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♡ CINDY KIMBERLY via instagram
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who? open, capped at 0/3. where? the montclair quad.
the anonymous campus menace must think they're real clever, and as a woman who much prefers to keep her own life personal, november finds their larking particularly irritating. her already barely-concealed rage simmers every time she walks past those goddamn flyers. they're everywhere, and she's already seen a few this morning. day ruined. the next one she spots quickly becomes the target of her fury—it's taped to a lamp post, and she tears it down without breaking her stride, crumples it in her fist without bothering to read past the first line. the quad itself is deceptively peaceful, and the brunette marches straight through it, a storm cloud veering towards the nearest trash can, the paper remains still clutched in hand. hand winds up like she's about to throw it hard; nova narrows her gaze like she's lining up the shot. the balled-up flyer arcs wide, hits the pavement, rolls for one, two, three seconds . . . and hits someone's foot. "fuck," she hisses under her breath before stalking a few paces closer, voice louder this time. "sorry. bad aim." a tilt of her head at the paper, then: "well? you gonna toss it out, or hand it over so i can?"
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"and if she chose you, why isn't she with you now? you're just a bad habit she's gonna eventually break." the stillness that holds his body in place is not the same as earlier, a charged anger rearing its ugly head. it's fiercer, like the kind belonging a dog trained to heel as it suddenly bares its teeth. his jaw locks so tightly it aches, and his fists—when did they clench?—are already curling into the hem of his jacket, knuckles taut with restraint. the kind of restraint that takes everything in him not to swing. but tristan doesn't deserve the kind of attention that would come from beau breaking that carefully kept line. not the fallout, not the flash of headlines, and definitely not the sound of his sister's voice, exhausted and fraying, asking why again. he knows this, and yet, his patience is dying, barely just hanging on. "you think you're the only one with a future?" beau steps forward, practiced and snobbish gaze locked on tristan, barely smothered rage turning brown eyes dark. "you think i give a shit about some ten year plan? some shiny job lined up because daddy made a call? congratulations. you'll graduate into a cubicle with a title and no idea how to love anything that doesn't benefit you."
tristan halts mid-step, back still partially turned, like he hadn’t expected beau to bite back with anything other than smug deflection. but the edge in beau’s voice—yeah, he clocked that. slowly, he pivots, gaze cool and steady as it locks back on him. "didn’t have to rehearse it," he says, tone calm, almost conversational. "you’ve been setting it up for years."
he shifts his weight, the faintest flicker of something darker crossing his face—irritation, maybe even guilt, but it passes just as quickly. "and you're right," he says, voice dropping slightly. "she doesn’t leave you because you disappoint her." a beat. "she just never really chooses you, either." he says it not like it’s a dig, but like it’s a fact—cold and inarguable. like it’s something they both know but only tristan has the nerve to say aloud.
and then, as he finally turns away, there’s one more tossed over his shoulder, so casual it almost doesn’t sound like a parting shot: "you're a distraction. you've already hit your peak and your legacy will be, what? a failed college athlete with no future outside of campus. you don't have a place in her future and everybody knows it, so enjoy her while she lets you."
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she snorts, chin tipping towards estela in something like agreement, though there's a touch of disbelief in the movement. it's interesting; everyone is so soft one second, brutal the next, sobbing and screaming and smiling. she could call it the 'lizzie effect'—how the people around her were always flickering between venom and honey, like a weak attempt at assimilating to the way the woman herself acted. even now, with her gone, the mimicry sticks. it's exhausting, watching the emotional whiplash, and november is terribly put off by it all. "goodbye shots sound on-brand," she replies finally, acutely aware of the way estela's smile softened. no matter how unnerving lizzie's sway is, it's impossible to ignore the pain that she can read on her. with some people, it feels a touch more genuine. if she knew the girl better, she'd offer her something gentle, but for now, all she has to give is her company ( and that's a rarity for her in its own right, isn't it? ). "line 'em up."
“you really want my last words on lizzie to be at a party with this playing in the background?” she deadpanned, nodding toward the speaker where someone had let a frat boy queue three post malone songs in a row, the current being congratulations. but still, she flipped the camera, angling it just so, until her own reflection stared back at her. then, with the performance ease of someone who had done this a hundred times, “lizzie, my love,” she began, voice smooth, and tears slowly forming. “i keep waiting for you to walk in late, and admitting this was just some poor joke on your part ... but you’re not coming, are you?” her smile softened just a fraction. “anyways ... i love you, and i hope they’re pouring you something expensive up there. none of this bottom shelf shit. you will be missed.” and then, without skipping a beat, she turned the camera back to nova, full grin returned, “what are your thoughts on goodbye shots?”
