#I need to disappear into the big hole inside her I want her depravity to neastle inside me

[chibelial]

.

[simp4sam22]

Title: Unexpected

Summary: A hunt goes wrong and John is forced to watch his sons make love, something they’d been doing already, right under his nose.

Pairings: Sam and Dean, then Sam x John x Dean.

Warnings: incest, slight daddy kink, forced voyerism and then a consensual threesome.

~*~

When John woke up that morning, he hadn’t expected to be dealing with.. this. He’d dealt with witches before, okay? He knew what the hell he was doing.

But this witch.. she knew what she was doing, too. She was older than she looked, probably a century old. John was, admittedly, out of his element with this. Which was why he found himself against a pole, wrists tied together on the other side of it. In an abandoned building, of course.

His boys were on their knees in front of the witch, her spell keeping them from moving. John felt helpless as he watched her hand cradle Sam’s face.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch him!” Dean hissed before John could even say anything. Dean had a fire in his eyes, something John had seen before in the past. Dean was always protective of his little brother, it was the way John raised him after all.

The witch just smirked, nonplussed by Dean’s outburst. She turned to look at John, her deep brown eyes turning a shade of purple. Sam’s eyes rolled back as her hand rested against his forehead.

“What are you doing to him?!” John screamed. He wrestled against his restraints, but it was no use. The rope was enchanted. They were trapped and he could only blame himself.

“Sammy-“ Dean had tried to call out, but cut himself off once Sam finally looked at him. “..Sam..” His voice was tight as the youngest Winchester was finally able to move. His hand landed right on Dean’s thigh. The eighteen year old’s cheeks were flushed red, pupils blown as he slowly trailed his hand upwards.

Dean’s eyes flashed from Sam’s to John’s, and the older man couldn’t exactly explain the emotion in them. “Sam, get a hold of yourself. This.. this is a spell. She’s got, What, Sam-“ Dean‘s words cut off with a gasp as his brother gripped at his clothed cock.

“You’re fucking sick!” John yelled out to the witch, who merely laughed in response. “Stop, Sam. Now!” John ordered but to no avail. Sam seemed miles away, lost in the feeling of his brother’s jean clad cock in his hand.

“He can’t hear you, Johnny.” She pointed out uselessly. She neared Dean then, who was still begging, pretty weakly by that point, for Sam to get a hold of himself. He’d barely noticed when she came by, too distracted by Sam’s hands. He didn’t have enough time to react to her touch finding his temple, and just as Sam, his eyes rolled back. And when they returned to their natural place, they were lust blown and hooded.

“Oh, no, not-Damnit! Come on, boys, you can fight this! Stop-oh god-“ John’s voice caught in his throat as his sons started to kiss deeply, their hands working together to get their clothes off.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? The way lovers come together so naturally.” She commented from beside John. He sneered at her, which only made her grin more.

“This is the opposite of natural, you bitch. You’re manipulating them!” John pulled at the rope around his wrists in one last attempt at escape. Of course it didn’t work.

Her laugh, though pretty, felt like daggers to his ears. “You really think this is the first time? You must be blind.. because I saw what was in Samuel’s head, Winchester. He and his brother.. well.” She trailed off, motioning towards the scene unfolding in front of him.

They were naked already, clothes in a heap beside them. Dean had Sam in his lap, kissing him hotly as his hands gripped at his little brother’s ass.

John turned away, taking in a deep breath. He couldn’t watch anymore. He refused to believe what the bitch was saying. It was ridiculous. Not only that, he would have noticed right away if something like that was going on.

“No, Winchester, you need to see this.” Without touching him, she used her magic to force his head to face them, his boys. Sam was leaning against Dean, his head in the crook of the older man’s shoulder. Dean had.. oh god.. Dean had his spit slick fingers inside his little brother’s ass. Two of them.

And Sam, he was.. he was moaning, his voice small and sweet. He was begging for it, begging for Dean’s cock to split him open and John wanted to cry. He wanted to cry because what he was seeing was wrong, unnatural, and was most likely going to scar his boys for life.

And above all, he could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes because he could also feel the heat of arousal pooling in his gut. He could feel himself chubbing up behind his jeans and it was just so wrong.

“Daddy’s watching, Sammy.” Dean said out of nowhere, his voice gruff with lust. Sam moaned weakly, hips pushing back against three fingers. John’s eyes widened at the sound of the words, his cock at full mast because of it.

“You gonna let daddy see you like this, all stretched out and begging for your brother’s cock?” Dean kept going, but still made no effort to look up at John. Which was probably a good thing. John didn’t know if he could handle their eye contact right then.

“Heh.. what an interesting development.” The witch bitch murmured to herself.

“By the way, my name is Evanora. Not Witch Bitch. Thought you big bad hunters would have figured that out already.”

John chuckled weakly with a shake of his head. “Naw, we know your name. We just don’t give a damn about a washed up old hag like yourself.”

She was in his view in seconds, covering up the sight of his sons. Her brown eyes flickered a deep shade of purple, her full lips pulled up in a feral grin.

“Those are big words coming from a man who’s getting hard looking at his own kids.”

His lips turned into a flat line, his face hot with embarrassment. There was no use hiding it. His cock was hard and straining against his jeans, and no matter how depraved it all was, what she was saying was true.

“Not that I can blame you. They really are beautiful, aren’t they? You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed that.” Evanora whispered against John’s ear, the sound sending shivers down the hunter’s spine and down to his length.

“The older one and his pretty plump lips? His bright green eyes? Oh, and the younger one.. such a puppy dog look those hazel, right? The sweet tilt to his voice?”

John wanted nothing more than to shut her up. He didn’t want to hear that, didn’t want to hear how true it was. Thankfully, or not, her tormenting words were cut off by a loud grunt from Sam.

She got out of his line of sight and right there in front of him, Sam was sitting straight on Dean’s thick cock, stretching his spit slick hole.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Sammy.. always so tight..�� and damnit, he looked tight. John couldn’t help but imagine how warm Sam would be, how he’d feel around his own-

Stop.

John forced his eyes closed and sucked in a deep breath. What was left of his sanity was screaming at him to get a grip. These were his children. And they were.. they had been..doing this for awhile, apparently.

Dean had his arms wrapped around Sam’s waist as the boy bounced, his head in the crook of his little brother’s neck. Sam was babbling about how good it was, how big Dean was, and then he turned his head slightly, just so he could look at his father. John’s breath caught in his throat at just how beautiful Sam looked right then, with his long hair sticking to his face and sweat prickling his shoulders and back-

“Daddy.” Sam gasped for John, and Dean groaned, finally looking over his brother’s shoulder to look at the older Winchester.

“Sammy is so tight, dad. So warm. Wish you-wish you could feel it, too.” And with that, he pushed Sam onto his back, his long legs over Dean’s shoulders, and fucked into him at an almost too rough pace. Sam’s red tipped cock leaked onto his own tummy as his moans reached a higher pitch.

John’s head slumped back. He was unable to look away. The worst part was that he wasn’t under any spell. He could look away if he wanted. He wasn’t even sure if the witch was still there. John couldn’t even bring himself to care.

He licked his lips as Dean gripped at the back of Sam’s thighs and pushed them down to his chest. From that angle, John was once again able to see Dean’s thick cock disappear and then reappear from Sam’s ass. Dean’s amulet hung low between them.

“Gonna come, Sammy baby. Want me to fill you up?” Dean ground out, his eyes just on Sam. The youngest Winchester nodded, his grip tight on Dean’s shoulders.

