#nails chipped and boots scuffed

[symbioticsimplicity]

I firmly believe that punk!Steve and babygirl!Steve can and should coexist together.

Punk has never been about following rules and being what you're expected to be. And for that reason it houses a lot of queer folk.

As he gets more accustomed to the scene, he finds himself meeting more and more people with unusual gender presentations. Things he didn’t really think of as an option. He learns that not only is how he feels valid, but its okay to feel that way. It takes him some time, and support (Robin takes point on this one, she's had a biweekly appointment to fist fight gender out back of the McDonald's parking lot since 7th grade, she gets it) but he lets himself explore.

He finds out that maybe his father's riged definition of what "being a man" is was wrong. He thinks maybe he can make his own definition. He enjoys what hes doing, and he's not hurting anyone so really its no one's business and that's that.

He learns that he likes lace, but fishnets pull on his leg and chest hair so he tries shaving that. He likes the feeling of being soft and smooth but its a lot of work so he really only does it as a treat. He puts baby pink laces in his combat boots instead of his regular ones. He tries mascara and immediately adds it too his standard makeup kit (its just a little thing but he got tired of stealing everyone else's.) He tries baby pink lip gloss and adores it. He paints his nails whatever color he feels like and leaves them until they chip off. When he jeans tear in awkward places, he patches them with pink plaid patches.

Even his jacket evolves with him. He cuts the sleeves and stiches them back up with the black lace hes cannibalized from a cast off shirt he stained. The back, which is made of music lyrics and nicknames of his scrawled messily across it (King Steve is there but its been proudly graffied over by Baby-Sitter), gets a new nickname added. "Babygirl".

Eddie took to calling him that when Steve took the time to get prettied up to this new level. He almost walked into a stop sign the first time and Eddie apologized profusely. Steve had asked him to say it again, which he did. Steve liked it, no, he loved it. It spoke to some place he hadn't known existed inside of him and quickly became one of his favorite petnames to be called.

When Pretty in Pink comes out, Pretty in Punk joins the phrases scrawled on Steve's back.

[ickadori]

++ 𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐎

[summary] arlecchino happens to come across you during a walk, and something about you draws her in.

[cws] fluff-ish. fem reader -> reader is a plump, country bumpkin. my poor attempt at writing a country accent. brief mentions of past violence.

Arlecchino may have seemed cold, unfeeling and ruthless to many, but in truth, she was a deeply caring person. It was clear in her actions, in the way she cared for her ‘children’ and ensured that no harm would come to them as long as she could help it.

She had offered many a helping hand to those who needed it, even to those she sometimes deemed unfit of her assistance. There was always a persistent, nagging feeling at the back of her mind, pushing her to do a few good deeds in an attempt to make up for all the misdeeds she had done in her past, and would inevitably continue to do in the future. It was an impossible task, attempting to drown your sins with good behavior, but she liked to try nonetheless.

And that’s what led her to you.

She had first saw you while she was venturing through the countryside of Fontaine, having just left the Spina di Rosula, and you had been working in your yard; hanging up the wet laundry to dry on the clothesline, sweeping the dirt from the cobblestone path leading up to your quaint little cottage, and watering the flowers and small field of crops.

She had passed by many people living lives similar to yours, simple and quiet as they opted for a more reclusive life, and she hadn’t thought twice about them… but there was something about you that had captured her attention.

Maybe it was your looks. You were beautiful; a face that would have surely turned heads had there been any near you to turn, a body that filled out your clothes nicely, the loose fabric not able to conceal the heft of your breasts, the pudge of your stomach, or the curves of your thighs.

She had found herself transfixed as she stood and watched you, not caring that her dark attire made her stand out like a sore thumb. Besides, you were too preoccupied with your chores to notice her staring so blatantly.

You had worked earnestly, never once stopping to take a break despite the blaring hot sun that glared down at you. In hindsight, she probably should have made herself known then, given you a chance to stop and take a breather, maybe even take a much needed drink, but she had wanted to keep observing you in your natural state.

It was no surprise when your eyes had eventually started fluttering and you began to sway on your feet, and Arlecchino had debated letting you hit the dirt so you’d learn your lesson, but the thought that you might break something on the way down had been enough to spur her into action.

-

“Silly girl.”

She tsks as she lays you down on your bed, the soft mattress sinking underneath your weight. Now that she’s up close, she can properly look at you, and she lets her eyes take in all of you, from the frizzy strands of hair sticking in odd directions, the dark tan lines on your face that indicates the countless hours you’ve spent outside, the fine hairs on your forearms, the chipped polish on your nails, all the way down to your worn shoes.