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the laughter that escapes him feels like a step in the right direction, shoulder gently and playfully nudging hers as they walk. "nothing's ever too much." and isn't that how it always is for the hedonistic? how else is he meant to chase away his grief? sensation and indulgence are the only way to fill the ache he refuses to talk about. good company makes it even easier. he pauses briefly as ares veers toward a patch of grass, nose to the ground, tail wagging like the dog's completely oblivious to the night's mood. beau watches him for a second, a bit envious that something can exist so carefree, then tilts his head towards the nearest building. "can't commit a felony on an empty stomach— you're right. snacks first." he chances another glance at the blonde, and there it is, that gratefulness that someone is willing to put up with everything he is right now. "thank you. for, uh, coming with me. i didn't want to be alone tonight."
"maybe, but where’s the fun in playing it safe?” arden smiled, a hint of playfulness obvious in her words, though his voice signaled there was more on his mind. she couldn’t blame him, lately the entire campus had too many extra thoughts in mind to focus on anything else. she was desperate to break the cycle — his text came at the perfect time, offering the perfect escape. her eyes wandered over to ares who was accompanying them on their night out, a smile gracing her features as the night air hit her face. seeing his brought her a sense of solace, her head then nodding in agreement as he spoke about the need to get out. “you had me at breaking in, but maybe we’ll need a few snacks to go with our swim?” arden questioned, an eyebrow arching as she thought through all of the possibilities. “do you think that’s too much?”
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who? closed w/ katherine ( @goodgrac3s ). where? kappa sorority house.
he's tethered to her, isn't he? this is proof of that— his father hung up the call an hour ago, voice sharp and final like always, and the moment the line went dead, beau's body moved on its own. it's longing that steers him home, pitiful longing, like she's north and he's a compass that can't help but spin to her magnetic field. and now, here he is, standing on the quiet street outside the kappa house, yearning swallowing him whole, torn by the awareness that she's so close and still is always just out of reach. hands ghost over the initials carved into the metal flask, thumb brushing the grooves like the flask might tell him what to do, same as it always does. it's muscle memory, then, the way he unscrews the cap, but this time, lips never find the rim. brown eyes force themselves to stare at the grass, and, as much as his craving screams in protest, beau tips it forward. the liquid hits the ground, all too familiar smell leaving behind a sting in his throat, even if the ground drinks up the vodka before he allows himself the chance. it might be the only right thing he's done all month. hell, all year. his phone is already out moments later, bravery winning out over cowardice for once. i'm outside, he types, half convinced she won't be bothered to do more than read it. can i see you?
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who? closed w/ charlie ( @paintedgxld ). where? carver hall, study room.
"well, i know neither of those is about me." beau huffs, collapsing back into the faux leather of the study room couch like the wind's just been knocked out of him. one arm is tossed dramatically over the backrest, the other still gripping a flyer, lines worn in, turning the creases in the paper soft from how many times he's already folded and unfolded it. he's fidgety as always, eyes darting here and there, paranoia and afternoon sobriety both taking their toll on him for the day. "i'm not a fucking stalker, and believe it or not, law enforcement officers aren't really included in my dating pool." a beat, then he tosses the flyer onto the coffee table already littered with crumpled snack wrappers, his abandoned notebook of theories left open there too. "i doubt you're spending time outside someone's window, either. but maybe if we figure out who those secrets belong to—" hand traces an invisible map in the air. "—we can trace ‘em back to people who’d know those secrets."
