disbelong

[disbelong]

@olenas

[disbelong]

[dis]belong. a selective, independent multi-muse as ran by koi.

basic rules apply. i'm still getting a site put together at the moment, with all my more official rules and muses together, but as of right now— just be cool, and i'll be cool right back. 21+, mutuals only, et cetera. i use the block button liberally, i like plotting at great length, and i primarily focus on my original characters. if you're following for high activity, this probably isn't the blog for you.

[1] ORIGINAL MUSES ...

ABEL ARDEN, AS PORTRAYED BY LANA CONDOR. she/her, twenty-five to early thirties, modern day and superhero-adjacent. a ditzy daydreamer, who believes her fantasies are fabricated, while unknowingly having visions of the future and past. clueless to the fact she has powers, she’s diagnosed with maladaptive daydreaming disorder, but continues to chase any echo of her dreams she sees in her daily life. ditzy, sweet, gullible. bisexual and open for shipping, but selectively.

ASH HAYASHIDA, NO FACECLAIM AT THE MOMENT. he/him, twenty-five to early thirties, modern day. closeted transmasc farmer, struggling with his sexual identity and hiding behind toxic masculinity. soft-hearted and tender, but refuses to fully allow it to shine. character is heavily about the struggles of being a trans man in a gay community, and how the sexualization of self can be detrimental when used wrongly.

BITNA OH, AS PORTRAYED BY BAE YOON YOUNG. she/her, modern day. an ethical hacker by day, a black-hat hacker by night. consumed by guilt over theories that her father is a serial killer, but living in denial about it, and instead drowning it in heavy doses of her own anxiety medication. antisocial, bitter, and blunt. bisexual, but closed off, and not very shipping friendly.

DAISY-MAE JOHNSON, NO FACECLAIM AT THE MOMENT. she/her, age ranges from twenties and upward, set in the 60’s. a driven figure skater, pushed into the limelight as the all-american golden girl and slowly worn thin by the puppeteering surrounding her. heavily surrounded in commentary on political propaganda. cheery, optimistic, head-strong. bisexual, and open for shipping.

CHERRY MARTINEZ, AS PORTRAYED BY INDYA MOORE. she/her, modern day. motel rooms, trap houses, saturations of perfume. stacks of cash, secretive savings, and the hunger in the pit of your stomach. cherry's life is a love letter to trans-feminine stories, a prayer to absent gods, a devotion to authenticity. she is found in dark corners, high spaces, the fizzle of cheap champagne in expensive glasses. she is known for impulse, thrill, and explosive endings. sweet as pie, explosive as a bomb, cherry is an image of an image of an image, desperately seeking affirmation through exploitation of self, tag-lined with a warning: danger, do not invest. side effects may include broken hearts, bitter endings, and backhanded comments. play at your own risk.

LUCY RIOS, AS PORTRAYED BY CHRISTIAN SERRATOS. she/her, twenty-five, modern day. a vengeance fueled sex worker, luring in men to judge them on their indulgent tendencies. motivated by her sister’s death, she refuses anyone forgiveness, regardless of how true her assumptions are. flirty, manipulative, and seemingly careless. bisexual, but commitment-phobic, and very rarely will be shipped in any serious relationships.

MARK DAI, AS PORTRAYED BY SHO KIYOHARA. he/him, twenty-five and upward, modern day. literally just some guy. mari dai's brother, mainly, but i like writing him so he goes here. asshole, hacker, cringefail lil jon listener. not much to know otherwise. affiliated with @toprey.

NOAH ROTH, AS PORTRAYED BY NADIA HILKER. she/her, twenty-three and upward, modern day. a punk rocker, in recovery and healing from her years on the street and her addictions. heavily political muse, dissecting the dehumanization in homelessness and addicts, as well as discussing the damage of capitalism versus the revolution and rebellion of the people.

[2] CANON MUSES ...

BREAKING BAD / BETTER CALL SAUL.

JANE MARGOLIS. she/her, canon compliant, can be written at any point pre or during series.

IGNACIO VARGA. he/him, canon compliant, can be written at any point pre or post-series.