“Please, De. Want it.” Sam gasped, and Dean rammed all the way in as he came, filling Sam’s ass to the brim. And then Sam was right there with him, his back arching as he came, untouched, just from the feeling of Dean spilling his load inside of him.

John watched as they rode out their orgasms with slow, lazy kisses. Dean cradled his brother’s red cheeks, whispering out his love for Sam, and the younger brother was doing the same. For awhile, they just held each other.

John could see how much they loved each other then. It filled his chest with joy despite everything, his own erection long forgotten.

That was until his boys finally sat up and made their way over to him. “Boys-“ John tried, but the words caught in his throat when they both fell to their knees in front of him.

They each had a hand on his thighs, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Can we, Daddy?” Sam asked sweetly. Dean toyed with John’s belt, looking up at him through long lashes.

“Please, dad.” Dean blushed deeply as he begged, like he wasn’t used to being in that position. Somehow John could tell he still liked it though, and he wasn’t sure if that was real or because of the witch’s spell.

That thought alone sobered him enough to make him shake his head. “You don’t really want me, boys. The spell-“

“She’s been gone for awhile now. It’s just us. No more spell.” Dean pointed out as he reached around to remove the rope around his father’s wrists.

John rubbed at the bruises around his wrists and took in a deep breath. His cock was still rock hard and straining behind his jeans, and it was starting to hurt with how much he needed to come. And Sam and Dean, they were offering to help, without the coercion of the witch’s spell.

John didn’t know what to do. It should be easy just to say no. To just tell them to get dressed so they could leave and forget that this ever happened.

But as he opened his eyes and was brought back to the sight of his boys on their knees for him, he knew there was no way he’d be able to deny them this.

John brought his hands down to their heads, ran his fingers through their hair as he nodded. Without a moment of hesitation, Dean worked the belt through the loops and dropped it to the floor. Then Sam was unbuttoning John’s jeans, and then unzipping them. His boys both worked together to pull it down, until it and his boxers were at his ankles.

“Daddy-“ Sam gasped, followed by Dean’s gruff, “Fuck, dad.” John couldn’t help but feel bashful as they held his heavy cock in their hands.

Sam went in first, licking up the shaft greedily. John bit his lip, his grip already tight in Sam’s hair. Dean was shy with his movements, his tongue gently lapping at the leaking head. That was just as hot to John, his fingers carding through Dean’s light brown hair.

Sam’s tongue traced back to the tip, right along side Dean. The both traced the head until their tongues met, both slick with spit and pre and the sight almost made John come on the spot.

And if that wasn’t enough, Sam actually took him into his mouth, all the way. John could feel Sam’s throat spasm around his cock as he tried his best not to gag and he couldn’t hold back the groan that spilled from his lips. Dean smirked up at him.

“Sammy’s really good at this, dad.” Dean murmured as he stood up. It was somehow different having him in his face. More intimate somehow.

“Warm little mouth,” Dean whispered hotly into John’s ear just as Sam pulled back just to hollow his cheeks as he bobbed his head. “Go ahead and pull his hair. He likes that.” And then Dean was kissing his father’s neck, his hands trailing up John’s shirt.

“Shit, boys. That’s.. fuck.” John cursed, his voice gruff as he tugged at Sam’s hair just as Dean suggested. Sammy moaned around the length and looked up at John with wet, lust blown eyes.

“Daddy..” Dean murmured shyly, the sound of it made John’s hips sputter slightly. “Can I kiss you?” Dean asked, his fingers brushing gently against John’s hard nipple.

John used his free hand to take Dean by the nape of his neck. He looked his oldest over, at his freckles cheeks, flushed with heat. He was so beautiful.

Without a word, John pressed his lips against Dean’s plump ones. The hand that was up shirt moved to John’s bearded cheek as the kiss deepened.

Sam pulled off his cock then, but still used his hands to jack John off. “You two look so good.” He said through a happy sigh. John ran his fingers through his hair, the motion tender as his tongue met Dean’s.

Dean moaned hotly into John’s mouth just as Sam took him back in. John was so close. He could feel it pool in his abdomen, the heat of it threatening to boil over. He couldn’t find the words to express this. He hadn’t felt that good in so long.

His grip tightened on both his boys as he came, right down Sammy’s throat. Dean kissed him through it as Sam swallowed every drop.

Soon enough, he was done. His head fell back against the pole as he tried his best to catch his breath. Sam made his way to his feet, and he towered over both Dean and John by three good inches.

He made sure to swoop down to kiss John, not even bothering to ask like Dean had. John could taste himself on Sam’s tongue and that alone caused his soft length to twitch pathetically.

Sam had pulled away then, a satisfied smirk on his face. Dean smiled up at him and ruffled a hand through his baby brother’s hair. Sam leaned into the touch, his hazel eyes soft. Dean pulled him down and kissed him gingerly.

“You boys really do love each other.” John breathed out after he shakily pulled up his pants. His kids were still just as naked as the day they were born, not a care in the world.

Dean intertwined his fingers with Sam’s. “Well.. yeah. We have for awhile now.” He looked up at Sam then, his smile warm. The younger Winchester returned the gesture, and then reached out to take John’s hand in his.

“And we love you, too, dad.” Sam said, his voice so sweet that it made John’s chest feel nothing but warmth.

John tightened his grip but his eyes fell the floor. “Are you two sure...?” John asked. He couldn’t help but feel like he didn’t deserve their love. Not after all he’d done as a person and as their father.

They both leaned in and kissed John on the cheek. “We love you. We want you.” They whispered in unison. It made John feel happy, happier than he’d felt in a long time. After awhile, the boys finally got dressed and they all left together.

When John had woken up that morning, he hadn’t expected to deal what he’d been presented with. Somehow, though, it seemed to work exactly in his favor.

[soyforramen]

Anyways, here’s part one Sunday:

It had been seven long years away from the only home he’d ever known.  Away from the heartache and death and depravity.  Seven years in the real world, where parents didn’t try and kill their kids; where drugs weren’t rampant on the streets; where people didn’t pretend like their small town hadn’t descended into corruption years ago.  Seven years to mend and try to heal from the scars this place had carved out of his flesh.

Archie looked through the windshield at the sun clawing through the sky, steam rising from the river below to cover Sweetwater Bridge in an ominous fog.  He wanted to turn back, put his back to this hell hole of a town.  After everything they’d been through, after all the pain, grief, and heartache, they both swore they’d never go back.  Riverdale was no longer theirs, if it ever had been.  It’s innocence had long been dragged down under the dark, rushing currents, taking their youth with it.

But, as Romeo Void always said, never say never.

He glanced over at Betty, still curled up in the passenger seat asleep, and wondered.  What would have happened all those years ago if he had said yes to her?  If he’d lied, and said he loved her the same, would they have ended up like his parents?  Separated by half a country, filled with bittersweet memories and regrets of what they could have been?  Or would they have turned into her parents, forcing a smile, married with kids and miserable, the perfect couple to everyone but themselves?

It didn’t matter.  Not really.  One what if lead to a thousand, each a domino lined up against the others, ready to topple a mountain with a simple touch.

They were here now.  Together.  And that’s the only thing that could matter right now.

Archie pulled the visor down to block out the sun and turned the old Ford’s engine over - newly rebuilt by his traveling companion - and pulled onto the old wooden bridge.

Back to where they’d started.