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"my point was that i don't have it out for you. or anyone." she swears she catches something change in his eyes, and with that, the insecurity comes flooding back in, smile losing all its shine. november is well acquainted with mistrust, and she supposes it's valid that even brody finds some suspicion in her tendency to keep herself far— too apart and too much ‘the other’, the way she's always been around lizzie's crowd. it's easy to feel too sharp at the edges, too full of grit to belong to their glossy little world. maybe it's self-preservation, the way she hides it all, because it's always been easier to pretend she doesn't care. it's the same now, because how easy is it really to act like she doesn't feel that bitter twinge of envy every time she remembers people like lizzie and brody were handed the world while she had to learn to survive it? "you'd care about being ‘economical’?" incredulous, eyes narrowing despite her genuine curiosity. nonetheless, there's a bite to her tone that slips out uninvited; the image she's constructed of him in her head is practically swimming in a pool of money. not that she thinks about him that often, of course. she's about to pick up their freshly mixed drinks from the bar when he taunts her. she takes it as a dare, because really, there's nothing she takes more pleasure in than proving him wrong. the brunette is no dancer, and the space between them is terribly small, but the sharp smile is back, laughter tumbling from her lips. a finger comes up to tap against his chest— "you just wanna see me dance." —before she accepts his challenge, rolling her hips in a teasing ( and very brief ) echo of his shimmy.
“ Oh would I? That’s an interesting thing to say, ” Brody muses. His eyes flash a mildly accusatory look Nova’s way as he finishes the thought internally. An interesting thing to say when one of us was just killed. Did Nova have a problem with Lizzie? He strains his brain to remember a fragment of evidence that might support some kind of motive, but he’s already boarded the train to chemically enhanced numbness with no destination in sight. And people said shit just to say shit all the time, there was no point becoming sick with paranoia like everyone else, right? Leave that to the conspiracy podcasters who had already started to pop up.
“ Lukewarm beer is no - one’s first choice but it does the job, ” Brody defends. “ Especially if you gotta buy it in bulk. It’s about being economical or something. Not that I care. Come to think of it, I go crazy for those jam donut shots at Opulence. Now those are fucking fire. ” Lately he’s come to pay much more attention to the prices of things where he’d never had to before. ( Grey Goose was how much by the bottle? ) He glances over at her while they wait for their matching drinks expecting to be met with a scowl, but spying a crinkle in the corners of her eyes that aren’t altogether that unfriendly after all. Have her eyes always been that colour? “ Well alright then, let’s see it, ” he replies, gesturing to the already too - small space that exists between them. “ I’ll be sure to take notes. ”
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sharp tongue wants to cut, spitfire burning bright as she tries to smother the amalgamation of feelings where they settle in her chest. maybe the fury is just her grief and shame dressed in prettier clothes, because, really, who is she now? when was the last time she picked up new fabric? she used to love the hum of the sewing machine, the way she could make something beautiful from nothing but scraps and her own stubbornness. now it's engine oil that lives under her nails, and suddenly, she's seventeen again, stuck in their little garage on the san francisco tenderloin, convinced she'll never leave her crowded and broken down home. there is no — "there's no clean way out." anger gives way to hurt, yes, kit's too good for this, but nova isn't, and that's a sign that things are never meant to be. her eyes lift again, and they're glassy but ultimately dry. proud woman won't shed tears, not here. "and what are you gonna want in the end? when i fuck up and make it nowhere? i'm not stupid, kit. i've been through enough to know kindness usually comes with a leash. i don't want to owe you."
they've had some kinds of sparring before. it fizzles out, and maybe that's why the way they stand now, tension tightening their postures, a bellicose nature taking over, is happening. "obviously, because of that, i am above all of this." she gestures towards their surroundings. it's a spark, one that can lighten the bomb that will wipe out any shred of friendship left in between them, but there is still some of that. sure, november lied and put herself in danger and she's being so herself now, but something deeper within katherine tells her not to just walk away. "we can get away from this, you know? i can get you an internship over summer somewhere. wouldn't you prefer drinking champagne over smelling like burnt rubber?" her nose scrunches up, as if it wasn't obvious she did not care for this place. "i can get you what you need for now. alright? you can pay back eventually, when you're dressing me for the met gala."
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having fun? whore.
Yeah! Thanks man!
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Mean people are nice to me because I’m special ☺️ *gets manipulated instead*
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ur honor it was just a feminine urge
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one thing about me i’m the leaver. i will leave
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"'anything' is a dangerous suggestion, arden," beau teases, but even his usual flirtation falls short, tone revealing more of his exhaustion than he intends. as they walk, ares trots ahead, leash slack in his hand, the dog's ears twitching at every rustle in the trees. beau watches him for a beat, long enough to gather whatever thought he's trying to turn into something less brutal than whatever's constricting his heart now. he finally glances back at arden after, mouth tilting into a half-smile, still trying — albeit futilely — to be himself. "honestly? didn't really have any crazy plans. i just needed to get out of the room." he kicks a loose stone off the path, sends it spinning, before the teasing lilt returns and his joking does too. "unless you have a better plan? breaking into the campus pool? raiding the vending machines in the science building?"
