#STARTER. ( petra nikonova. )

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

     @magicandsciencemuses  // another random lyric one liner for anyone

            “Do you really love me?”

[silencedsonatas]

anonymous sent in a headcanon meme for petra nikonova.

📐- Do they keep things neat and orderly? / 🛏- What does their comforter look like? / 🍔- Typically, can food or remnants of food be found in their room?

Squee.  I am so glad I get to ramble about my bb girl.  (really she’s a total brat and uses people for attention and just no – but she’s still my bb girl)  For starters, nothing about Petra’s anything is neat and orderly.  Clothes, notebooks, pens, cds, technological devices, it doesn’t matter.  It lands where it lands and she’ll dig for it when she needs it.  

She is, though, super particular about having food in her sleeping area – most of this comes from times slumming it or the asylum etc. where she learned all food stays in sealed containers and dishes generally don’t come in at all, if they do they are taken out immediately and she will make sure no remnants of food remains.  It’s so ingrained that she doesn’t even leave a mess behind when she’s gotten high and gone on a food / snack binge etc.  Even if she can’t muster the energy to take it elsewhere, she will always find some bag or drawer or box or something that she thinks will keep the food safe / away from any hungry critters.

As for her comforter – she actually has like six or seven different crash spaces in her canon city at any given time, places that she sub-lets or that she just crashes at regularly and they don’t really have much in the way of personalizing the area, just whatever shit that she’s forgotten there or dropped off etc.  There will always be one place, though, the first thing she pays at any stipend that she receives usually a few months in advance just to be sure that she will always have that place - it’s a two bedroom studio apartment where she has her piano that she managed to save from her parent’s home in Russia, it has all of her music books, her compositions, the stuff that’s in progress, etc. etc.  It also has a recording studio capabilities, not entirely professional but allows her to record her music and listen to it, and on those rare occasions when she chooses to, is high enough quality to forward to her agent.  In this apartment, she has a four poster canopy bed, light grained wood posters and frames and cream and light raspberry colored sheets and cover etc. with pale gold accents on some of the frame / boards.  The comforter there is actually a quilt, one hand made by a great great … some amount of greats grandmother on her mother’s side.  It is very soft and delicate, worn down some over the generations but still very well put together.  The top layer is a soft cream / eggshell fabric that has hand stitched patterns of fleur de lis and ivy, with the family’s crest (maternal side) stitched at each corner.  The thread is a subtle rainbow, with silver and gold mingled in especially at the outer edges and the royal insignia.  The padding is still thick, though probably half the height it was when it started and it is a rich burgundy color.

[mysticandskepticmuses]

anonymous sent in a headcanon meme for petra nikonova.

📐- Do they keep things neat and orderly? / 🛏- What does their comforter look like? / 🍔- Typically, can food or remnants of food be found in their room?

Squee.  I am so glad I get to ramble about my bb girl.  (really she’s a total brat and uses people for attention and just no – but she’s still my bb girl)  For starters, nothing about Petra’s anything is neat and orderly.  Clothes, notebooks, pens, cds, technological devices, it doesn’t matter.  It lands where it lands and she’ll dig for it when she needs it.  

She is, though, super particular about having food in her sleeping area – most of this comes from times slumming it or the asylum etc. where she learned all food stays in sealed containers and dishes generally don’t come in at all, if they do they are taken out immediately and she will make sure no remnants of food remains.  It’s so ingrained that she doesn’t even leave a mess behind when she’s gotten high and gone on a food / snack binge etc.  Even if she can’t muster the energy to take it elsewhere, she will always find some bag or drawer or box or something that she thinks will keep the food safe / away from any hungry critters.