It was strange to see one’s childhood, once so precious and simple, changed so completely.  The old Southside High was now littered with shops selling cheap tourist t-shirts and even cheaper urban legends.  Sunnyside Park had been forgotten altogether, now nothing more than a run down jungle of rust and flora, a faded ‘For Sale’ sign crying out for salvation.  And they gym, the one he’d risked his life -

- and those kids’ - god he’d been so stupid - nothing had been worth that, especially not his pride what had he -

- had been converted to a used car lot, Reggie’s face beaming out from an overly large billboard with blinding veneers and thinning hair.

Pop’s was the only thing that hadn’t changed, its neon light guiding him home, still a beacon to wayward travelers in need of a place to call home.  Wary of the woman asleep beside him, Archie kept driving.  His weren’t the only memories he had to be careful of disturbing.  This return was hard on the both of them -

- Memories can take you back, home sweet home, You can never go home anymore -

- a necessary strain on the future of their relationship.  They’d stayed up for months arguing about it, voices raised and doors slammed.  She claimed it was necessary for her future; he disavowed the past in that place.  They’d both lost their parents; their youth; their innocence; their sanity there.  Neither wanted to admit how badly they needed to stay away.

He didn’t want to admit how badly he needed to return.

It didn’t matter, in the end.  He knew it was a fight he’d end up losing.  A twenty round TKO with determination like hers.  Nothing could dissuade her from going; nothing could keep him from going with her.  Because it was Betty who was asking him.  Betty his lifelong friend; his soulmate; his other half.  The one person who knew him inside and out.  He’d only ever told her no once in his life, and it had broken both their hearts so badly it had taken half a decade to heal.

Kintsugi, she told him when they’d come back together again.  Mending things with gold so the scars never went away.  Instead, they were made more beautiful by having survived the break.  

“That’s the last of it,” Archie said, his breath coming quick.  

With a clang, he set down the last box - a mishmash of utensils, pots, and pans.  They’d lived minimally for so long it was routine to load everything up into the bed of the Ford.  Military transfers had convinced Archie he really only needed a change of close, a pen, and a piece of paper to make it through.  Betty, though, had taken the opposite tack and had her entire lifestyle planned out to the minute.

“The furniture should be dropped off tomorrow afternoon, if we’re lucky.”  He stretched his arms up to hang his hands on the doorframe and watched as she moved to the newest box.

“Portland all over again,” Betty said.  

She cut into the packing tape, her hands constantly on the move.  Nesting, she’d once called it.  Settling into a new space and making it hers as quickly as possible.  Every where else, she’d been able to relax upon arriving.  But here every movement held a nervous, frayed energy.  He worried what would happen when she ran out of things to do.

Betty had been quiet since yesterday, refusing to leave the house until everything was settled.  Distracted by unpacking she barely acknowledged him.  Every call was sent to voicemail, each text left on read.  He’d had to prompt her throughout the day to eat.  

Ever since they’d arrived, her eyes had been haunted, trapped in the past.  No doubt reliving every moment and analyzing what she could have done differently.

Archie reached for her when she passed him.  Betty went rigid, but relaxed as he smoothed down the stray hairs that had come loose from her ponytail.  They’d talked about this.  About how easily she got stuck in the eddies of memories, her streams of thoughts unable to sweep her back to the present.  It was how her mind worked, the lines of thought etched deep into the ground with time and practice.  Just as he had to focus on the present to make it through, she had to relive the past to move to the future.

She slipped her arms around him, her fingers worrying at the fabric.  In times like these she likened him to her anchor in the storm.  Archie never saw himself as that; she was too strong to ever really need anyone.  Time had proven that.

“Pop’s for dinner?”

Betty shook her head, her hair tickling his nose.  “I can’t.  Not yet.”

He kissed her on the forehead and they rocked together a moment, a primitive soothing gesture for the both of them.

“But I could do with take out.”

For all the things that had changed, at least the bell above Pop’s door was still there.  Everything else - the formica tables, the jukebox, the old Polaroid's - had all disappeared, replaced by the same modern kitsch found in every other family restaurant across the country.

“Eating in?”

Archie turned to find a young woman standing in front of him, an apron around her hips.  She was dressed all in black, with nothing to distinguish her from her patrons.  It was dizzying, this old imposed on the new.

- the more things change, the more they stay the same, we shouldn’t have come, this isn’t for us -

“Picking up, for Andrews.”

She nodded and turned to the line of plastic bags behind her as soft jazz played above him.

First days were always hard.  Never knowing what to expect, Archie never felt as if he was enough.  That he’d fooled everyone into thinking he was capable enough to do the job.  Once push came to shove, though, he’d trip over his own feet and show the world just how useless he really was.  A disappointment to the end.

The first day of school - the iguana got loose and wrecked the cafeteria.  The first day of football - half the team were sent home with broken bones.  The first day of training camp - half the squad were lost in the woods.  The first day out in the field -

- oh god raj, the blood, i’m so sorry, it should have been me, where’s the medic, the blood, stop th-

“Andrews?”

Archie blinked the sun out of his eyes, back in front of the fire station.  Its sign gleamed bright in the morning sun, washing away the dark memories.  Forcing a grin, he turned only for his grin to blossom into a genuine smile.

“Mad Dog?”

They embraced, arms tight around each other, laughing, saying everything words never could.  Archie had lost touch with almost everyone but Betty after high school, friends drifting away on the currents of time and distance.  Every now and then he’d hear about weddings and babies, deaths and divorces.  Each a tragedy in their own way, celebrations he’d never know of.

He’d never truly regretted any of them, at least not until Munroe was in front of him again.

“Man, I haven’t heard that name in years,” Munroe said.  He stepped back, hands still clasped around Archie’s shoulders.  “What graces you upon my door?  Don’t tell me you remembered about that twenty dollars I owe you.  Last I heard you were slumming it up in San Francisco.”

Archie laughed at the (in)accuracy of it.  “Riverdale was in need of a new fire captain, and for some reason Sheriff Keller thought of me.”

“Chief Keller, Red,” Munroe said with wink.  “Old man gets testy when you forget.  Maybe seeing the prodigal son return will lighten his mood a bit.”

The warm feeling of home, the one he’d almost forgotten entirely, returned easily, a rising tide that almost made this trip worth it.  Archie threw an arm around Munroe’s shoulders as they walked into the firehouse.

“Good day at work?” Betty asked.

She handed him a bowl of ice cream - Neopolitan - and tucked herself against his side, her own half-eaten pint of strawberry ice cream in her other hand.  In return he tucked an old knitted throw around them and turned the tv volume down.

“Yeah, really good actually.  You?”

Betty dug out a chuck of ice cream too big for the spoon, and bit half of it.

“That bad?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled through the mouthful.

“No questions?”

She shook her head.  “No questions.”

The sounds of a muted space battle filled the silence around them.  Sometime between when the movie ended and the next began, Betty fell asleep against him, her empty ice cream carton tucked against her side like a teddy bear.  It was a moment of normalcy he’d been afraid to lose.  Domesticity in all its comforts.

He knew it wouldn’t last.  It couldn’t, not here.  Normal was a smokescreen, ebbing and flowing among the darkness that fueled this town.  Solving one small case couldn’t fix that.  They both knew that.

But it was nice to pretend it could.

A few minutes past midnight, Archie cradled Betty into his arms and took her to bed.  When he knew she was settled, he shut the door behind him and went to his own room.

