was truth to friction, a clarity to standing too close to a breaking edge, and francis had spent half of his life testing the boundaries of that feeling. wondering how far he could lean into the heat before it burned him whole. and places like this were always ripe of the possibilities, the dancefloor a breeding ground of vices and mistakes, a pulsing thing of sweat, sound, and shadow. and yet, francis' attention was only locked— hooked, really— on someone that looked like trouble personified⸻ a scowl carved deep into a face that begged to be either shattered or worshipped under these seizure-bright strobing lights. “ that's one hell of a scar you've got there. ” francis said as he approached, raising his voice just enough to slip through the wall of sound, words came like they'd been dipped in something slow and sticky, deliberate. his lips curved into a smirk, the kind that asked for trouble because trouble was all he'd come here to find ﹕ but not exactly opposed to whatever else he might discover, especially now with a closer look. “ looks like it hurt like hell. it's kinda hot, though. y'know people love broken things. ” takes one to know one. gaze traced the jagged line along taylan's throat, lingering a little too long, mesmerized by how it almost glimmered faintly in the light, pale and uneven, standing out stark against his skin. then, his gaze dragged back up, searching for taylan's eyes, a thinly-veiled challenge in his expression. “ mind if i touch it ? ” the question slipped out like it was his right to ask, like he was already halfway there in his head, imagining his fingers trailing over the line of it. “ heard the dead girl also got her throat slit, but hers didn't get to heal like yours. ” @ofvolatile
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ the problem with being a tourist, a stranger in a town so desperate to look tight-knit despite all the murdering each other, was that francis didn't know who to come to when he needed something. people seemed wary of anyone a little out of place⸻ but he was desperate at this point, didn't have a dealer here, at least not yet, so he did what anyone might do when adrift ﹕ leaning back against the wall outside dolly's, hands stuffed into his pockets as he studied anyone passing by. he was looking for anyone who fit the part. someone younger, someone who looked like they smoked grass— maybe out of habit, maybe to take the edge off a life that pressed too hard. someone who looked stressed as fuck. it was a gamble, sure, but everything in this town felt like one. the diner food, the weather, people's sanity. and when his gaze fell upon a stranger nearby, looking particularly stressed out, francis didn't hesitate to approach⸻ pleasantries not exactly his thing, had one question so sharp and insistent that he didn't bother with that smalltown how do you do. “ hey man, ” he started, voice low and rough at the edges, not exactly trying to bring attention to the conversation, but with a smile too warm to possibly be genuine nonetheless. “ don't suppose you know where a guy could get some weed around here, do you ? i mean, c'mon, surely you know. you look like you could use a fat blunt right now. ” tongue clicked, looking at the other man as like he could read him. but francis was just projecting. then almost as an afterthought, francis added, “ not looking for anything harder. just weed. ” he drew a cross over his heart, smile tugging into something that might have been a smirk, though it felt more like a grimace. as if saying that out loud made a difference, as if drawing a line in the sand could hold back the tide. @capitclkarma
#↷ francis wymack ﹙ threads ﹚#i just thought it'd be funny to ask an offduty cop where to get weed fkdgfdkgkgk#capitclkarma
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ needs and nourishment truly had nothing to do with this impromptu field trip to this shitty town's only grocery store⸻ only really meant to fill the time before the next urge for something more intriguing than his futile attempts at sobriety. he should know better by now ﹕ yet something in him still wrestled against his whims, some foolish desire to be good, despite how it often felt this ugliness inside him had always been just another birthright. but the aisles of amrak was hardly the place to think about the human condition, bloodshot eyes bruised by sleeplessness roving across the shelves without focus, as if searching for something and forgetting it in the same breath. and francis slowly pushed his shopping cart, each wheel wobbling in discord, hand hung slack over the side, brushing anything and everything off the shelves, landing into his cart with muted thuds. there really wasn't any rhythm to this aimlessness, cargo piling up in reckless abundance ﹕ ten boxes of cereals, a dozen canned soups, a whole row of instant noodles, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, none of which would be consumed when he could always just order takeouts from lakeside grill. still, francis pushed on⸻ as if this terribly mundane ritual might stop the spiral that was coming. but that was wishful thinking, no stopping the tremors in his veins, how the colors in the grocery store suddenly looked too bright, how the fluorescent light now felt too loud. breath became shallow and quick, trying to maintain some semblance of self-control. and overwhelmed with his head swimming, swimming, swimming, francis nearly hit someone with his cart, stopping to a screeching halt just an inch away from colliding against the woman standing near the end of the aisle, inspecting a display of imported chocolates. he didn't know her, but there was something he immediately recognized ﹕ a steadiness he couldn't find in himself. and maybe that was what drew him in— the faint hope that it might rub off on him, even if only for a second. “ hey, ” he started, voice rough and low, almost a whisper, almost like a secret, like it had to fight its way out of his throat. “ do you know where to fuckin' get some, uh ... ” he had to think for a minute, wasn't even looking for anything, just wanted to ground himself to a conversation. but as soon as words failed him, intrusive impulses hijacked his body with the first familiar thought⸻ and francis mimed sniffing something off the back of his hand, rubbing his gums, then even pretended to roll up a sleeve and exhaled sharply, all his gestures ridiculous and frantic. @inlustre