As for her comforter – she actually has like six or seven different crash spaces in her canon city at any given time, places that she sub-lets or that she just crashes at regularly and they don’t really have much in the way of personalizing the area, just whatever shit that she’s forgotten there or dropped off etc.  There will always be one place, though, the first thing she pays at any stipend that she receives usually a few months in advance just to be sure that she will always have that place - it’s a two bedroom studio apartment where she has her piano that she managed to save from her parent’s home in Russia, it has all of her music books, her compositions, the stuff that’s in progress, etc. etc.  It also has a recording studio capabilities, not entirely professional but allows her to record her music and listen to it, and on those rare occasions when she chooses to, is high enough quality to forward to her agent.  In this apartment, she has a four poster canopy bed, light grained wood posters and frames and cream and light raspberry colored sheets and cover etc. with pale gold accents on some of the frame / boards.  The comforter there is actually a quilt, one hand made by a great great … some amount of greats grandmother on her mother’s side.  It is very soft and delicate, worn down some over the generations but still very well put together.  The top layer is a soft cream / eggshell fabric that has hand stitched patterns of fleur de lis and ivy, with the family’s crest (maternal side) stitched at each corner.  The thread is a subtle rainbow, with silver and gold mingled in especially at the outer edges and the royal insignia.  The padding is still thick, though probably half the height it was when it started and it is a rich burgundy color.

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

    @notthescarsyoucansee gets a lyric starter from petra for reasons.

        “If you told me you were drowning, I would not lend a hand.”

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

    @magicandsciencemuses humors me way more than anybody should & wanted a lyric one liner from petra // for takeshi ( ac verse? ) or elias ( modern or ac )

         “I know I've been so hard on you; I know I've told you lies.”

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

     @magicandsciencemuses humors me & i <3 liz a lot aka another lyric starter from petra incoming.  for anyone.

  “I don't wanna live this life without you -- I don't wanna know what it's like!”

[alteredegos]

         @magicandsciencemuses - Finnick Odair gets a starter from Petra Nikonova / aka Petenka Nikonorov (birth name / meth heritage).

             Blending might not be as hard as she’d expected -- some things, it seemed, one never forgot, and the designed beauty and grace of the sleeve she was riding certainly helped, but the place itself seemed to scream at her, everywhere she looked, reminders that she didn’t belong, that this wasn’t her world anymore .... if it ever had been.  Opulence, dripping from them all in equal measure of their disdain for their existence, as if they were above it and above everything else just by -- being --  it made her skin crawl, if she was being honest.  At least when she met these people in her world, they showed their true colors ... the rot and the sickness beneath the surface, rather than the glitz and the glamour and the spit polish shine to every word, every motion calculated and every move three steps ahead of someone else’s.   She felt like she was going to be sick and that wasn’t just from the lack of built in tolerance to the whiskey she’d been drowning herself in with increasing frequency as the night carried on.   She’d elected to stay far clear of the null gravity fight -- if Rei wanted to punish her for it later, she’d deal with it then, but that was literally the last thing she wanted to see now.   “Another, please,” she declared to the bartender; grateful that she was almost alone, at least for the moment, shoving her glass across the counter of the high bar.

[alteredegos]

         @magicandsciencemuses - Claire Dearing gets a starter from Petra Nikonova.

            “You’re.... one of Them, aren’t you?”  Wide, eternally tired blue eyes shifted up from the computer console that displayed the ... nearly innumerable options for building a sleeve from scratch -- something she had never dreamed she’d have the opportunity to do, even if it was for temporary use and only when Reileen wanted.   “What ...  do you think would fit in?”  Reileen had assured her that the woman’s confidence was guaranteed, which, if Rei said, she had to believe it.  “With ... a Methuselah, I mean,” she clarified, in case it wasn’t already clear.  It was one thing to cater to a Meth’s ... less illustrious desires.  It was something else altogether to try and pass for one of them.  

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

@magicandsciencemuses liked [x] for some things for elias.  from petra.  ac.

                            “There are things you can’t control.”

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

@magicandsciencemuses undercover! elias gets a starter from petra.  

    She didn’t need to ask what he was doing there, when she’d opened the door to find him standing in her hallway, slightly damp from the recent downpour, hands shoved defiantly into the pockets of his jacket – even if he’d never come to her place before, there was only one reason any of the Devlin’s crew showed up unannounced, at her apartment. She didn’t mind that he was here, late as it was – he was … different from the others; the few times that she’d entertained him at the club or at one of the Devlin’s parties, he’d been practically sweet about it .  