♡ ˚ ﹔ closed starter ; @falsealibi ♡ ˚ ﹔ location ; campus late night.
“so what did you have in mind?” arden questioned with a smile as her head turned in his direction. when she got the invite to go for a late night walk she didn't know what she was expecting, though the destination didn't really matter as long as she was promised a change of scenery from her bedroom walls. daytime was still crawling with reporters, everyone trying to gain any bit of information that would give them the upper hand. for now they were safe. “looks like your face is safe after all. we’ve got time for anything.”
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"you look like hell," he huffs, without cruelty, with the kind of disparaging fondness that only a brother can summon. before dove can find her rebuttal—and lord knows he's not prepared for it—beau nudges his shoulder into hers, the movement affectionate. "and yeah, i know—i probably look worse." he desperately wants to avoid her question about his missing classes, and so his attention returns to his own coffee where it still sits untouched on the bench, growing colder by the minute. he doesn't really want it. hasn't really wanted much lately. "capp with vanilla almond milk." he echoes in confirmation, smile not quite reaching his eyes. "like i'd forget." eyes find his sister again after the silence hovers for a heartbeat. dove's always been the more put-together twin, the one people expected to keep it together. seeing her like this? it hits him somewhere deep, turning the nausea in his stomach to something that feels more like guilt. throat goes tight and hands ball into fists, like if the grief tormenting her now were to take physical form, he'd fight it off with his bare hands. but all he can offer now are words, and despite every attempt to make them feel real, they come off the same empty promises as always: rehearsed and tired and hopeless. "i know you really loved her, dove. i'm sorry i haven't been around. i should've been."
dove doesn't know what to do with beau. each time she sees him, her heart breaks a little more for reasons so complex and tangled she can barely bring herself to begin considering them. the time between their interactions has progressively gotten longer and longer, but she doesn't have it in her to reach out to him only to find him hungover or drunk again. but she feels safe enough when he invites her for coffee at the reflection pond, a bitter drop of hope in her chest that he'll be sober enough to hold down a normal conversation. or, at least, whatever normal means for them now.
on her end, she knows how she looks. since lizzie's death anxiety had wracked her already-miserable body. dark circles shadow her red-rimmed eyes, her nails, typically freshly done, are bare and bit down to the quick, and her nose is red from stubbornly rubbing it in the process of wiping tears from her cheeks. she manages a tired smile when he greets her, only for it to turn to a grimace as her knees bend to sit beside him. "capp with vanilla almond milk?" she asks, reaching for the cup and holding it close to her face with both of her hands. "thanks." dove pauses and then takes a second to look him over. "what's up? don't you have class soon?"
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"i don't complain about it ever, do i?" it's a kind of madness, to keep coming back like this: mouth to mouth, bruise to bruise, pretending they can trade grief for heat like one cancels out the other. but that's all they have, isn't it? how do you mourn someone who left behind wreckage and resentment and rage, someone neither of them ever really understood but couldn't seem to stop orbiting around? this is how they can do it instead; a slow collapse into one another, gentle destruction feeling better than crying, because crying never got him anywhere anyway. beau's grateful to melt into kit instead, grateful to banish all thoughts of the other harrington out his mind as he lets her sister take and take and take in a cycle that'll never end. his mouth tilts down to meet hers again, soft as one hand slides up her back, anchoring in her hair, threading through it with the same care he always reserves just for her. the closeness aches, and yet, he stays. do you still want me? she asks, and what she'll recieve in return is the part of him that never says no. so beau replies just like he did the first night, and just like he did every time after. "always."
his smile receives one of her own, but while his is shadowed and despondent, hers is bright and jestful. "it is the best time to kick a man, when he's down. besides, you won't complain if i get to kiss it better." wasn't this how their dynamic worked? it is how she likes it, at least. "nothing good. worse now, i suppose." she wants to look away, as she does when it comes to this sort of thing, but his compliment digs down deeper than she'd have liked it to. she shakes off his hand from her wrist as her own rises on his flesh, interwining itself into his hair, brushing away strands. the heels she wears makes them almost equal now, and there's little struggle for her to press her chest against his, mouth to his mouth. "do you still want me?" it's become a sort of ritual now, whenever she crosses the invisible line between them, to ask.
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the masculine urge to be extremely self destructive
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