#↷ francis wymack ﹙ threads ﹚#inlustre#selin probably : I DON'T DO COCAINE I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT IT LOOKS LIKEEEEEEE
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ there was no real reason to be here aside from the fact that it was only place open in the dead of night, when sleep was an impossible dream in a sprawling lakehouse that felt suffocating⸻ its emptiness pressing down on him and his loneliness. at least here at dolly's, the hum of the old lights buzzed louder than his more dreadful thoughts, place nearly empty, save for a trucker nursing a coffee and a line cook that looked like he should be a nude calendar model instead of flipping patties. he definitely looked like a march or april kind of guy, too pretty not to be a sleazy womanizer, and so people must be hiding their eggs from him like it's easter. practice safe sex and all. he seemed fun, at least. but those were just the intrusive thoughts that invaded francis' head as he stared at the cook instead of coming up with what he wanted to order. he leaned forward, arms resting on the counter, eyes tracing the other man's nametag before looking into his eyes. “ i'll just have whatever you recommend, salvador. ” he clicked his tongue and smiled, before attention drifted to the abandoned newspaper on the counter. the article on the front page wasn't exactly what he expected from the local press ﹕ but it sure was entertaining, albeit a little disappointing that the mystery might be over when he only just got here to see how he'd fare against a sharp knife. francis tapped the photo over and over and over until he got the line cook's attention again, a low chuckle echoing faintly in the empty diner. “ this girl— they think she has something to do with the other one going missing ? i mean, she's got a face that looks like she's a little too into pegging. but hell, with a face like that, she should be able to have whatever she goddamn wants. murder included. ” @brntout
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ maybe he didn't really think this through, this reunion proving to be far more ��burdensome than what his shallow mind could handle⸻ creating some unwanted introspection, how time strangely folded in on itself, collapsing years into moments, collapsing people into versions of themselves that didn't always alight. and the red creek of his childhood— all the shy laughter, the warmth, the reckless joy of summers spent by the lake and meeting new friends after so much time being lonesome— felt almost mythical now. and yet, here it was, reflected in the face of a girl who once fit seamlessly into those memories. except now, the edges didn't line up. kirby wasn't the same, and hell, neither was he. still, seeing her now, caught between deflection and honesty, francis felt something familiar crackle to life in the quiet space between them ﹕ the peculiar ache of recognition, colored by all the things time had changed. his gaze lingered on kirby for a long moment, brows furrowing slightly as he looked at the basket then back to her again. ❛ lavender, huh ? ❜ he said, a little incredulous, as if considering whether or not to believe her. his lips quirked into a small smile, leaning back a little as he gestured toward the store's entrance. ❛ you do know it's going to snow soon, right ? i mean, red creek winters aren't exactly kind to plants. ❜ or people⸻ features suddenly twisting into a grimace, splitting headache hitting him as memory drifted toward the last winter he spent with his now-dead grandparents here in red creek. he thought of that night ... when everything was fragmented, but francis could still hear the screech of █████, the scent of █████ and █████, and waking up to the sweet smell of eggnog and cookies, one hand cuffed to the siderail, as a man in a suit told him about the █████ of ███████ █████████. but the sound of something falling from another aisle brought francis back to the present, smiling at her so casually. ❛ but it's good to be optimistic, i guess. i'm sure you can figure out how to keep something alive in the cold and dark. ❜ he shrugged, shifting the focus away from the present and all that gardening bullshit, to something probably easier to talk about. or at least, he thought so. ❛ how's your mom and dad ? ❜
there is a vast difference in seeing someone , in your hometown , that was your , say , high school lab partner that you once accidentally spilled acid mix on ( he was fine , minor burning , relax ) . or your shitty ex . or your former friend's mom standing in front of you at the grocery store and making awkward conversation while waiting for them to ring up her ten activias . but this has got to be worse right ? because there's two versions of her known to francis . her as a child , not yet aware of the stigma that surrounds her name and her mother , mostly because she can't read that big ass book that sits on the top shelf of a bookcase , constantly out of reach for her . kirby does not remember herself as a kid , other than she was much happier , especially in the summers , when kids without their parents' prejudices came down to red creek and ran through the woods with her . that was who francis knew , who he probably remembered . the other version is the instagram carousel girl , all mini skirts and blurry pictures and pictures of la sunsets . she was kirby's favorite version of herself because that kirby didn't even know what the fuck a red creek was . murder ? puh - lease , she's just trying to get to the pch so she can go to a party in laguna , duh ! the kirby before him , she was sad and pale and wearing a puffer jacket that was just a touch too big because she found it in the back of her old closet . this kirby had a shitty job and a suspicious basket of items . “hi , francis , uh … ” she looks down at the aforementioned basket with a grimace . “ the dominatrix lifestyle would probably be the coolest answer here . uh no , i'm trying to - ” she considers it for a moment . “ i'm starting a garden behind my apartment complex and i need all this shit but i know it's hard to believe because this town is a 60 minutes special waiting to happen . i swear though , i just wanna plant some fucking lavender . ” okay , calm down , girl , it's just francis . he cannot legally arrest you .