      She’d offered him a smile, tugging him in, locking the door behind him, leading him by the hand further into the small, but on the nicer side of things, apartment that Maria paid for.   She’d left him, briefly, returning with a towel and a cold beer, setting them aside onto the coffee table as she slid to a stop in front of him, long, delicate looking fingers reaching to help him shrug out of his jacket, to grasp at the waistband of his hoodie and slide it up, fingers following upwards, trailing steadily over the fabric of his t-shirt, ducking in beneath his arms as he shed the hoodie to press a soft, lingering kiss against his lips, cool fingertips grazing along his jaw, the other sliding along his chest, teasing along his stomach and waist.  

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

@killerdogx // petra & gabriel. underworld au.

     “Look, do not get me wrong, hm?”  The lanky blonde sat, half sprawled in her barstool, fingers idly catching and spinning the straw in her martini as she surveyed the figure beside her.  “This ... white knight act, it is -- sweet,” she declared after a moment’s consideration.  “But you are playing Quixote, thrusting at windmills,” she chided, leaning forward a little to let her free hand play at the neckline of his shirt before patting him gently on his chest.  “I am not a damsel in distress.  I do not need to be rescued from the big bad -- whatever it is you think I need rescuing from.”  She paused long enough to take a sip from her drink, her gaze sliding around the bar for a moment before settling back onto him.  “I am a big girl.  I know what I have gotten myself into and -- let us be frank?  What ... and who I do?  That’s my business.  Not yours, so, thank you for the drink but, I will not be needing your help, hm?”

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

@magicandsciencemuses // petra & quell - star wars verse.

     If she tried, she could almost pretend this was just ... a day.  A normal day in the life of a normal girl.  Planetside, tucked away into a corner table of one of the outdoor cafes of a bazaar, with fresh air, open sky, the noise and bustle and chaos of life, lived free of the death grip of the First Order; no mines, no shuffling and beleaguered workers, no deep, rasping coughs and no inescapable layer of dust and grim that coated everything, that seeped into folds and wrinkles and layers of cloth and skin alike.  No hum of an engine or metallic tang of recycled air, no immediately tangible, thick aura of uneasiness and fear cloying her throat and haunting her thoughts, her dreams.  

     Almost.  She could almost pretend.   If it wasn’t for the tightness of the leather that squeezed, just enough to be a constant reminder at her throat, and if it wasn’t for the chill, the goosebumps wrought by long limbs left bare by the teal green shift that hung loose around her, draping from neck to mid-thigh, leaving just enough covered to let the imagination play -- not that she was ready to complain.  She’d seen some of the alternatives.  A deeply cut neckline and flowing hems at least concealed the worst of it, and if she stayed sitting, knees curled underneath her, she could bunch the dress around her to cover at least her legs.  She could only brace herself for the rest of it when the wind picked up and cut around the stalls with enough force to rattle the paper wrapped packages stacked beside her and underneath the table.  The drink she’d been served did only a little to help warm her fingers and she had been careful to try and meter out the warm wine but she was close to reaching dredges when a shift of footsteps and a flicker of shadow drew her glance up to the woman who seemed intent on approaching to settle on the bench across from her.  “Oh, that --”  A hand raised, a formed protest beginning to escape before there was a moment of hesitation, an uncertain glance given from the stranger and then to the area around her.  He hadn’t specifically forbade her from speaking to anyone....  “Sorry, it’s fine, ignore me,” she was quick to retract her initial attempt at an objection, daring something that might have passed for a wary smile as well.  “Please.  Sit.”  Petra reiterated, for good measure.

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

@rubiesintherough // petra & mahia. 

       “They are just so .... ethereal,” the lithe, lean figure finally settled upon as her fingers drifted along the edges of the feathers hovering closest to where she lay, sprawled out beside and half beneath the dark wings that spread out behind Mahia.  Petra’s ‘own’ wings were pinned beneath her, the harness snug against her shoulders and rib cage and the opalescent display of feathers and glistening bits of tassel not cheaply made, but far from the mark of the real thing that currently held her entranced.   The discomfort from the rubber and leather contraption was hardly noticeable, but to be fair, in her current state of mind she might have been laying on broken glass in acid rain and not have noticed.   As it was, a blanket and discarded layers of clothing were all that stood between the pair and the harsh concrete and ribar that were all that remained of the interior walls and flooring of the warehouse that had been the venue for the current night’s shenanigans -- winding down, with the edges of daylight threatening to creep in through broken windows but it wasn’t as if they had anywhere else to be. 