GUSTAVO FRING. he/him, canon compliant, can be written at any point pre or in series.

MIKE EHRMANTRAUT. he/him, canon compliant, can be written at any point in series.

JIMMY MCGILL / SAUL GOODMAN. he/him, canon compliant, can be written at any point in series.

DOMINGO MOLINA, ALSO KNOWN AS KRAZY-8. he/him, canon compliant, can be written at any point pre-series.

BRANDON MAYHEW, ALSO KNOWN AS BADGER. he/him, canon compliant, can be written at any point.

NETFLIX'S BEEF.

DANNY CHO. he/him, canon compliant, can be written at any point pre or post-series.

HOUSE M.D.

GREGORY HOUSE. he/him, canon compliant until s6, and then diverts out.

JAMES WILSON. he/him, canon compliant until s6, and then diverts out.

MARVEL.

OLENA BELOVA, ALSO KNOWN AS THE WHITE WIDOW. she/her, not canon compliant, reworked and removed from marvel.

MR & MRS SMITH, 2005.

JANE SMITH. she/her, canon compliant, written post-film.

MISFITS UK.

NATHAN YOUNG. he/him, canon divergent, primarily written in early seasons.

SKINS UK.

JAMES COOK. he/him, canon compliant and primarily written post-series. selectively written in younger years.

CASSIE AINSWORTH. she/her, canon compliant with original series, but canon divergent from skins pure. selectively written in younger years.

[3] REQUEST MUSES ...

DC.

HARLEEN QUINZEL. she/her, not canon compliant and more of a mix of slivers of tons of different canons. reworked and mainly written as an original character. inspirations taken from the caped crusader, a mix of comics, and the harley quinn: sound mind podcast, along with some dashes of birds of prey + the suicide squad. my itineration of harley is korean, comes from a low income background, and fell into her job at arkham in attempts to fund a life-saving operation for her father. in current day, she is a vigilante and completely detached from any relation to the joker.

MR ROBOT.

LEON. he/him, canon compliant, can be written pre or post series.

THE WITCHER.

RENFRI VELLGA. she/her, canon primarily based upon her short story & headcanons.

[disbelong]

on a night dark enough to stop imagining stars, olena stays up to see the sun spool against the horizon. spanning seconds, or minutes, or hours from dusk— til dawn. she steers clear of sleep. attempts to find modicums of calm. voids futures of fanciful degrees, and pretends to abandon the history of years past. [recollection, reminiscence, remembrance: who is she, if not an imposter? what is she not, if not honest?] from memory, comes horror. from horror, comes truth. the unveiled veins of where home could've been, the reminder of what could still be— natasha is only evidence of what cannot be undone. a souvenir of times gone by. the faster she rids of her, the faster she can run, and maybe one not-so-dark night will lay her to rest.

NATASHA ROMANOV [@awidow] : "what danger is there in memory?"

or, maybe not, and rest is simply a fantasy for people dissimilar to them both. "plenty." olena bites out, all sharp teeth and jagged bite. hands clasped around the edge of a counter, leaned forward against the implication of interaction, she steadies a stock-still stare at the other. manages to hold her tongue in varying words. "i don't need a stroll down memory lane." knuckles whiten against the counter, before she releases. tilts her body back and away from what feels like a bomb, set to explode. "why did you come here?"

[disbelong]

madwoman.

dialogue prompts from madwoman: a novel by chelsea bieker.

one is fun. two is ten.

we aren't going to have ice cream at eight in the morning.

why didn't you come to me when it happened? i could have helped.

it's hard to know what i deserve.

we could kiss back here and no one would know.

what else would you never do again, for me?

so, who is [receiver's name]?

i can't wait to have kids.

you look like you've seen a ghost.

saying sorry a bunch of times doesn't change anything. so stop saying it.

something's wrong with me. i need to lie down.

you know what i woke up thinking about?

time passes. every second of every day.

your optimism is a huge liability.

everyone is traumatized. i'm not special.

therapy involves too much honesty.

don't open the door a crack. you never know what might get through.

this world is built on exchanges.