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ 𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗱𝘆 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗮 𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆, somewhat resonant in a way he resented, like every word that rolled off kellan's tongue carried the weight of a world only he could see. was it conviction ? or maybe just desperation⸻ thinly veiled behind the smoke and mirrors of his delusional self-appointed genius. and francis had seen it before, in himself, in other people clinging to fervor when they didn't want to admit the ground beneath them was crumbling, the way they built castles out of sand and called them monuments. and yet, for all its fragility, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝘆𝗽𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗸𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗻'𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝘆, like watching someone teeter on the precipice and wondering if they'd fall or fly. there was a beat of silence, heavy and expectant, the kind that made the hum of the world outside their bubble seem louder— cars droning by, faint whispers of icy wind, the tick of a clock that had long since stopped keeping proper time. francis didn't fill it right away. he just sat back in the bar's uneven chair, the wood groaning under his weight, smoke unfurling in lazy ribbons from the cigarette in his hand as he stared at the virgin drink he ordered an hour ago. god, he wanted something stronger. ❝ why the fuck is the fucking spaceman in fucking space anyway ? ❞ the question finally tumbled out with a casual disdain, like he had already decided it probably didn't matter. just some abstract mumbo-jumbo that came to them in a dream. but then he decided to entertain it anyway. ❝ guess you've got me curious, though. what's the story ? i mean, he's probably not just floating up there for kicks, right ? there's gotta be some kind of meaning there ... ❞ fingers drummed against the table, finally lifting his gaze up to meet theirs— restless, mocking— as if the answer was a joke waiting to be told, but he wasn't sure if kellan even had the punchline.
𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 -
hues of dark eyes tinted with passion ( read : delusion ) as he sits across from his unfortunate victim ( read : friend ? ) , lips parting as he spouted off one of his normal tirades . the scariest part of their behaviour was often the blind faith and confidence they had in their eternal work as a great visionary of their generation , " i'm telling you , the space man film that i've been working on is going to blow everyone's mind . i think i've really done it this time , i've created a narrative for a real cultural reset ... " the unknown origins of his film and lack of context about it leaving many wondering why he wouldn't shut up about it .
#↷ francis wymack ﹙ threads ﹚#changelingz#they got that rich ppl finding themselves in this bumfuck nowhere town bond iktr ...
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ the club was alive with the sound of music, all thrumming basslines and strobing fluorescence, pulsing and burning in a kaleidoscope of light and sound. bodies writhed in the dark, caught in a rhythm that was more instinct than choice, the air thick with heat and sweat and the tang of spilled beer⸻ but everything blurred into irrelevance, might as well be silence when he had the stranger's firm grip against his throat. it was a strange kind of intimacy in the midst of chaos, the whole fucking world just white noise to francis' singular focus. just them, the predator and the willing prey, standing too close in a world that no longer mattered. a lone beat of laughter slithered from his throat, brittle and harsh, as the other man's thumb applied pressure to his touch, a reminder that violence could leave you breathless. but it could also make you feel undeniably alive. it wasn't pretty, god fucking no, but it was honest. brutal. unforgiving. and maybe that was why he chased it now ﹕ spent so long drowning in the slow sticky decay of his own making, his veins a graveyard of poison and regret, that this almost felt like absolution. just a sharp and clean kind of pain that demanded nothing but the moment, that stripped everything down to the raw beating heart of fucking survival. better to bleed on the floor than fester in silence.
❛ harder. ❜ francis' smile spread slow, like a crack on precious porcelain, jagged and a little unhinged, gaze locked onto the other man as he tilted his head to expose more of him to the pressure of those sturdy fingers. ❛ i think you already know the answer to your questions, ❜ he murmured, breath hitching slightly against the press of the stranger's hand, not from fear, but from anticipation, his pulse skipping beneath the other man's thumb. and maybe he had always been waiting for this⸻ a chance to show someone who he truly was, something fractured and barbed, a creature not in need of salvation but punishment. after everything he had done, after yet another year of that guilt from the █████ of ███████ █████████, francis felt a peculiar solace in the idea that all the hurt he inflicted could be taken back by embracing violence with open arms. ❛ you feel that, don't you ? ❜ voice barely audible over the bassline that rattled the walls of the warehouse, but somehow cutting through the noise. nothing else really mattered. ❛ that pulse. it's a little faster now. all yours to play with. all yours to prove that you're still here. alive. ❜ and francis thought the pain would only prove to himself that he was real, too. two birds with one stupidly violent stone. and that was his turn to lean in then, reckless, deliberate, his lips brushing against the stranger's ear, his grin sharper than the bass drop that rippled through the room. ❛ and you're here. standing this close. hand around my neck like you're the boogeyman ready to drag me under the bed. ❜ he let out a soft sardonic laugh, the sound curling between them like smoke. ❛ but it's still all just bark and no bite. you're hesitating. 'fraid you might like it, too ? ❜ then, with a deliberate slowness, francis leaned back, his smirk sharp and unwavering as his gaze bore into the other man, as though daring him to make the next move, to bridge the gap ﹕ knuckles against bone, the tear of flesh, to finally let him know his name by carving it into his wrist, or something else entirely. ❛ so what's it gonna be ? you gonna kiss me, or you gonna kill me ? ❜
