Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β β try again?
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β nathan summers / cable rp blog. both xmcu and earth-616. written by coyote.
@moonchosen / moonchosen.tumblr.com
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β nathan summers / cable rp blog. both xmcu and earth-616. written by coyote.
all abrupt, sharp tension cracks his spine straight. the fingers that had found themselves curled over his thigh have an opposite reaction: they relax, flatten down until he can feel the thigh strap holding a KA-BAR against his palm. it feels a little like whiplash. marcβs behavior. frankβs physical responses. his confused defensiveness that swells when marc slips on an aggressive mask. itβs fucking frustrating.Β
his eyes follow that finger. it has no business being as clean as it appears considering what theyβve done. no amount of healing can fix that. no amount of healing can fix you, he wants to snap back but only because he feels a wall dig into his shoulder blades and heβs losing his grip on remaining detached. itβs marcβs fault. marc did that. he somehow got under all of frankβs barriers, squeezed in through the smallest crack and stretched out enough to make a space that fit him.Β
and god if frankβs doesnβt want to seal it up and keep marc there.Β
maybe thatβs the issue. maybe marc is actually on to something and isnβt just being led by his rushing emotions and babbling nonsense. heβs noticed frankβs willingness to wrap callused hands around his hip, but the second they both acknowledge it, frank yanks back. mixed signals. no wonder marcβs charging him head first.Β
he doesnβt move, doesnβt lean forward to get out of his chair. itβd feel like giving up and proving all the unsaid shit right. βΒ something will change. β whether or not that something is damaging is a clouded concept, but frank knows that if he wants to see that outcome, it wonβt be one in his favor. thatβs what he canβt deal with.Β he canβt plan for this. this is one of those rare times where he feels like a coward and he makes no effort to change course. he canβt.Β β you make it sound like itβs so easy but itβs not, spector. nothing we do is easy. itβs complicated, and messy. βΒ
frank sighs again and itβs quiet, like a whisper, sounding so tired and thin. he wants so bad it feels like a thirst. but marcβs a desert, thereβs no water there.Β
he looks up, isnβt sure when he looked down to chase that rolling bullet but he looks up like the praying would do. doesnβt help marcβs still in clean, beautiful whites. frankβs eyes slide over marcβs face; the agitation is gone and exhaustion has fit in itβs place. a twitching jaw. something thick in always-sad brown eyes. a knot suddenly forms in frankβs guts when he realizes that something already HAS changed.
Β Β Β Β βi canβt.β artificial. automatic. he wants.
the moon has many faces, four of them live inside of him. the pathfinder, who directed his steps to frank. the watcher, who deciphered every word between them. the protector, who stood up in anger. the fourth one is stirring now-- the embracer, the one who mends.Β
β frank. β whispers marc.Β
he wants to say that name again. prayers are an easy choice for him, his lips are shaped like a mantra already. another step, knees bump into thighs. frank, his mouth moves without a sound. frank is surrendering and if marc had any dignity left, he would just turn around. fine, you wonβt see me again. you donβt want us, then i disappear. this city is big enough for us both.
marc should be walking away. he should let frank let him go. but instead he stays like a sickness.
he wishes he could lash out. vault his leg over frankβs thighs, sit in his lap, grab his hands, press them to his hips and hiss out accusations ( this is the only thing you want now, right? i opened your eyes, you sad closeted sack of shit--- ), but he canβt. marc should be angry, he has every right to-- but all his mind swims in is sand and pity.Β
softness-- their world needs it so much. he doesnβt have much to spare but it belongs to frank anyways.
β youβre afraid. β
doesnβt matter why frankβs afraid. could be the vision of another tombstone, the limit on grief in one lifetime-- or it could be the threat of having to hold back, the fear of having to account for somebody else after cauterizing yourself away from the human world. or it could be fear of finally having to feel something else than the safe void. marc is forcing frank to look in the mirror and see more than the skull, feel more than the hollow bones.Β
in a way, marc follows his godβs footsteps without even knowing it. his hands have resurrected a man who did not ask for it.
and despite that-- he grabs frankβs calloused palm.