“No.  Fuckin’. Way,” one of the probationaries said, his mouth hanging wide.  “You two were vigilantes? Like The Red Circle?”

Archie blushed and looked away, uncomfortable with how close he was.  Munroe, though, smiled, revealing in the shock and awe he could procure.  

“And this one,” he jerked his thumb at Archie, “wore spandez.”

“We both wore spandex,” Archie reminded him.

“You realize that’s worse, right?” Chief Keller, nee Sheriff Keller, said as he walked into the break room.

A half-dozen chairs hit the floor at once as the probates stood quickly.  A snicker cut through and soon the whole room was cracking up.  Archie smiled, not knowing what else to do other than scrum under all this attention.  He’d been stupid enough -

- so stupid, why hadn’t anyone stopped him, he was just a kid, jesus they were all kids, what the hel-

- and the last thing he wanted to be remembered for was wearing spandex.

“Alright, now that we’ve broken in the new guy,” Keller said.  He poured himself a cup of coffee, taking his time to scrutinize the room.  “Sanchez, Gilbert, Edison.  You’re on rotation for fire safety training at the school.  Pickens, Cho - Mrs. Green need help with that damned ramp of hers.  If I have to listen one more time to how she can’t get her wheelchair over those rotten out boards I’m giving her your personal numbers.  Andrews, Munroe - Sheriff wants somebody to look over a small fire at the old Twilight.  Probably nothing, but they need a stamp of approval for an insurance payout.”

Groans came from the younger firefighters, but they didn’t hesitate to get a move on.  In less than a minute the break room had emptied, leaving Munroe and Archie to bring up the rear.

“Just like the gym, huh?” Munroe asked as they followed Cho into the parking lot.

“Only better trained,” Archie replied.

Munroe unlocked an old white suburban, R.F.D. written along the side in bright red and gold letters.  On their way to the Twilight, Munroe pointed out the little things that had happened in Archie’s absence - new residents, car accidents; minor high school pranks, major vandalism; and one case of a loose alpaca.  All small town quirks that hit Archie with a sudden homesickness.  

Despite all the bad that had taken root here, it seemed there was still life in this town.

Munroe parked near the old projection booth, now nothing more than a few loose boards held up by a decade of graffiti.  He reached behind the seat and pulled out a pair of boxing gloves.  

“One more for old time’s sake?”

Archie took them from him, the oily, cracked leather like old friends.  On the cuff was the El Royale logo, faded almost to nothing in some places.  A choking sensation rose up in his throat and he had to swallow hard.  Of all the things to keep, and Munroe had unknowingly chosen the only thing from Riverdale Archie still held close to his heart.

“You’re on.”

“I saw him yesterday,” Betty mumbled when Archie woke up that Saturday.  “He had a woman with him.”

She spun a spoon through her soggy Cheerios, eyes dark and downcast.  From the sweatshirt and slacks she worse Archie knew it had been another all-nighter.  Betty also had an obsessive drive when it came to work, but this was going too far.  Not for the first time he wondered whether her insistence on taking this case was a way to gain experience and attention, or whether it was just another way for her to prove - to herself or to him - that she was over it.  Over them.  

Over that two syllable word that hadn’t been spoken in years.

It cut deep to see her like this.  And Archie didn’t know if he could pick her up off the floor again, if he’d be able to put together all those pieces that had shattered years ago.  He’d lost so many pieces, filled her with so much gold, that he was afraid that there wouldn’t be enough to keep her together for a second time.

“When was the last time you slept?”

She shrugged and dipped the spoon back into her milk.  Like a child Betty lifted it up only to watch it rain down again.

Archie sighed and picked up the coffee pot.  He’d been against her going into the FBI from the start, and he’d said as much when she’d been accepted into the Academy.  She had her own trauma to deal with.  And working on some of the worst cases - kidnappings, murders, rapes - was too close to reality for her.  

That was a lesson he’d learned the hard way.

But this was Betty, after all, the most self-assured, stubborn person he knew, determined to prove she was stronger than the white-noise of the past, desperate to push memories just past the edge of consciousness. And now they were back in this place tinted by the ghosts of their past.

“Betty -“

“I’m fine, Archie,” she snapped.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  The last thing either of them needed was another blow-up.  

“Look, the cookout’s today.  How about we eat junk food and watch that awful movie channel you like so much?”

Betty frowned, her lip pursed in a way he knew he’d won.  At least it wasn’t that awful, plastic smile of hers, the one she’d spent hours perfecting in the mirror when they were eight.  

“Fine, but only if you get wontons and dumplings.”

“And who is this lovely lady?” Cho asked.

Betty turned, the picture of suburban perfection she’d been raised to be, and held out her hand.  “Betty Cooper.”

Cho’s eyebrows lifted in delight and they bowed over her hand to kiss it.  “Teddy Cho, at your service.”

Their eyes met Archie’s, and he shook his head at the unasked question.  Betty bit her lip at the exchange, tickled at Cho’s obvious interest.  With a grin, Cho lead her towards the rest of the probates, their arms linked together as he tried out one of his new jokes on her.

Munroe handed Archie a cold beer as he walked up.  “The All-American couple.  You two are a big hit tonight.”

Archie shot him a confused look, and Munroe nodded towards Betty.

“No, we’re not…” Archie stammered, finally realizing how it looked when they showed up together.  “That’s….”

How did one explain what they were?  Friends, more-than-friends-but-less-than, family, what-if’s, drunk and lonely nights spend on the sofa, thank-god-we-never-did,-wouldn’t-that-be-so-weird?

“Funny, I would have pegged the two of you as a couple.”

“You and a bunch of other people.  But it’s not for us.”

Archie took a sip of his beer, a cool relief from the lingering hot summer sun.  The sounds of the barbecue brought back memories of his own childhood, memories of better times when his family wasn’t broken, when his father…

- mr. andrews, regardless of what you continue to think, none of what happened to your father was your fau-

Neighborhood cookouts were kids played long after dark, and dads drank beer and shot the shit about football while moms talked small town politics.  It would be nice to go back to this, he realized with a start.  Only this time he was part of the older group, a single man in a swathe of couples enjoying their lives for one more day before the return of the inevitable Monday morning grind.

“So, got a girl back home?” Munroe asked.  He sat down in one of the lawn chairs and kicked his feet up, the picture of American prosperity.  “You keep checking that phone a lot while we’re at the station.  I just figured out it was Betty, but now…”

Archie shook his head and settled in on the grass.  “Nah, nothing like that.  Last time I dated anyone was almost a year ago, and he’s been married almost two months now.”

Munroe raised an eyebrow, a question that could easily be side stepped, ignored as nothing more than a muscular tic.  After all, it had once been an El Royal running joke that Archie was the Casanova of the group, the one who could jump from one woman to the next without a beat between.  Munroe especially had given him the hardest time about it, constantly throwing out bad pickup lines for Archie to rate.  It was that strange sort of camaraderie only a group of men, posturing and posing, their masculinity fragile at that age, that needed to be reassured in their ability to pickup barbells and broads.

But Archie had never been uncomfortable with Munroe.  He’d always been the most easy going, non-judgemental man he’d ever met.  And besides, he owed him a sort of honesty, now that they relied on each other in the grips of life and death.

“Jake wanted kids, marriage, the whole thing.  Only once we dated for three years, he realized he wanted it with someone else.”

Munroe let out a whistle.  “Harsh.

Archie nodded.  They finished their beers in silence, moving onto the next one with talk about college rankings and score spreads, the mood still light between them.