don't worry. don't spend your life worrying.

beauty is a fickle currency.

i cannot be shocked.

i had a feeling something would be coming today.

people, most of the time, will try to meet you halfway if you ask. but you only learn that if you ask.

why do you do all this?

i have love for you, but i don't love you.

stop thinking so much about your own problems, and start seeing yourself as someone people can rely on.

the energy you're putting out is a lot of violence.

are you saying you like me?

i won't make the same mistakes as my _____.

there's no power in pity.

envy is a useful tool. it shows us what we want.

i love you, but i can't take you with me.

how did you know you wanted kids?

you have no idea how young you are.

i want to know what it's like to have a family.

you've always loved to invest in a cause.

it seems like we're supposed to know each other or something.

i figured you'd come around eventually.

you don't fuck around.

i don't have the energy to cheat, even if i wanted to.

you think you're funny?

you see the tiny details other people miss.

i want to make you proud of me, for once.

true love can be, despite what we're told, a forgetting.

it wasn't easy, letting go. it was a death.

some people will do anything to survive.

i feel like you get me. i feel totally open with you.

who are you, really?

they're called 'spirits' for a reason. they invite possession.

it's good to let loose, every now and then.

why do you think you're like this?

there's something inside me. my father had it, too.

i don't like how vague you are with me.

i told you my secret. now tell me yours.

i don't pity you.

you can't go snooping around in people's things. you know that, right?

you're quick as hell.

what a gift you are.

let it all out. punch a pillow or something.

you assume people aren't listening to you when you talk.

we're all weird in our own ways.

sometimes you have to live in the mystery.

you say that stuff, but what do you really think?

you can't run away forever.

you're doing your best, and your best is good enough.

all i ever wanted was a normal family.

want me to read to you?

the only way out is through.

there's no sides. there's only truth.

there's something closed off about you. i can never read you.

my mind is a dangerous neighborhood.

i don't understand murder if there isn't a little suffering involved.

i can tell you were an insufferable child.

it looked like you were praying.

what danger is there in memory?

i've never felt like that again.

i think i just wanted to know i meant something to you.

how are you not completely haunted?

i'm feeling it all for the first time.

i never really let myself grieve.

online, you seem so well-adjusted.

what did you make yourself into?

everything is paid for now. every wrong is right.

let's be together. just for tonight.

why do you think an easy life is a better life?

your spiritual transformation has gone too far.

i didn't know it, either. even though it was happening to me.

i could only see what was happening right in front of me.

i was worried you weren't going to make it home.

what could be safer than death?

what makes you think anyone could understand what i did?

it's like looking right back into the past.

so much for my idea of 'normal'.

it was always rigged against us.

you want life to be tidy.

you have to forgive yourself. you won't survive if you don't.

sometimes it's okay to believe your own stories.

[disbelong]

bite the hand that feeds, and the hand will stop feeding— at least, that's the logical assumption, but noah's never been too big on all the logistics. never cared much for all the rules. she's chompin' down on givin' up, crashing crass against all the comments, and if j-to-the-i to the m-b-o jones thinks she's that easy to scare off ... he's got another thing coming. [teenage wasteland, adolescence fright: back in the day, and we mean way, way, back, noah roth could give him a run for his money. tough at the edges, singed at the insides: noah used to know how to cook up the cruelest of comments, and serve 'em straight out for breakfast-lunch-and-dinner.] so, he's got a little bit of 'tude. juttin' and jaggin' and jig-sawin' his way through life. cuttin' up friendships and relationships until they're peepin' holes through his heart. pouring isolation through his skull. head bangin', migraine wasted— he ain't so different from her, y'know.

and that's present tense. as in, noah roth likes to believe she's turned a new leaf but still shakes-n-shivers at the thought of proximity. as in, noah roth's new leaf looks more like keeping the world at arm's length, just tryin' to dilute the damage. as in, noah roth and jimbo jones might have differences of opinion, might not do it for all the same reasons, might even care about different shit— but they feel, just like they fuck up, which is to say ... all the damn time.