β frank, look at me. β he beckons, voice like a hundred feathers.Β β i canβt promise nothing will go wrong but-- i donβt want you sayΒ βnoβ just because you know that will make you feel worse. i canβt be your punishment. β
sometimes frank is reminded that heβs never witnessed marc knocked down by wounded pride. even as he reaches, as he always does, as he does now, frank can deny and prove him wrong over and over again but he still tries. and itβs that type of tenacity that frank isnβt sure if he should label it as determination or desperation.
β mm. β he shouldnβt rely on sullen, short replies or even his silence right now. but it comes out, a rough grunt that may sound detached when heβs actually trying to give himself some extra time to just. think. marc is talking, and make no mistake that frank is listening but he wishes this wasnβt a fucking conversation they were having right now. leave it to marc to open that door.
leave it frank to give him the key to it.
β iβd say we have a lot of problems if thatβs the case. β frankβs eyes leave the bullet, moving up to marcβs down-turned face. backed into a corner, frankβs jaw sets. he canβt avoid this, and perhaps somewhere inside of him he doesnβt want to break whatever was building between the two of them. they work well together; a seamless partnership that granted frank the opportunity to depend on someone to be at his back in the middle of the fight instead of behind a computer screen, calling the shots miles away. the professionalism is there, but itβs what happens when the mask and vest comes off thatβs made this a mess.
his hands leave the table when he leans back into the chair. hidden from marcβs gaze, they curl over the tops of his thighs and squeeze. β spector - β last name, less personal. β this isnβt going to end the way you want it. β and maybe the way frank wants it to. the words that are leaving his mouth feel artificial. automatic. he sighs through his nose. β what we do, what it makes us, we donβt get a chance to have that. β
β you think i donβt know that? β something wakes up.Β β iβm mentally ill, not STUPID. β
itβs not fair to get angry at frank ( heβs already put up with so much-- ). but marc knows what this is. an escape, last bullet, closing of the doors. he recognizes it because heβs done it so often before.Β
β i donβt want to stop, i canβt stop-- β heβs replying to a question that didnβt get asked. marc does that when his safe drowsiness gets chased away. he speaks out of turn and uses unwieldy phrases, he makes no sense and too much sense. the smile he wore seconds ago melts away, something snarling takes its place. wide, manic eyes-- too brown and too intense to belong on a human face. desert sand sloshes in his skull and he wishes he was still sleeping because awake marc spector is an uncomfortable skin to wear ( and a cumbersome sight to behold ).
he gets up, one hand points at frank with accusation, the other forms into a gloved fist.Β
β you think i want to just-- what, settle down? with you? no offence, frank, but if i wanted somebody to heal me-- it wouldnβt be you. β idiot, he almost spits and an empty beak rattles with laughter somewhere in background. sometimes he wishes frank wasnβt so important to himself-- maybe he would see more if he could look up from that skull shirt of his. marc exhales, his accusatory fingers relax. β i canβt settle down. we canβt settle down. and itβs not what i want. β
he steps forward, walking around the table. one less barrier between them. his hip bumps into a corner, the bullet tops over with a clatter.
β i donβt want peace, i wouldnβt know what to do with it. β marc chokes out. thereβs more he could be saying. i want restlessness, i want to sleep only after the moon has drunk in its share of blood. i want stitches and gunpowder, i want jumbled bones and veins that skip a beat. i want to hurt because thatβs when i understand. i want to be awake in the most wonderful and horrifying way-- and youβre the one who keeps my eyes open.Β
heβs one step away from frank. β maybe itβs not what about we can give each other-- but about what we cannot. β marc pauses, rolling the grains of sand between his teeth. heβs sleepy again. β maybe nothing has to change, frank. β he says quietly.
Lisa Marie Basile, fromΒ βHow They Left Us,β published in Crab Fat Magazine (via lifeinpoetry)
Β Β βJesus, mom did like that.β Canβt tell if that makes his mom a nurse or Marcβs nurse his mom. Itβs kinda funny either way. He laughs through his nose.Β βLet me get a bike though. Safer to ride than a man, you bet.β
β yeah-- didnβt have much to jerk off to in a hospital. β stupid. but at least he didnβt disclose what kind of hospital it was. still stupid. always talking about his woes-- itβs like heβs not even trying.Β
he laughs and lifts up a startled palm to cover the noise up.Β β thatβs-- youβre incredible. β
you only know of my nature, frank wants to argue. only because he firmly believes that under white, chipping paint there is nothing left resembling the man who once smiled at his family. it changed when he turned away from them, and found himself preferring the comforts thick jungle leaves had to offer. it changed when empty air punctured by the sound of popping bullets became soft, quiet, relaxing, and the sound of his wife breathing next to him brought him sleepless nights. under the skull, intimacy has been forgotten. discarded like many of the frivolous items he deemed as luxuries.