“So…”

Betty let the words hang in the air, that gleam of curiosity in her eye.  Archie ignored her and turned onto Old Ash Road, the radio crooning an old country ballad about love, loss, and whiskey.  He made the mistake of glancing over at her and she fluttered her eyelashes in expectation.  

“So?”

“You and Munroe seemed pretty cozy.”

“You and Cho seemed pretty cozy too,” he shot back.

Betty’s lips pursed and she settled back into her seat with a pout.  “I was being nice since you didn’t seem too keen on hanging out with your coworkers.”

“I hung out with them.  Hahn and I played cornhole for an hour with Roxie and -“

“Munroe.”

Betty echoed him with a pointed look.  

“It’s been over a year, don’t you think you should -“

Archie shook his head.  “We agreed.  We’re here as long as you’re working on the case.  No roots.”

“Yeah, but -“

“We’re friends, and it’s going to stay that way.”

She chewed her lip, her mind going a mile a minute.  He’d have to be wary of any of her scheming, especially now that he knew Jughead was back in town.  Meddling in other people’s lives had always been Betty’s go to to get her mind off of her own problems, and while it had been worked out in the past now there was no way it would ever work.

It would be nice, though, to have someone like Munroe to date while he was in town.  But it wouldn’t be fair to either of them, not when Archie was dead set on leaving Riverdale the minute Betty's work was done.

After all, it had been Munroe he’d turned to in highschool, whether he needed help or just wanted to shoot the shit.  He’d been the second person Archie had wanted to spend time with, after Ronnie, of course.  Their bond had always been close, and it was more than just a bond formed through shitty circumstances.  They watched the same movies, loved the same sports, and Munroe could argue musical theory like no one’s business.  

So why couldn’t they at least be friends while he was in town?  

[destroyyourbinder]

looking at instagram

There are hazy pictures of children having fun in spring-green new grass, the sun or maybe the filter sparkling. A photo of a man laughing, relaxed, he's wearing a soft cotton shirt, and it's not wrinkled. Dynamic black and white photos of people my acquaintance knows, a coworker, herself, their skin texture looks like granite, like muslin, like acrylic sculpting medium, like something under lights that's very "Interesting," to men in glasses holding wine and pontificating like bowerbirds strutting over little pebbles and bits of fur.

I'm angry. I look like dough, like a laundry pile at the end of a week, maybe two. I'm custard piled on itself, dingy men's shorts pulled up way too high over the bottom dollop. Nobody's captivated by my pock marks or my uneven peach fuzz. I look like who my mom was afraid I was going to be, except I'm not even that exciting, I'm a monster made of felt cut out by shaky kindergarten hands and unraveling tape. Dandruff gets under my fingers when I scratch my head. There's no social media where I can post the sensation of my stomach gurgling after I eat fistfuls of mozzarella from the fridge, and nobody would Like it anyway. When I shave my head there is no confident, bold, sharp picture I can take, tattooed and muscular arm curved up over my new haircut to casually hold the phone. There's just tiny bits of hair in the bathroom rug and yellow light that makes my face look puffier than I thought it was.

I feel the bile rise in my throat. So-and-so bought a house, my sister bought a house, friend after friend after friend is having a dinner party, moving to California, getting married at a place with "Estate" in the name. There's pictures, lots of pictures, of breezy nights and big smiles, a colorful world of delight and ease, everything I wanted from life incarnated in the bodies of straight people and lesbians prettier and happier than me. I pull a piece of cat hair out of my teeth and listen to the neighbors shouting at each other on the street, and I imagine what it would be like if my body didn't ache, didn't feel like a jumble of nonsense the consistency of dogshit and balsa wood. My apartment smells like mold. I make nine-sixty-something an hour after taxes. I don't know how to use Instagram because at twenty-whatever I've managed to become both old and out of touch, but I do know how to let Instagram make me feel bad.

In the photo, a guy I know looks rugged, cheeky, like a man with a story to tell but who might pull a quarter out from behind your ear instead. In reality, he's an old gay guy who both lurches and flops about at the same time, his too-large T-shirts hanging off his hunched shoulders. When he's feeling sprightly, he does a little ungainly but joyful Charleston, a grin on his face goofier than his little kicks, which show off the dirty bottoms of his fluorescent Converse shoes. I see him a lot in the back office at work or the break room, which are dim and yellow, making his ruddy face and greying stubble an undifferentiated jowly mass. But this guy also has lots of pictures of his own, that he shows me sometimes, of himself when young, with friends all dressed up in alternative 80s gear, all eyeliner and teased white hair. He smiles when he flips through the pictures. I don't know what he is remembering. I see a lot of cool people I've never met; he tells me this picture was even used in an ad for a local fashion hotspot back in the day. Then, swiping up and down with his fingers, still smiling but using a tone of voice that's a particularly terrifying variety of cheerful sarcasm, he tells me most of the people in these pictures are dead.

He knows I know why.

When I scroll through that woman's Instagram I am angry, maybe, because there's nobody to see me, nobody to remember what I did. The endless dullness that characterizes my days is not something I myself remember; I have the barest sense at all, even, that it is too dull for memory. There is something particularly disgusting to me that this is how most women have lived their lives, a parade of dishes and diapers, the inside of their heads taken up by minutiae about the state of the carpet and lists of birthdays. I've fallen headfirst into it, softly, like a particularly cushy pie on a grandmother's windowsill or the pillowy bosom of a schoolmarm. As a child I was particularly offended I was not noticed for who I was, or who I thought myself to be, at least, and what my mom did manage to notice was a nitpicking ritual of continual impropriety; what was on the floor but shouldn't be, what spot I missed on the counter with a sponge, which hairs were out of place and what crumbs were in the corners of my lips, what smile wasn't on my face and when. In retrospect I don't know if I was more offended on my behalf or hers, and if I was a selfish little shit about it whether I was more enraged by the idea that I was lost under her omnipresent fussing or that my proper development into a woman involved filling my head with such an eye.

I used to scream at her that I would not become like her, and I guess I didn't. I'm gay, for one, and live in a city, full of the types of people she imagines when she neurotically checks and rechecks the locks on her doors. I don't have children, a husband, a credit card, a mortgage, but I do have what I never wanted from the legacy of women, which is enormous spans of time where I fiddle with a sponge, a spoon, tiny meaningless papers, buttons on a cash register. As a child-- and embarrassingly, as an adult ill-prepared for reality-- I screamed because I insisted by the declaration of my lungs that my life would be different, it would be about intensity, perceptiveness, truth, integrity, adventures, journeys, big huge concepts that would bowl me over and spill out of me like a living mystic channeling forces of the universe. I used to read for hours and hours as a child, usually epic fantasy or science fiction I probably shouldn't have been allowed to put into my prepubescent brain; sometimes I used to hang upside down off the couch and read upside down just for the hell of it, to shake my world up a bit. I moved onto philosophy and hours of mopey music through headphones in the dark when I got older. I was delusional about what my life would be like, about what life would make me into. The big huge concept that would end up bowling me over was mediocrity, mundaneness, the stuff men on Reddit call women "vapid" for.