violence has always been his destruction . he threw himself into every game like a man determined to be torn apart , a beast circling its own death . hockey had been his escape , and perhaps also his cage , away from the prison that was red creek . every shove , every strike , every bone-jarring hit against the unforgiving ice was a way to expel the raw , seething anger that churned beneath his skin . then came the accident , the moment violence turned on him swift and merciless . a slash too cruel , too quick . blood lost , control lost , pieces of himself scattered across the rink like discarded gloves . how much blood had he lost before the blackness crept in , before his consciousness began to unravel ? the cold ice beneath him feels distant now , the world blurring into nothing but the sound of his own pulse , fading with each beat . it's always been this way : violence and self-destruction etched into his bones , written in blood . and tonight , it promises the same . taylan’s eyes fall to francis’ wrist , pale stretch of skin faintly illuminated , veins visible beneath the pulse of light . his gaze lingers , drawn to the deliberate taunting offer . though he's unsure if he’s daring him to refuse or waiting for something more . his eyes slide up , catching the lazy , edged smirk on their' lips . the stranger's neck is exposed , an invitation in soft curve of skin . taylan's hand moves on its own , catching the side of his neck with a quiet uncertainty . his fingers find the warmth of skin , the damp trace of sweat , and press just enough to feel the pulse thrumming beneath his touch . “ your wrist , ” taylan murmurs , cutting through the space between them . his thumb drags slowly along the line of francis' throat , slow , deliberate , lingering - more focused on the sensation than anything else . each movement stoking the phantom burn of his own scar . the jagged memory of blade and blood etched into his skin . his fingers tighten slightly , and he leans closer . everything else - the crowd , the room - dissolves . his lips brush against francis' ear , a breath more than a whisper . “ you think you'd like it , don't you ? ” there's a challenge in his words , dangerous and yet inviting . taylan’s thumb presses just below the jaw , firm enough to remind him of the stakes . he wonders , briefly , if the male understand what he's asking for , or if he's simply drawn to thrill of destruction , unaware of how deeply it can cut . his breath ghosts over francis’ skin as he adds , “ you want something to remember me by ? to carry it long after tonight ? ”
#↷ francis wymack ﹙ threads ﹚#ofvolatile#freaks tw ....#KGFKGGKGKGKDFGKGKG THERE ARE TOO MANY NO ONE READ THIS
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ this probably looked like a slow march to death⸻ a foolish advance toward a cornered animal, his gaze drawn toward the stranger's balled-up fists and the clench of his jaw, a man that looked like he had claws sharp enough to gut him and teeth that could crush bone. and it would be so easy to mistake this attraction as reckless, suicidal even, but it tasted like nothing but survival to francis. he had known for a long time that there was no fixing what was broken inside him ﹕ already tried to numb that festering ache with bottles and smoke for the longest time, but it did nothing but spread the rot in his viscera. liver. kidneys. lungs. rotten. rotten. rotten. but this ? something about this felt different than all the previous ways he had destroyed himself. because something about this threat of violence felt like it wouldn't be for nothing. violence could be purposeful. violence could be transformative. maybe what he wanted from the boogeyman, he could get from someone just as equally fucked up. and as he witnessed the stranger step closer, francis realized just how intoxicating anger could be ﹕ especially when it was raw, unfiltered, and just barely contained, like the hiss of steam beneath a boiling lid. and he had been on the receiving end of violence many times before, but he had never been as sober those times as he was now, never looked at what it had to offer so clearly until this very moment. his lips curled up as his gaze remained fixated on the other man, glad to see someone stripped of pretense, burning with a heat that could either devour or ignite something new, even if it was all due to anger. " you seriously threatening me with a good time ? but i mean, if you're offering ... " a laugh escaped him, low and shameless, taking a half-step closer with reckless confidence. " you could give me one here, " francis gestured at the inside of his left wrist, veins faintly visible beneath pale skin. " it's a sensitive spot. a little too easy to scar. imagine the mess you could leave here. permanent, intimate. you could do it with your teeth. " his smirk widened, lazy and wicked, as his gaze flicked back up to meet the other man's gaze. " or here. " francis canted his head further, exposing his neck to taylan. it was an inviting idea, really⸻ pain that would come from hands he had invited close, instead of something creeping up when you least expected it, instead of something that gnawed from the inside out. it could be a brutal recalibration ﹕ stitching him back up with every blow, tethering him to something real. someone real. even just for a night. " something to match yours ? "
