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&& ------------ a couple of headcanons

♫ favorite season: winter. and it has nothing to do with the cold. there’s something so unnerving to her about the constant blinding light of spring and summer. 

 ♫ substance abuse: riley is an avid drug user, but she isn’t an addict, and several bad experiences have turned her off of the truly hard stuff. she does, however, like to experiment. 

 ♫ sleeping habits: sleep is light and hard to come by, especially in the summer. she doesn’t sleep well anywhere that isn’t home in reykjavik.

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a ghost born of curses and sorrow…               a life made of music and the bright sun of spring…

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Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.

Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore (via larmoyante)

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You think you have to bottle up all your sorrow because you don’t want others to have to handle it. When you can’t even handle it yourself.

aestheticsarestupid (via wnq-writers)

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hardenedseoul:

                           it’s particularly quiet in her cell, she was not allowed to outside but that is not something she’ll complain about. however, riley’s voice tug at the corner of her lips, a slight curve showing. ❛ hello, ❜ she does not sound overly excited, actually, words come out in a sort of dull way, but she feels glad to have her company.  ❛ i do not like it here, either. especially not today. ❜ she offers, eyes set on the girl standing near her.

‘What is so different about      today?’ she asks quietly into the darkness, and simultaneously into the sweet sunrise on the other side of the world.       Both environments seem sacred somehow, as if any voice louder than a whisper might desecrate them. And on mornings like this, that is the last thing she wants. 

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bychoiice:

                 sometimes silence is what they need. and wolfgang doesn’t try to press it, just accepts her offer with a nod, their companionship easy under the cold stars. though he’s never done this, intuition ( and riley’s knowledge ) has him sliding it to his lips and inhaling deeply. eyes close when the warmth spread across his skin in exploding tingles; that,  a familiar feeling. and also why he holds up his own lit joint with a flick of his eyebrow, smoke curling from the end. people don’t often share their drugs,  he thinks back. must be a london thing. 

With delicate fingers      she takes the offered joint, and already she can taste it. Feel the distant echo of its own special brand of warmth seeping into her veins. This, she hasn’t done in ages, not since being exposed to things that last longer, come down softer and feel more intently in her blood.       Her smile is as gentle as her hand, her eyes flitting upward to meet his briefly before falling away again. In that once glance, she understands and senses something of a kindred spirit. This mind is heat and fire on good days, but it feels more similar to her own than any of the others.                 But we’re not really sharing, are we?       One slow drag and she passes it back, unhurried and familiar. As if she’d known him all her life. 

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savicrcomplex

Chicago on a Tuesday afternoon      is not so very much different than Chicago on a Saturday afternoon, she finds. Standing at his window, she watches, senses, feels the train go rumbling by with the same radiant smile.      It’s life, pure and simple, and it’s his.       She feels him too, on the other end of the bedroom, but with her hands on the windowsill and her nose practically pressed to the glass, she can’t quite bring herself to turn and face him.       Not yet anyway.       She’ll tell herself it’s because the train is passing and it’s beautiful. But something in her screams that isn’t true. 

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hardenedseoul

Riley thinks prison is cold,      and Riley has known cold.       But this is cold of a different sort. Less a bone-deep, aching chill and more a dull, heavy numbness that settles over them. It’s the moisture in the air more than anything that causes the hair on her arms to stand up.       She wishes she could have taken this visit back to London instead of here. The Sun doesn’t shine here, and what a pity that is.       And the world is at a loss for it.

          ‘Hello again.’ 

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I know how much it hurts. I know you want to lay down here and never get up again. I know it, ‘cause I feel it. I can feel it. And that means that somehow, somewhere… you can feel what I’m feeling, too. I love you. That’s why I can’t give up. I love you.

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bychoiice

It’s always felt a little       ill at ease on her tongue, the weight of the device in her hand cold.  Everything’s cold.       The only real redeeming quality these things have is that for a moment...      Half a moment...      They make her feel less cold.       She senses him like a thunderclap, the hair on the back of her neck standing up before she hears, sees or scents him. He smells like gunpowder. He smells like fire. He smells... insulating.       It’s hash this time and she hands it to him without hesitation, knowing without knowing that he’ll take it from her hand.       Sometimes it’s nice to share, she thinks. 

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scrEAMS quality roleplayers omg

ok ok ok let’s get this party started. 

Like for a small starter thing, reply if you want something specific. 

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techncmancer:

well, this is a mess. she can feel it, the way that something’s wrong; just as people know when something broken in them, a bone poking through the skin or a cough so persistent the throat becomes raw, layla knows about the missed connections in a piece of tech. she knows when a part is frazzled, overused, misused. it screams to her, and she wants to lay healing hands on it, let the circuit reform, the motherboard settle down, and for it to be itself. this is calling out to her.

         ❝ yes. i am. ❞

no boast in her tone; she’s good at this. she knows it. she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t, because nightclubs are not her scene. too loud. too full of people. too bloody loud.

         ❝ um, can you help me up there? ❞

That look sparks guilt       and Riley glances down at the stray wiring in her hand. Almost like she’s apologizing to it. Like she’s been apologizing to everything else.       And it wasn’t as if she’d done anything to the mixer. Sound checks earlier in the morning had provided an ample amount of feedback she couldn’t place, and then the sound had stopped altogther.       Of course, that was after Jacks had had his way with it.       She’d done the best she could. Consulted the internet. Stabbed herself with stray pieces more than once. Gotten frustrated. Gone out for a smoke. Heard the name Layla from one of the more sympathetic of the club’s staff members.       And then she’d gone looking.       However, the expression on the girl’s face is almost enough to make her wish she hadn’t.            ‘Oh, of course,’ she says, stepping down from the platform and hesitating before the girl in the chair. 

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ironlux:

      You like this girl, don’t you?             You feel very connected to this boy.