inescapable, irrational, the base kit of what an ill-mind will say; jimbo can dish out the worst-of-the-worst-of-the-worst, and noah won't flinch. refuses, brave faced, to dip 'n dive away from his words. [it ain't that easy: gettin' rid of her is hard.] "ain't nobody gotta say it for it to be true." raw-rasp, reckoned-bite, the sting of teeth that don't sink— scare her off, shake her down, but noah's known for standing her ground. "yo, holdup—" she holds out a hand like a stop sign, directin' the traffic of jimbo's woe's. "nobody's sayin' nobody cares 'bout you. i'm sure as hell not sayin' that." a frown, wrinkled at the edges. "i care about you." genuine in her word, frank in her tone, noah says the truth like it's written on the underneath of her tongue. spits it out, easy, without hesitation in sight. "'n i'm boycotting hobby lobby, anyway. you're stuck with me, man."

CANINE INTERVENTION: no dog, no breed, no behaviour is unfixable for noah roth! follow the new york junkie jesus as she works with a range of skids and burnouts. this episode features jimbo jones—a dog who bites people just to get a rise out of an owner that ignores him.

oh my god; change the channel. turn that shit off right. now.

' i don't know who told you that i give a fuck— ' NOAH ROTH? more like no-one roth! ( good one, jones; that's a real zinger. ) a police siren sounds somewhere down the block, turns the corner, and disappears into the city. above them, the beacon light of a passing plane flashes to the same, rolling beat. jimbo shoves his hands further into his pockets, searching for rock bottom or a bic lighter. whatever comes first. ' —but they're lying. ' for all of his protesting, he scowls against the backdrop of a diorama night sky in a way that betrays him.

she's right: of course he gives a fuck. that's, like, his whole deal. he's got too many feelings and never learned what to do with 'em, so he spends his days swingin' at fence-poles and chess-club champions. his nights stealing nacho cheese doritos and grey-goose off mom's top shelf. his evenings hanging around noah's punk-rock rhetorics of change.

jimbo hawks and spits onto the pavement, square between @infringe's scuffed boots. he wants her to stay around, but—not knowing what to do with this particular feeling, either—tries his best to drive her off, certain that being angry and alone would be better than ... whatever the fuck this is. ' man, i’m like … half your age. you can't ass-in-you-ate that nobody cares about me. that's jacked. ' and true! right again, sensei roth. his face screws up, wrinkling the freckles across the bridge of his nose. inside his pockets, his hands keep searching for that damn lighter. needle in a haystack of lint and bruised egos. ' don't you got somewhere else to be, like fucking hobby lobby? '

[disbelong]

the world turns to shades of grey, but elliot's all contrast. speckled in the light of static hues, sprawled, half-stoned, to the sound of a sitcom; smoke-stagnant and skunk-slivered and suckin' down an inhale like he's got somewhere to be ... there ain't nothin' like it. this cloud-filled room, this shared space— becoming nothin' more than what the late-hours expect of 'em. viewers, consumers, the base-skull of the mundane. replicating nothing. replaying everything. sharing in the puff-puff-pass of a blunt, and peeling out the words from wherever they've left 'em. [loose change, lazy-breath, the lax brush of their fingers: whatever they'll find between the cushions, wherever they dredge out from in the morning, they'll still find the same curve of intimacy next week. the following month. wherever, however, whenever leon shows up: he's welcome.] so, leon shares one thing. elliot spitballs another. they curate, create, and conversate 'til their lids grow heavy and the tv turns dim. it's easy. it's routine. it's home, in the ways that it can be, because leon's no stranger ... but he's no permanent resident, either.

ELLIOT ALDERSON [@unerror] : "i won't tell if you won't."

not that elliot seems to mind. leon's smile loops at the edges of his laugh, cursive swirls around the adjustment of his form. his arm edges around the back-end of the couch, a leg crooked into an L shape onto the cushion. the blunt crackles down as he inhales, exhales, and sweeps the excess away with his palm. "you got yourself a deal, eli." the flirtation sparkles at the end of his sentence. fire-crackers its way down to his tone. the blunt is tucked into the corner of a nearby ashtray, ends fraying into the corner as he pauses. leans back. his head nods, slight, and his fingers gesture forward. "c'mere."