the air in the warehouse is thick — sweat , spilled liquor , clinging to taylan's skin like a second layer . the bass thrums through the floor , rattling in his chest like it's trying to kickstart a second heartbeat . overhead , strobes slash across the scar on his throat - an inescapable , constant spotlight . it's impossible to ignore , and neither are the eyes burning into it . it’s not the media , or the damn therapist his team insists can help him “ process ” the accident . not even the constant hum of painkillers , dulling the ache without ever numbing it . it’s the way they look at him — like the scar is the only thing left worth knowing . a mark , a tragedy , a headline . his hockey career , his glory days all of it swallowed up by the jagged reminder of what happened . the irritation creeps in slow , sharpening with every word spoken , each syllable dragging against his nerves , leaving a trail of heat behind . he feels it crawling under his skin , digging in deep , until it's festers beneath his ribs , raw heat of frustration pushing through . the more francis talks , the more it grinds at his nerves - dead girl thrown in with offhanded carelessness . then the comparison — his scar , his brush with death juxtaposed against someone who didn’t survive . there's no emotional weight to it for taylan , just an irritation that someone thinks it's worth mentioning at all . tension ripples down his neck , and the pulse in his jaw hammers beneath clenched teeth . his hand twitches with the instinct to touch his scar , but he clenches his fists instead , fingers curling tight at his side forcing the urge to disappear . “ if you’re really that into scars , ” he begins , low and sharp , “ i can give you one of your own . ” the words drip with threat as he steps closer , just enough to crowd their space . forcing them to feel the weight of his presence . “ don’t think i’m the one you want to play touchy-feely with , though . ”
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ an exhale heavy with insincere disappointment slipped past his lips, really should have expected this⸻ the unyielding air of authority that clung to men like the one in front of him, stern and self-righteous, their sense of humor buried somewhere beneath a badge and years of stupid protocol. it was shame, really. francis was hoping for at least a sliver of fun, something less rigid than the rulebook he imagined the deputy kept on his bedside table. he should be at the fucking club. but francis wasn't quite done pushing just yet, because this could be fun, too ﹕ the challenge of prying at the seams of a man sewn so tightly together. and he scoffed at deputy kiskova's suggestions, grin widening as he leaned his weight back against the wall of dolly's, his arms crossing his chest. ❛ c'mon now, deputy, what do you take me for ? you should just get your cuffs now, 'cause i'd rather be in your custody than curl up with a paperback. ❜ francis stepped forward just a little, his gaze a shade too direct, dancing on the edge of insolence, hands lifting in front of him, wrists together in a mock surrender. ❛ i mean, between you and me, a night in lockup sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than sitting around trying to decipher whatever self-help bullshit drew barrymore's recommending this week. and imagine all the fuckheads i'd meet in there. don't know, could be a laugh. ❜ he paused, letting the words hang just long enough to toe the line between banter and provocation, his grin unwavering. then, francis stepped even closer⸻ not enough to invade personal space just yet, but enough to feel the tension that bridged the gap between them. or maybe he was just delusional. a bored and sober mind playing tricks on him. ❛ but really, how do you deal with it ? ❜ he continued, voice lowering just enough so the conversation couldn't be overheard by any audience passing by. ❛ all that pent-up aggression ? all those late nights, the bullshit calls, the pressure to keep this place in one piece while a fucking killer seems dead set on tearing it apart ? ❜ and for a moment, there was a flicker of something almost genuine beneath the bravado, a brief glimpse of curiosity that wasn't entirely an act. ❛ there's gotta be something that works for you. a junkyard, maybe ? somewhere you can just ... wreck some shit ? or do you prefer something quieter ? a punching bag in the garage ? or— oh, oh, you do look like one of those dudes who hold fuckin' three-foot carps in their tinder profile, so d'you just go fishing and pretend the water's gonna listen to all your problems ? ❜ his grin softened into something closer to a smirk, a flicker of a challenge dancing in his eyes. ❛ c'mon, deputy. humor me. what's your go-to ? you kind of have a civic responsibility here. either you help me, or i don't know, i turn to drugs. ❜
this guy was ridiculous. in truth, the whole situation was comical. maybe it wasn't a joint he needed to relax. just whatever this was. a distraction from the much more pressing matters, this felt like something out of a sitcom. kaz wanted nothing more than to look around, hand to his ear listening for a laugh track, eyes searching for the hidden cameras. unfortunately for this guy, francis he said his name was, this wasn't a silly, thirty minute tv episode. instead, he was a breath away from getting in real trouble. it didn't matter if he had a killer to catch. the law was the law, and it would do the town some good to remember that.
"nice to meet you, francis. wish it was under better circumstances. i hope i'm the first one to officially welcome you to this town." eyes moved up an down, assessing the man in front of him, sizing him up. technically, he hadn't done anything illegal, but even off-duty, kaz wanted to be ready for the worst. "well, uh, that was nice for you i'm sure,' he coughed out. a little lost in what francis was rambling on about, unsure of why he would share such personal information when they first met. kaz deducted he must be nervous. hands planted on his hips, ready to move if something did need to happen. "that's your way of asking how people relax?" was his eye twitching? "we don't talk to the police about drugs around here. that might help. you should try the gym. or read a book. that might help you quite a bit."