you only know what i let you know.
but marc is seeking something. acknowledgement? possibly. frank can say his roll in this has been passive. thatβs he has, under no circumstances, given marc reason to look deeper. and itβs so, so easy to shift the blame to someone who already looks at fault.
Β Β Β Β β what are you looking for, marc. β hollow; frank still sounds tired. and heβs still trying to push distance between the two of them. regardless of the fact he invited marc in.
his eyes drop to the bullet; maybe itβs hidden there. maybe itβs a question they arenβt asking ( or are hesitant to ). a bullet by itself is relatively harmless. incomplete. take it, load it in its intended magazine, into a gun, and it becomes a weapon. viciously powerful. deadly. a divot appears between frankβs eyes; he doesnβt move to grab it.
he smiles a crooked and tired grin.Β
β fuck, i donβt know, frank. β marcβs gaze moves to left and right, as if his eyes needed a moment to themselves to dart around and not look at frank. this was bound to happen the moment he took off his mask. whenever people around him remember heβs a person, they always get restless. marc doesnβt blame them, his skull makes him feel the same way.
β i donβt know what iβm looking for and i donβt know if you can even give it to me. i donβt think you can. β heβs still smiling like heβs in on a secret joke. maybe itβs something khonshu whispered into his ear, a funny little punchline. maybe heβll share it the world someday. lines etched into frankβs face are sharp and unforgiving, but marc wears amused softness on his. a smile of somebody who thinks itβs really funny that their survival instinct is just no longer there.Β
β you want me to tell you that i want a house in the suburbs, family dinners and fresh pie every sunday? β itβs just funny. really funny. β thatβs what you want to hear, isnβt it? just so you can say you canβt do it. you canβt do relationships, you canβt do commitment. β
marc cants his head to the side, brown eyes rest on the bullet. his smile grows mocking.
β but i donβt want that, frank. thatβs our problem, right? β
@moonchosen
Β Β βGoddamn, you remember that jacket though?β
β yeah. β he reaches to scratch behind his ear. β yeah-- i had nurses confiscate the only poster of him i had because he was supposedly bad influence. teen me didnβt like that. β
Study for Wigmore Β - Β Hope Gangloff
American,b.1974-
Acrylic on panel, 30 x 40 Inches.
"You've never mentioned you painted."
he turns his head to watch frank enter one of the many living rooms in the dust-covered mansion.Β
marc puts a paint-stained finger to his mouth, presses it against the drowsy smile. shhh.Β
time for words comes later.Β
marc sits in the middle of a unswept carpet, crossed legs and bare feet. dust is clinging to his white shirt and sweatpants, various shades of paint are doing the same to his careless hands and exposed wrists. thereβs a modest-sized canvas in front of him, safely perched on an tiny easel. frank stands in the ornate doorway, like a shadow thatβs trying to decide what to do with itself. and then he walks over to the nearest table to busy himself with something. marc doesnβt react.
he feels good. he feels like himself.
so he puts the brush against the filled canvas again. slow strokes, languid pace. he paints a man laying on a grass, surrounded by picnic patterns. the man is hugging a beer bottle, his gaze isnβt directed anywhere in particular. white shirt. a beard. unruly brown hair. he looks either somber or just relaxed, marc hasnβt decided yet. could be both.
he hears the rustle of pages from frankβs journal in the background. marcβs absent smile grows.
they guard their respective silences for a few more minutes and then marc decides heβs ready to talk again. he doesnβt look at frank, just continues dabbing at the canvas, so proud of himself. look at him. he can be patient enough, he can be focused enough. he can create, not just destroy.
β i have a friend. they showed me the basics. itβs like drawing, but more. β he likes it. he doesnβt need to be completely present for the process-- but the results are tangible. painting numbs him with comfort, it stains him and reassures his contours.
frank lifts up his head, recognizing the moment in which he can ask a question and get an answer.