    A soft, lingering sigh escaped from the blonde as she curled onto her side a little more, bringing an elbow under her head so that she could see her companion as a whole more easily, a grin creeping over her pale, shadow-worn features as she surveyed the mix of black light and glow-in-the-dark paint that adorned skin and cloth alike of the other-worldly winged creature that she had found, bedraggled and starving, in the weeks before.  “I still have trouble believing you are even real,” she admitted, her words slow and precise, as she was wont to speak when her tongue might trip and tangle more than she would ever allow it, when her thoughts raced a thousand miles a minute and she had trouble clinging to any of them in the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that spiraled through her head and chest.  Up, and down, left and right --  her hand drifted through the air like a feather on the wind, before it delved up to allow long and slender fingers to brush against Mahia’s jaw and cheek, as if to prove to herself that something about the other was, in fact, tangible.  “Here,” she said, after a sudden movement, a blue glass bottle retrieved from somewhere in the nest of blankets and bottles and bags that she had made in one of the half-existent corners.  “You should -- drink, more,” Petra insisted, “or maybe -- we should dance -- or both?  Both seems -  logical,” she offered, with a shrug, not certain herself where she had been going with that, but also making no effort to move on her own.

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

@magicandsciencemuses / rei!petra & takeshi.

     The eyes on her, the looks that followed her borrowed sleeve as she cut through towards the Raven were barely noticed, acknowledged in some part of her thoughts, but here and now, the world -- the worlds, all of them, and all of the sleeves and stacks in them might as well have never existed for all that they concerned her.  The flesh she wore was not her own, not one of the sleeves that she made a habit of wearing, but that bothered her little, if at all.  She had long grown accustomed to catching glimpses of herself, her skin, her form, and not recognizing it as her own.  It was a price that she paid, for all that she had built, for all that she had worked for, for everything that had brought her to this place, this moment in time, when she was so close -- so close to achieving her goals, so close to all that she had fought for that she could taste it.  

    He was free.  Almost free.  Bancroft believed he had control over Takeshi, that he could dictate the when and where and how that Takeshi came and went, but -- when it was over, Takeshi would be free, of Bancroft, of his past, of the darkness that he had suffered in for so long and when the time came ... they would be together. Properly.  As they should be, as they always should have been but for now ... for now, she would settle for this.  To come to him in borrowed flesh, to see him in his.   She was let through the lobby, up to his rooms, a harried rap against his door announcing her presence before she was let in.   Her heart was racing, pounding, but her expression was languid, a lilting smile brushing her lips as she stepped into the room, her hands sliding up along his chest as he greeted her, one hand skipping upwards to brush against his cheek, his jaw, cradling him in her hold.  “Hello, Takeshi,” she murmured, her words kept soft, pitched low to help in concealing the emotion that welled in her chest, that thickened in her throat as she came, face to face, heart to heart, with him for the first time after all these years.

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

@theblueeyedvampire gets a pre plotted starter from wrh blood doll petra

A low, sweet hum drifted behind her as bare feet padded, traipsing against cool marble and plush carpets as she checked (and double checked) the locks and latches that held the discreet metal blinds in place -- blinds that overlapped at top and bottom, snug and secure, holding back every single drop of sun that might ever think about intruding into the luxurious cream and gold and rose pink rooms that she now had to call her own. Nimble fingers tugged, plucked against the heavy curtains that covered the windows as an additional layer of protection, ensuring that they were held firmly in place -- over cautious, perhaps, but she had no intentions of doing anything in the ... at least...  immediate future to endanger the bargain struck with Wolfram & Hart that had landed her this gilded cage.  Oh, she made no excuses, not even to herself, she held no pretense, no delusions of what it was that these rooms were, what the bank accounts and credit cards and closets full of clothes and jewelry and shoes and toys and the fully stocked pantry, fridge, bar -- what the twenty-four hour car service and room service were.  Bars.  Slender and find, delicate and gilded, but bars.  But they were bars of her choosing ... bars that kept her free of the suffocating grip that her aunt held on her, on her money, money earned through her blood and sweet and tears, through her parent’s blood --  Oh, but she would choose these bars any day...  