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ he didn't come here for friends, not really⸻ the real reason more precarious and terrible than that. and while there was some solace in anonymity, in how the few locals that did remember him didn't ask any questions, the absence of friendly faces surely made his stay lonelier than he expected it to be. but francis was running his hand along a row of hammers when he spotted her ﹕ just a glimmer of recognition in his peripheral at first, didn't know how she knew her, until it finally clicked. kirby. the girl stitched into childhood memories of lake-splashed summer afternoons, walking a little faster passing by that haunted house on norwood, and that one time she pushed him too hard on the swing and he practically flew and landed on gravel. she looked more carefree then, different from the girl standing by the rope section, all stiff with her expression caught between some odd combination of dread and wishing on a star. and that was when he saw it⸻ her shopping basket and everything in it. francis stifled a laugh, part bemusement, part incredulity, because whatever she was up to, it looked ... unhinged. but instead of walking past and preserving the illusion of normalcy, he found himself drifting toward her, curiosity getting the better of him. “ kirbina, ” he greeted, voice light but underlined with amusement. and her name felt strange on his tongue after so many years, like dusting off an old polaroid from an entirely different lifetime ago. he raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a grin as he gestured vaguely at the incriminating collection in her basket and shelves of ropes. “ so, what is it ? planning a murder, which seems to be popular in this town, or ... exploring the dominatrix lifestyle ? ”
○ LOCATION ⏤ hardware store . ○ TIME ⏤ 4 : 17 pm ○ STATUS ⏤ closed for @horrorphase !
she desperately did not want to talk about it . in fact , she was doing everything in her power to hide the contents of her shopping basket . bleach , gloves , trash bags in bulk , a shovel ( only a small one ! ) . it was only after she put the last item into her basket did kirby realize that she looked fucking insane . in redcreek's only hardware store , buying all the necessary items for a goddamn murderer . meanwhile , her building manager had a greenhouse out back that he was willing to let her use to take up gardening and she wanted something to do after work . why didn't she go out of town for this shit ? well , then she would've looked even more suspicious . she stood in front of the rope section ( she needs to section off the different areas ! ) and then , out of the corner of her eye , a familiar face , one she only really recognized due to being mutuals on social media and goddamn , if this day could not get any worse . she tried to step slightly away from her basket , which sat at her feet , and crossed her arms , wistfully hoping that if she just stood still , he'd walk right past her .
#↷ francis wymack ﹙ threads ﹚#rsilience#the way gardening didnt even cross his mind bc hes never done that shit !!!!#and ykwhat ... he probably should. might do him good 2 have hobbies
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ this wouldn't be first time he had felt embarrassment, even found some kind of shitty poetry in it⸻ the way it burned you clean, stripped you down to something raw and honest. he could definitely feel it now, cheeks ruddy with heat, as the man in front of him— a deputy, no less— looked at him with an air of practiced authority. and for all his talk of his own pathetic charm and quick wit, francis had definitely walked himself straight into this one, and there was no clever way out. but if there was anything life had taught him, a lesson that didn't enter one ear and out the other, it was that if the ground collapsed beneath your feet, you could either fall or grab at the nearest ledge and pull yourself back up. so, francis grinned, easy as ever, even as he cursed himself internally⸻ shaking the deputy's hand with firm grip, letting it linger long enough to toe the line between cordial and something more. people liked to be seen, to be appreciated, and he made sure to do just that with his eyes as he stared at the cop. “ francis, ” he introduced, voice deliberately smooth and warm. “ spent some summers here before, but you can say i'm still mostly new to town. pleasure's all yours. ” his gaze darted toward the hand drifting toward the deputy's belt, subtle and instinctual but a telling move nonetheless. and francis raised an eyebrow, playful, attempting to seem unbothered. “ but hey, it's not every day i get to chat with a man of the law. i promise i'm a good citizen, deputy. never even been cuffed, except that one time i hooked up with this hardcore feminist from nyu, but those were pink and fuzzy. and she had a pink leather whip, too. ” hands raised in feigned surrender as he leaned back against the wall again, like he was making himself at home despite the circumstances. “ but the question⸻ right. just wanted to ask how you relax around here. must be difficult with all the ... excitement this town's been seeing. but you seem like the type who's got it all figured out. ” a smile on his lips, faint but inviting, as if daring the deputy to drop the pretense even for a second.
one day everything would be okay, and he would look back on this time in his life and laugh. it was what he had to tell himself was the truth. the mantra he repeated each and every morning he woke up. but the years went by slowly as the chapters in a textbook. and every day things got more dreary. a sick mother. spiteful brothers. a murder investigation. his best friend the subject of said investigation. kaz chose to look at the bright side — this is why he got into the profession. to help. to help investigate and clear bronte's name and save the town from a killer. much easier said than done but nothing would stop him from trying.
he'd gone out out to pick up food for bronte. he wasn't really sure how to help other than do his job. but he wanted to comfort her in some way. let her know that things would be okay and he wasn't speaking as an officer but as a friend. kaz figured a meal would be a start.
until the man stopped him. he had to restrain himself, keep his mouth from falling open like a cartoon character. the muscles in his jaw worked as he stared at the man against the wall. and he kept going. and there was nothing he could do but blink. he hadn't recognized him and this only confirmed he was a stranger. rather than address his words, he stuck his hand out for a handshake. "deputy kiskova. i don't think we've had the pleasure of meeting. and who might you be?" his free hand moved towards his belt, unconsciously drifting toward where his handcuffs were when he was on duty. "i don't think i heard you right. mind repeating your question?"