Hannah Arendt was a really smart woman, the kind of woman I thought I might be someday. She said a whole lot of shit that was really deep, and when I was still chasing the highs of thinking that there were neat-o discoveries to be made in this world that made you Somebody to see them, I thought that "the banality of evil" was the most profound thing I ever heard. When I encountered it for real it wasn't profound, just banal indeed. Evil is soul-sucking in a special fucking way, it sucks the life out of you in the way that alcohol shuts off first the part of your brain that lets you know you're drunk. Something's gone and you're all screwed up about it but you're gone in a way that won't let you know what left, there's just rage disguised as irritability and crud on the counter and a bus that doesn't show up. Sometimes you get to look right into the sucking hole, a yawning abyss of multi-generational societal depravity and institutional apathy, when you're sitting next to a homeless woman on a bench downtown with legs so swollen she couldn't go anywhere even if she had someplace to go. I gave her five dollars on most days of my commute because I hoped at least she could eat something, and she deserved the dignity of being seen by somebody, but honestly she needed somewhere to sleep and a bunch of somebodies to do something about her health. A lot of fucking evil had to happen to a lot of people for buildings full of suits to exist on the same block as this lady. A lot of fucking evil had to happen for people to accept this as normal.

What evil has to happen for women to accept their lot, whether it's accepting that the cumulative buzz of your life-inspiration be directed towards holding up a glass in a particularly enrapturing photo on Instagram, or whether it's accepting that you're gonna have to spend another night on the bench? I cry sometimes knowing that no one will remember my mother; all she will leave behind is a gravestone next to a man's and a legacy of psychological scars on her daughters, who nobody will bother to remember either. My mother's life is worth a book or two, but I couldn't get it out of her even if I tried. I don't think my mom even knows she has a story, just petty dramas she tries to escalate into a validation that she hasn't disappeared yet because she can hurt somebody. I don't know the homeless lady's story or how she ended up begging on a bench downtown each day. I hope with all my heart she finds a place to live out her life, a little home where she can use a scooter and have enough to eat, where five dollars isn't the difference between confirmation of the world's cruelty and God's presence. She showed me a video once on her phone of a preacher that she followed, a woman who she said she saw at a big church event in the South; she could go places once, and I don't know how she ended up so she couldn't go anywhere anymore. Maybe she doesn't know-- maybe when you can't go anywhere anymore the point is that you don't think you got there and you don't think you're getting out, you're just there right now, but also always were and somehow forever will be. Maybe you're watching buses go by all damn day and feeling your tongue go numb from saying "spare a dollar", or maybe your finger's getting red from wiping the snot under your kid's nose, time passing only when the tissues are gone. They don't take shots of this shit. There's no filter for "life's over, but not yet."

I wish what I felt could become great art, maybe even just shitty art, that it could mean something, that I was something; dudes have generations of scholarship-worship trailing behind them because they wrote paeans to being existentially bored, because they discovered what it's like to look at a damn soup can and slapped it in a museum. Maybe I'm just jealous, but, you know, I used to stock groceries, and I spent a lot of my time looking at damn soup cans. I think I now know why Val shot him.

[newagexheroes]

🖤 For your muse to kiss mine while crying

The nights were hard, they had been for awhile – but here the nights were harder. Elise was now existing in a universe where Bucky and Steve were still alive.. and yet here she was curled up in a strange room in the new avenger’s facility, alone. She didn’t want what the two of them got up to in their free time anymore, and they look at her like she’s a stranger. Expect lately the way Bucky was looking at her was different, – not like she was a stranger anymore. Elise wasn’t sure what had changed, if she had said something or done something that shifted Bucky’s opinion of her. Elise had also yet to decide if she likes the change in look.. but in the end she doesn’t feel like it matters. The distance will always remain, a way for the universe to mock she feels like – laugh at her, hold her favorite people in front of her face but not let her touch. Elise swears that this is some sort of torture that she’s in love with, because in the end.. she still gets to see Steve and Bucky everyday.

But sometimes that’s not enough. Too often Elise tosses and turns all night long, while her lovers have been gone for years, it’s hard to sleep without the comforting warmth and weight of two people with her. And the longer she tosses and turns the more anxious that Elise begins to get, a sheen of sweat begins to rise on her skin, suddenly her breathing beings to get labored and the woman feels the need it sit up before she suffocates to death. Elise knows the next step, the walls will begin to feel like they’re closing in and she decides maybe she’ll try to avoid that feeling.. so instead Elise pushes up out of bed, hands shaking as she moves across the dark room. Her fingers root through her clothing that she brought until her fingers run across a familiar worn fabric. Pulling it out gently, Elise doesn’t even hesitate as she pulls the zip hoodie onto her. The hoodie big and baggy, it had belonged to Bucky, the man bought it several sizes to big so he could hide the metal arm before Tony had made him a new one. Now Elise wears it when she feels that unsettling panic rise in her chest. If she closes her eyes, she can still see Bucky wearing it.. she can still smell him if she presses the fabric to her nose. Usually this is when Elise would crawl back in bed, let the warmth lull her to sleep while she cries into the fabric. But the room feels distant and cold – and the night outside is warm. So instead, Elise slips on a pair of shoes and pulls the hood up over her head, a clear sign that she doesn’t want to be talked to, though she doubts many people will be up at this time. The apartments at the facility seemed to have a curfew but Elise hopes she won’t be bothered. Elise slips out of her room easily, the hallways silent and dim as she works her way down them, decides on the stairs – an elevator sounds far too claustrophobic for how she’s feeling at the moment. If she gets the urge to run, then she wants to be able to run, not be stuck in a glass box. 

The night air is cooler than Elise expects it, but she figures it’s because they sit right on the Hudson River, she can hear the gentle crashing of the waves nearby and they call out to her. Elise can remember when she was young and she felt upset she’d sit under the Brooklyn bridge and let the East River’s water lap at her feet.. and right now that seems like the only thing that could soothe her aching soul at the moment. So Elise heads towards the water, cutting across the lawn towards the sleek houses of the avengers that live on facility grounds. Elise truly longs to just show up unannounced to their doors, and fall into their arms – feel the touch she’s been depraved of for so long. But she knows she can’t do such a thing, they’d call her crazy before they would do any of that. So instead she stands motionless for a moment, watching as someone flicks a light out in their house before she heads down the rocky but carved out path towards the Hudson. The path is short, but dim – thankfully Elise’s senses have been skewed just enough that she can make this path out easily without a flashlight. Some of the very few benefits of being injected with snake DNA, navigation nature is one of the easiest things that Elise can do. She can almost taste direction, which Elise knows sounds crazy but that’s just now things work for her now.

As Elise approaches the Hudson, she feels as if she should be able to finally take a breath but her lungs still feel heavy – her hands still shake and as much as Elise wishes there was an easy fix to this feeling, that a simple walk would fix it, there isn’t. The feeling follows her everywhere, the suffocating feeling of loneliness, the feeling of grief, and the confusion of being able not to grief because suddenly those people she was grieving aren’t dead. And as a wave crashes along the shore, a wave of desperation hits Elise, it makes her knees buckle they hit the rocky shore like a ton of bricks. She didn’t realize she was crying until she could taste the tears in her mouth, and her body was gasping for breath like she was drowning. She couldn’t stop the feelings from finally pouring out, the anger, the hope, the desperation and the betrayal. Angry that the universe would grant her wish, but only half hardheartedly, betrayed that universe took her boys but didn’t give her to them in this world.. the fear that… maybe they never did need her. The hope that.. maybe.. just maybe she could get them back, get back into her grasp the breath that is supposed to fill her lungs. And it all aches, the memory of them – the distance of these men. 