β is that you. β his gruff tone stands in contrast to marcβs soft and lethargic timbre.Β
marc turns to him with a skewed smile. then he returns to painting after a while of just staring at frank as if to sayΒ βthe answer is complicated.β
β itβs steven. β he hums out after that pause. so yes, in a way, this is an autoportret. but itβs not.
after a few short strokes of light on the bottle, marc continues.Β
β on coney island. me and steven used to go there a lot, every time i got a longer leave pass from the hospital. β it doesnβt feel like heβs in a boarded up room in his mansion anymore. it feels like heβs backΒ there, listening to people having fun and drinking colors straight from a glass bottles. he likes that. β iβd sit somewhere on the boardwalk and wonder if people can tell. that iβm from a mental hospital. β
hello, iβm marc. iβm no longer from chicago, iβm from putnam hospital.
he shakes his head. no. today heβs feeling good and thatβs what heβs going to stick to.Β
β i saw a guy there once. i was... nineteen maybe, he looked my age too. i really wanted to talk to him, i didnβt even know why. he was reading a book and he looked like heβs written it, if that makes sense. β marc thinks frank understands. β but i felt that-- i felt that if i went to talk to him, it wouldnβt work out. no, it had to be steven. steven could talk to him. so he did. β
marc doesnβt even know how to describe those days. those few moments of freedom from therapy and blank walls of his hospital room. he felt like heβs been sneaking out of his existence and letting steven take over. every escape looked the same: meet on coney island, buy beer, talk about everything and nothing at all, look for a quiet place where nobody would see him and the boy with rounded glasses kiss.
it felt like being alive.
thanks to steven and coney island.
β and thatβs the story of how i met my first boyfriend. β marc finishes, pulling the brush away from canvas. the painting glistens with fresh colors and he tries to soak this in. these strokes will never be as vivid as they are now.Β
β but they didnβt let me out too often. or not often enough. we never got serious. and then my dad died, i escaped then enrolled... you know the rest. β marc sets down the makeshift palette ( a board from one of his crates which store untold egyptian riches ).Β
he looks at frank with a grateful smile. marc hasnβt told that story to anyone, but now he has. furthermore, he managed to paint it. he made those rare moments tangible. those moments of his youth that felt just like that-- like being young and so full of life. laying on grass, thinking about nothing. steven had it all and that gave marc something to look forward to while he was closed in those walls that promised to make him better. promised to fix him.Β
β i thought about coney island today. β marc explains his motives behind the painting while getting up and stretching. β i realized that i donβt have too many good memories from that period of my life... so i should... honor them, you know? capture that feeling. β
frank nods.
β remind myself that i can still feel like this. β marc adds, absentmindedly. his gaze starts to reflect the gaze of his painted counterpart. he wakes up with a jolt of his head and beams at frank.
β that i do feel like this. βΒ Β
This iPhone filter is called dramatic warm and I think it fits me WELL
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β βΒ the gods are dead Β &&Β their children are but waking dreams.Β βΒ her eyes for a moment find themselves hypnotized by the crimson drops falling from his weapon, each one akin to a flower petal in her eyes.Β she is neither afraid nor on a hurry to run.Β instead, foolish girl, she stands straight, speaking words she knows areΒ notΒ hers.Β Β
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β βΒ i donβt feel guilty either, but perhaps itβs because my people are humans transfigured by the blood of the dead gods.Β whatever deity you talk of though, it is no god of mine.Β my god wentΒ MADΒ years ago, back during the war.Β we are still searching for her heir, some say.Β not that i care, this has nothing to do with me or what i do.Β βΒ
β we have something in common then. β she has no reason to fear him. he wouldnβt harm a traveler who is forced to walk the same path as he does. β changed by the gods who just couldnβt stay away. iβve heard some say that this is the natural order of things. β he looks up to the sky that almost got suffocated by tall buildings. his eyes locate the moon without the fail. β mortals seek out gods, gods seek out mortals. theyβre as weak as we are, if not more. β
he glances back at her. β your god must be especially desperate. youβre too young for divinity in your veins. β the knight says his verdict, disregarding the fact that the moon has been calling out to him even when he was just a boy.