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ 𝗮 𝗻𝗲𝘄𝗹𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝘁 𝗰𝗶𝗴𝗮��𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗹𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗽𝘀, tipping his head head back to glance at the night sky, one of the few things francis genuinely liked about red creek. a vast shadow dotted with distant stars, with such lusterless light that somehow placated the loneliness he felt in places where they would otherwise be invisible. francis exhaled a stream of smoke that twisted and swirled in the amber glow of the streetlights, climbing upward only to eventually dissipate into the endless uncaring dark. like all things eventually did. and he watched the smoke dissolve as if searching of something⸻ an answer, a purpose, or just another distraction as pretty as the one before him. his gaze drifted back to the posters, the faces that stared out if pleading for some kind of salvation, but francis knew himself well enough to know that he would never be anyone's savior. but her ? glancing sideways at her now, listening to her questions and sentiments, francis felt an instant recognition ﹕ saw her as one of those people who could cut a hole through your skull with their gaze, prying into every fold and wrinkle of your brain until they had found whatever they wanted to see. 𝗶𝘁 𝗳𝗲𝗹𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝗼𝗰𝗵𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗺. but he'd be lying if he said being seen ( no matter which way ) didn't feel like deliverance sometimes. ❝ i mean, he's hiding in this bumfuck nowhere. like, out of all the corners of the worlds, he chose this place. so whatever he's hiding, whatever's in his conscience, he's probably desperate to keep it buried. and no better place than a town where nothing really happens⸻ well, y'know, 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘇𝘆 𝗺𝘂𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘃𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴. ❞ he flicked the ashes of the cigarette to the ground, the faint orange embers scattering like fireflies caught in a sudden gust before dying on asphalt, shoulders rising in a slight shrug as he gauged whether she felt the same way. ❝ but me ? ❞ a laugh, sharp and dry, scraping out of his throat. there wasn't much thought given to the question, as if it didn't really matter. as if all of his mistakes always had the same outcome. ❝ i'd turn myself in. not 'cause i'm noble or whatever. fuck no. but i've always gotten away with shit i shouldn't have. pump enough cash into the right hands, and suddenly your worst mistake is just another inconvenience. like a parking ticket. ❞ hell, he could've killed alaina price and his family would have taken care of everything. that was what happened when he got in that ███ ████████ that ██████ ███████ █████████, right ? but getting away didn't mean being clean. it just meant he had one hell of a fixer and a worse conscience. he glanced at daniela's face another time, before letting out a sigh. ❝ but how about you ? got any secrets so big they'd chase you to the end of the world and back ... or are you just one of those 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗶𝗱𝗲, 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲 types ? ❞
there were many more exciting things to do than smoking outside of a nightclub, yes. effie hasn't thought of going in, but rather found it to be a nice hidey-hole to pause her walk. the thrum of the music good white noise, almost calming from the outside. but, no, she won't go in she's taking a pause from a new nightly routine walk. restless, unable to sleep. after awhile tossing and turning surpassed annoying and became boring. she isn't sure where it stems from, but maybe it's everything. the register's latest post, the missing person's, the wanted poster, the buzzing ... everything and anything all at once. it has her buzzing and wanting to type away on her laptop. however, she feels ricardo might have a tighter grip on her words. look over her shoulder too much. it grates her more than she'd let on — but she'll cross that bridge when she gets to it.
she sees him before she hears him, eyes glancing over to the fellow smoker. when he speaks effie's head tilts, engaged with the topic. ding, ding, ding ... it's one of the things keeping her eyes open. " hmm. interesting thought. " the cigarette is raised to her lips as her shoulder blades roll, turning her to a lean against the wall with just one shoulder pressed. smoke tumbles from her lips towards him, glancing over just to acknowledge the picture. " asking for a third ... that's pushing it, though. that get you far on any dating apps? " there's a smirk. it isn't meanspirited, but he could take it however he wanted. she follows the slicing gesture and responds with a laugh. " who knows ... go with your story of them being a cute couple together, they could've ran away. maybe hauled off somewhere together after some atrocities. " it's ridiculous and effie knows it, but she's willing to live in the hypothetical for a moment.
another drag off of the cig and she's looking up at the sky. " honestly the real question is ... will the guy turn himself in, come clean or is he on the run and hiding something like anybody and everybody does. " looks back towards francis. " tell me, which would you do— run or tuck your tail? "
#↷ francis wymack ﹙ threads ﹚#c0nnectdots#i lost this ... but its never too late to love on effie ....