And what was it, the things that she offered in exchange?  Nothing that she did not, had not already given, thrown into the wind, time and time and time again.  Her life?  Her body?  Her blood?  She was always, still, always would be, always wondered why, how, anyone found value in them, in any of them, in any part of her --  only in her mind, only in the alcoves, the recesses of it where she could fall, fall away into the chasms from which the music flowed, was birthed, erupting through fingertips against marble and ivory, scratched in ink stains across parchment did she see it, did she see anything worth saving, worth anything and ... what was she now, without it, with silence deafening, drowning her out of the world?  And yet... here she was, here she stood.

It was strange, in its own right, how the simply knowing she was wanted, could fill her chest with breath, with the wriggling sensations of life.  Satisfaction, curling and winding through her stomach, through her thoughts, an almost smile that bordered on smug as her attention turned back to herself, to the wall length mirror that stood in the walk in closet, assessing the layers of the outfit that she had chosen, from the black lace pantyhose and camisole to the black lace and satin ruffled skirt that jutted upwards sharply towards one thigh, the snug blood red blouse with the neckline that dropped in a sharp v and barely remained in place on her shoulders with the intent of leaving shoulders and chest and neck and throat bared, over all which she wore an ivory lined scarlet jacket -- meant more to tease than provide any actual protection against the weather, simply by concealing what the rest of her outfit revealed.  Calf length leather boots wrapped off the outfit, with a few pieces of dark jewelry cast about here and there for purely accent purposes.  Glittering gold and red dusted the lids and edges of her eyes, lashes painted dark black, lips coated with a thin layer of dark red, just a hint darker than the blouse she wore -- and all in all, she was satisfied... .  Now, all she had to do was hope that he would be.  

She knew little enough.  She knew what he was, what he wanted.  What he could have.  Anything, everything -- she’d been told there was only one rule that her guests were expected to follow, to leave her breathing  -- she wondered, she’d doubted, if that was the truth .... but then it wasn’t exactly as if she cared either...  One downward glance, a fidget of fingers against the edge of the black, fingerless gloves that stretched from her palm to her elbow, a self conscious gesture that she would undoubtedly repeat a dozen times before the night was over but she didn’t have time to think on it, thankfully, her attention pulled away to the buzz through the suite’s intercom that indicated that her company had arrived.  

One breath in, a quick swallow from the glass of wine that fingers plucked up on the way to the door, and she was there, slipping the door open as she spoke.  “Здравствуйте,” she offered, an automatic response, a default to her native tongue as she tried to conceal the jitters in her stomach, tried to ignore the sudden increase of her heartbeat as she welcomed him in.  “Please,” she urged, standing aside to allow the vampire to pass freely by her, “on behalf of Wolfram and Hart, I would like to offer their hospitality and my ...”   A quirk of her lips, a purse of a smirk for a moment.  “Gratitude.  Please tell me, what is it I can do for you to make you feel... welcome?”    [ outfit ] 

[tuppencetrinkets-a]

You ever see somebody ruin their own life? (Petra)

The brunette’s words received something that resembled a snort from the lanky blonde, glassy blue eyes settling on the girl – she had the sense that they had been introduced, there seemed to be a word, a name that lingered on the tip of her tongue but it was lost, drifting in the torrid sea that was the never placid or tranquil stream of consciousness that drifted in and around her – 

Petra took a long swallow from the metal bottle water that served as her flask that currently held a mix of strawberry, candy bar and whipped cream flavored vodkas on top of a simple, plain and very strong vodka, before offering it out to the other girl.  “Look around,” she offered with a shrug, a nod to their surroundings meant to include herself at least, if not the stranger maybe not stranger maybe just forgotten that sat across from her by the burn barrel.  “Might not have seen it in action, for every single on of them, but what is it exactly that you think brings them here?”  Her words were clipped by her accent, the Russian burring certain syllables and sharpening others, but the tone of her words itself was melodic, lilting, and her words were spoken, at least for the most part, without malice.  “Not choice, I would swear to it.”