β you had no say in the matter. β he concludes, looking at the body between them. his voice sounds dry and heβs not sure if heβs talking about the girl or himself.Β
They canβt quite figure out if theyβre hungry or not, so having the decision made for them suits Kennedy pretty well. And it makes them look generous, sort of. Itβs a win-win. Β Β βKnock yourself out,β they encourage him, pushing the plate an inch closer to Marc with a welcoming flat-palm gesture.Β βIβll probably just have some toast later, βm never that hungry in the morning.β Itβs noon. They turn sheepish, maybe coy. βThanks for like β staying for breakfast.β (β¦ itβs lunch.)
β hm? oh. β he chews on the bagel and elaborates with a still full mouth β why wouldnβt i stay? sex was good, you have a nice kitchen and you got bagels. plus-- itβs not awkward yet. β
marc almost addedΒ βplus iβm lonelyβ right after those bagels. now that would have been awkward.
β i didnβt want to sneak out, i COULD, true, but... β he shrugs, still chewing. thatβs not him. different parts of marcβs mind would have ditched kennedy just like that, but marc... marc gets starved for routine and any semblance of normal life. even if itβs fleeting, even if he pretends otherwise. β i try to do that thing my latest therapist advises me to do. yβknow, not think of myself as a social burden. β Β
TODAY ON THE DAY OF 29th OF NOVEMBER, 2017, MARC SPECTOR HAS CANONICALLY FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER IN THE HISTORY OF MARVEL COMICS, SAID THE WORDΒ βFUCKβΒ
THIS IS A GREAT SUCCESS FOR THE MOVEMENT OFΒ βLET MARC SPECTOR SAY FUCKβ AND A GREAT WIN FOR THE FANS OF THE CHARACTER, CONGRATULATIONS EVERYONE, THANK YOU MARVEL ENTERTAINMENT, THANK YOU MAX BEMIS, GOOD JOB EVERYONE
an unmasked face exposes too much; frank sees the bruising smudged under spectorβs eyes, brought on by unhealthy sleeping habits instead of a wild fist. he sees the start of an unkempt beard, and spectorβs hair is simultaneously flat and disheveled. itβs easy to talk to a blank, faceless canvas. these details would be lost; the person loses what makes them a person. a sheet of cloth is pealed away and so goes any resemblance of professionalism.Β
itβs hypocritical, really, to allow his thoughts to drift in the direction theyβre going. as if the line hadnβt already been blurred β he knows the taste of marcβs mouth.Β
β mm. β hooking his boot around a chair leg, frank drags it away from a table cluttered with weapons and ammunition. he carefully sweeps his jacket to the side so itβs not pinned beneath him when he sits. distracted: thatβs what he feels right now. distracted and stupid. motions lacking the usual mechanical fluidity he relies on, his joints rusted and noisy.Β β sit, β frank says, nodding to an empty seat across from him.Β
Β Β Β Β β need to ask: am i that easy to find? β
marc stares at frank, placating him with slow blinks. he gets like this-- when he stays quiet and doesnβt answer the question because to him itβs just obvious. and he gets lost in wondering why was the query asked at all? why the wordΒ βNEEDβ? itβs all pretty obvious.
marc is honest. and thatβs his greatest downfall. heβs just really fucking bad at pretending.Β
β no, not easy. β thereβs a dreamlike quality in marcβs voice, the rigidness of his holy mission is dissipating, seeping out of his pores. something tame and curled up is taking its place instead. marc blinks again, moves to carefully put his hands and elbows on the table. gloved fingers pluck out a single bullet like a shiny seed. β not usually. it can get easy though. β short, butchered sentences. each one of them quieter, GUILTIER than the one before it. he keeps toying with the bullet ( .308 ). β when somebody gets to know you. when you let them in. β
heβs aware heβs painting himself a liability.
he thinks about frankβs hands. but not in their usual context, not wrapped around a gun or a knife. around his hips.Β
β and you shut them out but itβs too late. you let them know you. β he finishes. sets down the bullet in front of frank as if to pass it to him with a finality.
drawing with thread instead of pen todayΒ
marc can canonically see ghosts aint that fucked up
but it also means hed be a great addition to ghost adventures and buzzfeed unsolved so