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ꜜ ﹙ 💳 ﹚ ﹕ sometimes, francis could not help but wonder just how different his life would have been if only he didn't spend so much time in these little acts of sabotage⸻ not the deliberate bomb-in-the-trunk kind of self-destruction, but the quieter, more insidious ones. the type of undoing that slipped under the skin and burrowed deep before they took root. it was the alcohol and the drugs, the bar fights and the street races, and this might seem trivial in comparison, but it was no different. the cereals in the cart, the canned soup he'd never eat, the instant noodles he didn't even like, the unconscious gathering of objects with no real purpose other than to confirm what already knew ﹕ he had no direction, no motive, and this was just all a waste of time, pretending to be a person. he could be doing something else with his time, something productive, something worthwhile. he could learn pottery, or get that fuckin' rosetta stone crap and learn a new language, or maybe learn to dj like paris hilton and tobias northcott since that seemed to be what rich people did to feel they were good at something these days. but here he was. and even the pointless question he raised, that stupid pantomime of doing cocaine, was just another self-sabotage⸻ deserving of mockery, of a slap in the face, but instead she was warm ... picking at the edges of his mess like she was trying to unravel a knot, her benign voice threading through the static in his head, giving him something to grip that wasn't just his own frantic bullshit.
" college diet ? " francis barked, voice sharp with indignation without a real bite behind it, the reaction more like a muscle memory than anything, his bloodshot eyes lifting up from the chaotic heap of groceries to meet hers. " lady, i don't even like cereal. it's just⸻ " he gestured vaguely to the cart, his hand cutting a ragged line through the air like the words were snagged somewhere in his throat. " i don't know how to fuckin' cook, alright ? all these shit's gonna rot in the pantry anyway, just takin' a precaution in case the boogeyman guy kills the chef at the grill. but you should really just roll your eyes or slap me next time i say something instead of being polite about it, yeah ? would probably feel less weird. " his laugh was loud, but humorless, a defensive sound that didn't even know what to defend from. and he should've stopped there, turned around and shoved the cart down some other aisle to lick his wounds in peace. but something about the way she just stood there, steady and unyielding, like she could hold the whole goddamn store on her back like atlas if she needed to, made him hesitate.
and her final question felt like a sucker punch he didn't see coming, mouth opening and closing once, twice, like he was trying to decide if the question was absurd or profound. " not heights, no. " francis admitted, voice lowering until it was barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud might shatter something fragile. he didn't even know why he entertained it, but perhaps it was the unexpectedness, coming out of the blue, so abrupt that his fucked-up sense of self-preservation couldn't even keep up. " it's⸻ that other shit. closed spaces. walls too close. doors that don't open. not being able to see where i'm going. not being able to move. that's the shit that gets me. " he didn't look at her as he spoke, his focus dropping to the wheel of the cart, wobbling slightly like it was doing its best to keep up with the weight of everything. and just like that, the fight in him ebbed, replaced by something smaller, quieter, and infinitely more vulnerable. " why d'you even ask ? " he muttered, shoulders hitching in a shrug, small smile curling his lips upward. " you the boogeyman ? tryin' to decide how to kill me ? ' cause y'know ... i think i'd let you. "
she could walk amrak with her eyes closed if she wanted to . it had always been her second home , the place she'd spent afternoons in playing hide - and - go - seek with taylan between the aisles as a child , or where she stocked the shelves and swept the floors as a teenager when she was finally deemed old enough to work . there were times in her life the store even seemed to transcend its inanimate form . amrak was her mother's all - consuming passion , one that stole the woman's devotion and attention away in the moments selin needed it most . amrak was the tomb that had seen the end to a lifetime of dreaming ; amrak was the ball and chain on her ankle , the one no one seemed to notice before they shoved her into the water , the weight of it dragging her down down down . sometimes , amrak was just a grocery store . sometimes , it didn't make her want to take a bat to the glass jars and smashable produce , or forget to check if she'd blown out the candle in the back office let the whole store go up in flames . selin had been having more of those days as of late . it felt more purposeful , somehow , running the grocery store at a time the town needed community the most , like maybe there could still be something to bind them together , even as fingers are pointed and accusations she has no interest in hearing are spewed .
it was a fanciful , naive idea — one her father used to take pleasure in crushing before she'd learned to stop sharing them . still , selin scans each shelf carefully , keeping an eye out for misplaced items or ones with their labels facing backwards , the pastimes of one of her employees . a display of chocolates makes her pause , gaze roving over text printed on the box . imported from switzerland ! there's a pang in her heart at the idea that she might never get to visit , that she might really be stuck in this town forever with no way out , a sensation so deafening it takes her a moment to realize what she was hearing wasn't her own mourning at all , but the screech of a grocery cart coming to a stop . she notices the strange assortment of items first , multiples of everything , like whoever was pushing the cart was preparing to feed a family of twelve , or perhaps preparing for the end of the world . selin glances up , attention stolen by the quiet greeting , a desperation nestled so distinctly within the single syllable . it doesn't prepare her for the pantomime show , one that has selin blink the way pasha sometimes does , slow and processing . " i'm pretty sure we haven't sold that here since the eighties , " she manages with an uncertain laugh before she gestures to his cart . " i can tell you where the milk is , though , in case you want some to go with the cereal . " maybe it's his eyes , red rimmed and wild , like an animal backed into a corner one step away from freaking out , but she's compelled to keep on talking . " you never outgrew your college diet or something ? promise i'm not judging — you just look like you could afford a fruit or two . the organic kind and everything , " selin says , lips tugging into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes . concern pools , and maybe that's what has her blurting out " are you afraid of heights ? " before she could stop and think it through .
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