[disbelong]

his mouth tastes like blood. iron-written apologies, apple-bruised regrets, the reminiscence of adolescence stuck between his gums. rotted to the underside of his tongue. where to go, what to say, how to mend— it's a road map tunneled beneath his chest. caved in against his lungs. every inhale is sharp. the reminder of years past, inflamed. [sister, brother, mother, father: the dai family comes back swinging in every breath.] if he wasn't such a coward, he might push through the pain. find the line between his childhood less unsightly, more nostalgic, remembering avalanches of lost moments rather than spit spooled against the floorboards. muddled with foamy-reds, anaphylactic-blues; galaxies of stars danced behind his eyes. a crime scene that he'd fled, and expected to leave behind.

JESSE PINKMAN [@tocook] : "you already did it, man. there's no undoing it."

but mari came knocking. trailing behind, jesse came, too. (history opened its jaws. swallowed him whole. back-burned to the stake of his heart, it'd left marks. singed clean, swept away, burdened to the reminder of who he once was—) who was mark dai, if not a brother? who is he now, if not a betrayer? mark blinks. who could he be, had he gone about this differently? had he not tried to unmake the very bed he laid to rest? he stares at the silhouette of his sister, smoking outside of the apartment. "i'm not trying to undo it." the words run together like water; trickled out of the side of a bruised mouth in quick succession. "i just want her to know." his stare flickers to the side, then back. "i regret it." a beat. "all of it."

[disbelong]

not a cop, never a psychic, but she could be close to somethin' magical. could be a daydream, a reverie, an escape from the nine-to-five livin'. a muse, but never the artist, because dipping into silver-lined dreams ain't no game for someone who can't afford livin'. diggin' change outta dirty pockets, salivating over dollar bills in the interim, sweatin' and swoonin' and slick-kissing her way towards sunshine— [cherry can barely afford the now. what kinda room does that give her for later?] like the crack of dawn against darker skies, the speckled rain upon desert lands, she's a breath of fresh air — 'til she's not — and a pretty, pretty picture — til she ain't. so, before the sex, the drugs, the shit-i'm-gonna-come's; before the fucking, the sucking, the sweet, sweet, praise, everybody wants a piece of cherry. afterwards, nobody wants to see her stems. leftovers, she thinks, are the bane of her existence.

but ain't he sweet for offering, anyway? [crinkled baggies, razor-sharp lines, the night before's remains,] she ain't in no place to say no. shit, she bets he's hopin' she'll say yes. being pretty, being passable, becoming that certified, pornified, pleasurable experience, it's enough to get her in the door. whether or not he locks it, is up to him. "ain't a psychic," she chuckles out, all light and airy with an affection not-earned, always-given. "just observant." observant, as in attentive, as in eager — her palms itch at the thought. "how 'bout i get a drag of that—" she inches closer, her smile honey-warm. "'n then we can figure out the rest."

the cheap thrills, the crazy trips, the coos and crinkles and come-back-soon’s. the fist bumps. the benedictions. the pocket-sized scales. the canticles sung by a slovenly choir.  (  as you clamber up the stairs to purgatory, an angel will advise you:  chill out. don’t make a fuss. kick off your heels. bid adieu to your apprehension.  )  crossroads motel contains a curious assortment of inhabitants. short-term tourists, broker than the cockroaches swarming their cupboards. pierced pill-poppers, whose whims defy traditional logic. street-walkers, beguiling random johns with the bubblegum pop of their lips.  (  wendy had given him an exhaustive summary of that one.  )  then there’s jesse, armored in artificial mania, brandishing glass pipes and breezy non-sequiturs. a charlatan, certainly  —  but isn’t he cute? 