But eventually the sobs subside and Elise is able to sit up, her knees skinned from where they hit the rocks, but the tears still flow freely now. She lets the crashing of the waves drown out her sad sniffles, though it isn’t long until she knows she isn’t alone. Elise can feel the footsteps approaching, hear the crunch of gravel. A shaking hand reaches up to wipe away tears as she glances over her shoulder to see who’s found her in such a state. And of course it would be such her luck to have him come along – someone she wants so bad to comfort her but also doesn’t want him to see her in such a state. Bucky. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s looking at her with that look again, the one that Elise doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what to say, it’s no doubt obvious that Elise was sitting out here crying.. her face feelings swollen and puffy, the tears still streaming down her face freely. She tries to pull herself together, a shuddering breath given as she realizes.. they’re wearing the same hoodie. She can see the hole in the right pocket, the worn logo on the chest that was already worn off when he got it from some thrift store. She opens her mouth to make a joke, to explain why she’s wearing his hoodie.. but Bucky beats her to the punch. 

I know. The words have a lot of meaning, a heaviness to them that Elise feels like she’s being crushed by. It’s like he can read her mind, like he knew she was going to ask what he means, even though something inside her feels suddenly light, full of bright white shining light. He explains that he doesn’t know how.. but he’s got the memories that belong to her Bucky. And the world feels like it’s crashing but being lifted up all at once.. Elise feels the tears again. 

“You’re still my Bucky.” She tells him then, because it’s true. This isn’t the stranger he must think himself to be to her, she knows everything about him... everything he did as a child that got him into trouble and how he was able to sweet talk his way out if. She knows to an extent to what Hydra did to him, and how he views himself because of it. She knows how he hates to touch the ones he loves with the arm Hydra made him.. Elise knows the inside and out.. and maybe that’s what made part of this so hard. Because despite being from different universes, she still knows every little piece of both Steve and Bucky. 

Similar to her before, knees hit the rocks. And Elise’s breath is stolen from her lungs as a familiar pair of lips meet with hers. Her face is slick from tears, but a single warm hand still cups them despite it all, the kiss is feverish -- desperate. Elise clings to the man like she’s afraid he might disappear, and he holds her like she’s something breakable. It’s everything she’s ever missed.. 

[nottheoccult]

oblivion access: except it’s poetry

Social self-obsessive species, everything is peachy

Having cyber interactions, get erections from the TV Vocal bout opinions bout elections up in DC With a total lack of knowledge, rope around your neck was easy Chemical complaint, deformity machine Skin eraser, loss creator, poison that you breathe Traitor, parasite, xenophilic golden boy Seen him with a soy product, wrote the Village Voice about it Tell me conclusions to stories I don't have time for Situations with the information missing, misinformed We've seen the same rain through separate systems, different storms We're stacking bodies up in boxes in a distant war I eat my vegetables, I like the broccoli What is more fictitious, the gods or you and I? You needs a court's admission, you think the cops comply? I don't acknowledge systems, I never found it wise I wasn't born to just support the shit that's palpable I don't see Earth as disproportionally valuable If there's a god, I'm sure his name is unpronounceable If there's a hell, I'm sure we'll all be held accountable I drew a portrait of Abraxis on a napkin Sex has never given me an ounce of satisfaction Life throws a lot of questions but I never ask them Facts are human arrogance, we barely know a fraction I don't know anything (This is the way the world ends)

From the inside of my corpse, 30 seconds is like a century Imprisoned in necrotic flesh Cognizant beyond my death Paralyzed and frozen in this carnal penitentiary Lucidly projecting hellish spectres Ghoulish architecture, enveloped In a darkness far beyond my mind can measure Suffocating violent pressure It just goes on forever, are these electro- Magnetic hallucinations? Is this everybody's afterlife or something I've created? Abandoned and dismissed in a flaccid Impotence with the cold illumination that I no longer exist In a grave within a grave It was the first time I prayed, no one There to tell me that I shouldn't be afraid Falling endlessly deeper, yet immobile and still In this infinite aethyr washing over My filth, neither angels or reapers or ghosts were fulfilled Just a cavity to soak up my guilt In my depravity, the flowers Up above me wilting down so they can laugh at me To think we spend our lives Convinced we understand agony, a familiar Voice: "He's finally at peace" Shrieking through the silence to remind me I'm deceased I tried to answer but the dead can't Speak, the biggest prison in the world's underground six feet

I got soaked through the rainiest days They made me this way Should have left the street but it paid me to stay The path that I walked on was paving my pain So I strayed and laid bricks for the opposite lane If you ain't rich you don't play about that gwop I view the city like a section of a swamp A lot of shit grows but nothing that you want A lot of shit gross and that's just being blunt Bitches acting foul and bitches wanna stunt But nothing ever change until you willing to confront Crooked cop, crooked cop, yeah, I see him too Erry' person has autonomy, we ain't got a clue I know it sound hazy when I twist that J That Richtown way, these dummies catch a 6 round fade And yeah I know them hunnies got them big round things But really don't give a fuck about that blasé blasé I play the resurrector like the Tribe cassette Cuz your third eye is just a fucking hole in your head I play the resurrector like the Tribe cassette Cuz your third eye is just a fucking hole in your head Gallon after gallon, brain's wet Seeing dead shit, morning never happened I'm still somewhere in my head space Walked for blocks, never figured out my destination 40 Glock pops, talk a cop into resignation I'm a mental patient, safety's not a strong suit Wrongdoer, safety off, one chambered, I'm dog puke Tell them shoot or just get off me, sociopathy probably Shit that bothers y'all probably never bothers me Told you not to follow me, newspaper's a shit show "Idiot with a slit throat stuffs coke in his pisshole Kills family with missiles" "Politician fucks bitches with issues" Everything I read is just a sick joke It never really registered as funny Rather figure out the time they fill the registers with money It never really registered as funny Rather figure out the time they fill the registers with money

I'm blowing on a backwood stuffed with psychiatrics Coughing with a hack like a playa out of practice 20 in my nose whatever get it done the fastest Eyes closed praying for apocalypse disasters No gods no masters no befores no afters Ugly mane will make you disappear just like a rapture Dodging destiny still the coffin like a bed to me The voices spoke incessantly My pride is what they fed to me Tried to read the messages but words was wrote illegibly Hennessy suppressing all my memories Mirror showed me glimpses of the enemies possessing me Toxic thought telepathy Living legacy Rocking weapons like accessories, dying for supremacy Really we're as significant as centipedes Crawl around the earth with no identities You're not special, don't pretend to be Your tendencies are so predictable it's difficult to remedy I could read a billion books still not know what pill I took I could have a million guns still walk with Achilles foot

HE USED TO LAUGH THE LOUDEST/NOW IT NEVER SHOWS HE TRIED TO BE THE TALLEST/BUT HE NEVER GROWS HE WATCHED HIS BROTHER DIE AND NEVER TOLD LOOKED AROUND AND KNEW HE HAD TO GO HE KNEW HIS FATHER HAD A BETTER DREAM BUT YOU CAN’T LEARN FROM WHAT YOU NEVER SEEN HE TRIED TO MINGLE WITH THESE JEALOUS THIEVES WATCH A HUMAN INTERACT WITH A MACHINE WATCH A HUMAN INTERACT WITH A MACHINE WATCH A HUMAN GET ABUSED BY A MACHINE WATCH A HUMAN GETTING USED BY A MACHINE NOW HE’S USELESS AND HE’S STUPID AND OBSCENE HE NEVER LEAVES HE NEVER LEAVES HE COMES AND HE GOES BUT HE NEVER LEAVES HE NEVER BREATHES HE NEVER BREATHES HE INHALES AND HE EXHALES BUT HE NEVER BREATHES