cute like a teddy bear, torn to unveil the cotton stuffing. cute like chump change wedged under the pillowcase. cute like a childhood pet, wagging his tail, scratching and scratching and scratching the windowsill until someone scolds him. pummels him. dealer’s choice.  (  it looks like you’re holdin’, she deduces, stunningly incisive. it doesn’t mean he’s held.  )  backlit against the terracotta sunset, jesse ashes his blunt. musters a seraphic smile.  “  nah. nah, not a cop. maybe, like, a psychic.  ”  peek into his crystal ball. read his calloused palms. demystify his pitiful intentions.  “  whatchu want?  ”  the million-dollar question, replete with intrigue.  “  hey, you know, since you’re my next-door neighbor in this shithole—   ‘s on me.  ”

[disbelong]

she saw him come in. huddled close, bordered behind a guy that spoke in low tones like he was lazily puffin' smoke with every sentence. talking in hushed voices, half-mutterin' the name leon like he was scared somebody might realize he exists. but, 'course, cherry realizes everyone exists — because her method of stayin' alive is knowing all the dirty, filthy, fucked up details, souped up 'n sugared down 'til they're fizzle-poppin' on her tongue like candy. (razzles, she thinks, are a lost gem on society. somewhere, cherry pops her gum.) don't matter the hunchin' over that he does, she notices it all. the way that sometimes, when he thinks nobody's looking [and she's always lookin',] he stumbles on out of that motel room with smoke-slick smiles and that leon guy chucklin' behind him. maybe they're fucking, she thinks, 'cept she's got half a suspicion that neither of them know how it looks from the outside. codependent, maybe, then. or maybe she's just bored, tired of the hum-drum of motel rooms and secretive spaces and spit-laced lube dry on the curves of her thighs. maybe she's just looking for a story.

ELLIOT ALDERSON [@unerror] : "i don't want to cause any trouble."

he don't want any trouble, but trouble's already found him. laced up in some peeked out lingerie, wrapped up in a silk robe, a joint tucked behind her ear and hidden by a mess of curls that still glint with glitter. poppin' strawberry flavored gum, (not razzles, although a girl can dream,) and fluttering faux-lashes in the dead of the night. "you ain't causin' trouble." a soft snort, her form draping itself against the side of her motel room door. "i'm just makin' conversation." her smile's sweet enough to eat, and a finger loops around the string of her robe. "road trips ain't no fun if you don't make a few friends along the way, right?"

[disbelong]

on the nights that the world gives in and cherry puts out, she thinks she could make a living off of this. rich folks with rubber-banded bills, stuffed full of shame 'n desire 'n all their deleted search history snug against their belt. men with thousand dollar cologne, women with curiosities, people who rub 'n tug for long enough that they gotta come see somethin' for themselves. she don't mind it. the cheap thrills, the dirty results, the moans and groans and the please-don't-tell's that follow. the wants. the needs. she gets her fix, too, because even though she ain't askin' for no refund, isn't searchin' for some suck-n-fuck exchange, they always feel bad enough to give her something. (gifts, and garters, and vintage treats in blue boxes. glamour, and glitz, and guilt wrapped up in a bow.) it keeps them sane. it keeps her pretty. no matter the ugly outsides, tumbled and jumbled and jagged against the roof of their mouths, [askin' for one room, two beds, like it ain't a dead giveaway just by the tax bracket that follows,] it ain't nothin' she feels bad about. and all that crystal persuasion, housed up and shacked up in the rooms next door, well— ... that's just a perk, ain't it?

JESSE PINKMAN [@tocook] : "it's not what you think, okay?"

she's seen him before. 'course she has, with his doll-blue eyes 'n the too big clothes. fumbling 'n stumbling 'n shaking the vending machine to life in the mornings. he's an eyesore against her glossed lips, glittered jackets, false-lashes and faux-feathers and everythin' in between. (like she said before— it keeps her pretty. it don't mean she's kept.) "it looks like you're holdin'." cherry flips open a phone, then closes it. flips it open again, then snaps it shut. it slides between the band of her bra, tightened flush against her flesh, and her hand flips a stray curl from her features. "or sellin'." her tongue swipes across the bottom of her lip, gloss smearing to a peach-strawberry taste. "at least smokin', by the looks of it." a short exhale, airy. "c'mon— do i look like a cop?"