I fell apart and took my mind with me. i have been barely sustaining My pain just marinating. i fell apart and took my mind with me. just a Ghost cloaked in lies with a broken spine. i fell apart and took my mind With me. just an unrecognizable creature caught under an avalanche I fell apart and took my mind with me. my presence unnerving. im a Shadow always lurking. surrounded by death. even the towel rack Reminds me of the handles pallbearers grip tightly on the way out of Church. what they use to lift you up into the back of that hearse. i see A woman tighten grip on her purse. can’t be offended. she doesnt Know my intentions. she imagines the worse. around here. the Conditions severe. around here. you tightrope between detachment And fear. between the shattered fragments of existence that collapse And appear. never changes. just exacerbates depression deeper year And year. pain weaving in. pain weaving out. heartworms. sharpturns Sparsewords. scarsburns. i spent a long time dying. dont wake me up Yet. public executions. you’ll never see me upset. forcefed myself with Blow but now i settle for sedatives. no longer in the street. i belong in The crevices. positively negative. popular ive never been. hard to be a Person when you lack the mental requistes. emotionally deficit Consumed with all the wretchedness. not optimist or pessimist. my Politics are in exodus. spouting countless fountains out while drowning In the brine. my lifes the foulest algorithm science can't define. they Trap you in these systems that are phallic in design. because they fuck You in the mind. boy. they fuck you all the time. i fell apart and took My mind with me. being strung up at the ligaments with cultural Derivatives. i fell apart and took my mind with me. pronounced dead By a nemesis. a doubt without a benefit. i fell apart and took my mind with Me. just a cluster of atoms thrust deep in a chasm. i feel apart and now Your mind is with me. smoke in your eyes. the worlds a joke in disguise

Funny how the hours stretch and melt away my empathy Persistence of a memory Everything is very temporary except decisions Just a navigation of this future I envisioned Humoring these people that too stupid to be living An arbitrary figment A movement that I never was Obvious when people seem different than the rest of us Or think less of us Only hoes I care about Pumping in the pipe fumes Car running, windows up Hoping I'll die soon Night time Eyes dilate bigger than bike tubes That's the reason that I stay up past the sunset "I liked your record! Where's the new one? Is it done yet?" Problems that I run from impossible to sublet You don’t want them either There's a fever in the subtext Boiled all the mercury I questioned what it's worth to me Hard liquor fire breath Slurred dialect In the mist like Bix Beiderbecke With overdose side effects Probably take a Prilosec and try to get some rest Cut the Midas fingers off and never sign a check "What about your future?" I-D-G-A-F World so cold I can see they breath Feeling like distance is a bitch to express Pissing upstream when your dick is erect Or when you're picking up steam and get a fist in the chest

I'm dead meat, I'm dead weight Dragging my body, holding my chin straight Probably never make it home again at this pace Waking the Devil up cause I've been staying at his place I'm dead meat, I'm dead weight Dragging my body, holding my chin straight Probably never make it home again at this pace Waking the Devil up cause I've been staying at his place I'm dead meat, I'm dead weight Dragging my body, holding my chin straight Probably never make it home again at this pace Waking the Devil up cause I've been staying at his place I'm dead meat, I'm dead weight Dragging my body, holding my chin straight Probably never make it home again at this pace Waking the Devil up cause I've been staying at his place

Funny how the hours stretch, melt away my empathy Persistence of a memory Funny how the hours stretch, melt away my empathy Persistence of a memory Funny how the hours stretch, melt away my empathy Persistence of a memory Funny how the hours stretch, melt away my empathy Persistence of a memory Funny how the hours stretch, melt away my empathy Persistence of a memory Funny how the hours stretch, melt away my empathy Persistence of a memory Funny how the hours stretch, melt away my empathy Persistence of a memory Funny how the hours stretch, melt away my empathy Persistence of a memory

Back when I was 15 it seemed Ugly was untouchable What, they gonna throw me in the juvy for a month or two? Try me, I still ain't doin' nothing that you want me to Cuttin' and disrupting every classroom discussion Cussin' out my mom, puffin' blunts, gettin' dusted Overwhelmed with distrust in everything that I wasn't Things I know now (I guess I felt 'em back then): Power and control reflect fear among men The shit that they condemn you can see amongst them So I never ever ever want to be amongst them See a landscape littered with the blisters of potential People letting ghosts govern most of they mental The opposite adults your folks hope you'd resemble Doomed from the get like a goat in the temple Hard to not dwell among fear Knowing that the court treat crime so severe But I'm blowin' smoke out the window being so cavalier Sh-shakin' up the bottle when I open the beer Only obligation is to prosper in my operations Money motivations stay gaudy ostentatious Ain't even a challenge cuz the rap game basic I ain't heard talent since ["Incarcerated Scarfaces" Sample] Face it, it's fact not assumption Rap sound like shit like "ship" with the fronts in Hate getting lumped in, giant next to munchkins Catch me on the other side wildin' in the dungeon

You got sativa, ignite it World stiff as arthritis Dreaming about a crisis, all I fucking hear is sirens Climates turn to ice and your life turn to lifeless Sitting on my throne, I'm alone in the silence First hit the wax then you exhale the vapor Economies collapse and your stack just some paper Running round a maze while they laugh in your faces Rather burn down the city get me fucking 50 acres Slugs are just snails without shells The perception: evolution fucked them over and failed But they survive without protection in this jungle they dwell With giants throwing salt on all their people Can't consider them frail Spit vinegar in sour times Live under the power lines I'm just a bag of tumors full of alkaline All you do is carve them out and sew up any abscess Go about your business, keep your distance from the dragnets Backseat driving, passenger traveling Bumming a ride in my own brain Pointless meandering, using the vanity mirror to break up the cocaine Loitering, lost in a memory somewhere between a first kiss and a dope vein Nursing myself as an infant and in the same instant I'm shackled and cuffed and restrained How does this fucking pertain to anything other than coping with pain? All of the time I spent hoping to change Just an obsession with stoking the flames Haunted, something hovers over me I feels its breath The skeletal projection of accumulated stress

That could be our teenager, that could be our kid doing that. How could that possibly happen?

I got bad news Nothing really changes We just wander aimless Friends turn into strangers Chalk up my exchanges and discard the conversations As just carcasses for vultures in decomposition stages Endless entertainment for these culture commentators Stylish innovators that just vanish minutes later Say "his style is very painterly" But painting's not an art Art is tricking you with statements that the painter's painting art Without an explanation, it's just pretty little marks The market sold imagination just to keep you in the dark Like you bitches need a cosign to rock a fashion Like you can't see a bigger picture without a caption Until some critic go and write it out A long winded trite amount of words That you can slide around some websites and fight about Meaning's what your life's without Surf until you're wiping out Conservation activist You're living with your lights out

What's it all mean? What's he saying when he says it? What's the underlying topic? What's the motive in his message? But what if he was bored and there was no between the lines It was a way to pass the time, he liked the way it rhymed What if he was bored and there was no between the lines It was a way to pass the time, he liked the way it rhymed

What's it all mean? What's he saying when he says it? What's the underlying topic? What's the motive in his message?

You know what the rattling pieces are in this, don't you? Some little pieces of buffalo chicken