She notices now that everything in your home seems to be well-used, from the old, scuffed wood of the front door, to the creaky floors that have probably supported many tenants in their time. The blanket on your bed, a colorful crocheted piece, is worn thin, the threads more frayed in some places than others. Your nightstand looks homemade, poorly at that, the wood is misshapen and when she nudges her boot against it, it rocks wildly and threatens to topple over before steadying itself. The door to your bedroom is nowhere to be found, a ratty sheer curtain in its place instead that flows from the humid air drifting in through the poorly insulated front door.

The sound of you stirring draws her attention, and she directs her gaze back to you. Your eyes slowly blink open, lashes fluttering, and you pause at the sight of her standing near your bedside. You blink once, twice, and she readies herself for a scream worthy of an award followed by a barrage of frenzied questions.

Instead, she gets a gentle smile followed by a sheepish laugh. “Did I pass out again?”

“Again?”

You laugh again, this one a bit more hearty than the last, and slowly begin to sit up in your bed. “Yes, again. I just can’t learn my lesson, it seems — or maybe I just have some damsel in distress trait that I can’t shake.” You press a hand to your head when you’re fully seated, and Arlecchino feels the strange urge to press her hands to your face and check for a fever while she frets about you. It’s foreign, this sudden urge to take care of you, she can’t say that she’s felt this even about her own ‘children’ whenever they fell ill. She wished for their recover, certainly, but she had never been the one to personally see about it, rather sending a trusted doctor to take care of them. “…troubling you.”

“What was that?” The country twang that you speak in is… endearing.

“Oh, I was just apologizing for troubling you. ‘M sure you had lots more important things to do by the looks of it.” It’s your turn to take her in, and she feels a strange sense of pride as you marvel at her clothing, but more so at her hands and the long nails that decorate them. “You must be from the city—oh! Are you one of those circus performers?”

She bristles at the comment, and something must show on her face, because you’re quickly backtracking as you wave your hands in front of you. “Ah, not circus, theatre! A theatre performer, ah, what do they call it…”

“No, I am not an actress.” You visibly deflate, and Arlecchino doesn’t bother dissecting why the sight disturbs her more than it should.

“Oh… well, you certainly look like one.” You stare at her face with a frown, and then a spark of recognition shines in your eyes. “I’ve seen you before.” Those words have not been followed up with anything positive, and she feels a bit sullen at the direction this encounter is surely going towards. “You were standing out in the field when I was workin’!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I remember now. Thats why I thought you were a cir—actress. I thought maybe you were watching me ‘cause you were researching for a role or something.” Arlecchino doesn’t like to label people with stereotypes, but she thinks the label of daft country girl suits you quite a bit. “What were you doing out there?” You watch her with a quizzical look, and she takes note of the way you lick at your dry lips.

“How about you get a glass of water first? I’m sure you’re dehydrated.”

“Ah, right.” You shoot up to your feet, and she has to steady you by your waist when you nearly topple over. You flash another smile her way as you thank her, and she quietly shakes her head at you.

Hopeless.

After pouring yourself a glass of water from a pitcher (she notices that you don’t have running water, and her mind goes back to the nearby well she had saw outside) you greedily down it, loudly swallowing as a few beads of water drip from the sides of your mouth and wet your top.

You let out a relieved sigh as you lower the glass and immediately go to pour another one before you stop and spin around to face her, the water sloshing over the side of the pitcher and splashing onto the floor. A few droplets wet the bottom of Arlecchino’s pants, and her mind flashes to a point in time where she had shed another’s blood over a similar incident.

“Where’re my manners? Would you like a glass, too? I can get you one.”

“I’m fine, thank you.” You refill your glass, and that one is downed in a similar manner before you deem yourself hydrated enough and set the glass and pitcher aside.

“I should be thanking you, actually. Sorry for not doing it sooner,” you throw her another one of those sheepish smiles, fat of your cheeks raising up and making your eyes squint. “Who knows how long I would’ve been out there before I woke up.” Or before someone much more sinister than she stumbled upon you, she wants to say, but she chooses not to. She’s already pegged you as incredibly naive and far too trusting, and while she usually relishes in tearing down people’s veils and forcing them to see the harsh, cold truth of the world, she’d rather you stay oblivious, if just for a short while longer.

“You live alone?”

“Yeah, it’s just been me ever since mama died. My brother used to live here, too, but he started seeing some city girl and moved out there to be with her. He visits sometimes, but not a lot.” Your mood dampens at the revealed information, but you immediately perk back up when you focus your attention on her. “What about you? Where do you live? In the city, right? Oh, maybe you know my brother! He lives in…”

Arlecchino listens to you prattle on and on, amusement building inside her as you willingly give up all of you and your brother’s information. She’s had to subject people to cruel means of torture just to receive a fraction of information, and dished out millions of mora to find out the locations of people, and here you are divulging all of your most precious secrets without a care in the world.

She wonders how you’ve survived for this long on your own — the Gods must truly favor you.

“…feel like I’ve just been blabbing your ear off, ‘m sorry.” You give her an apologetic look, plump fingers twiddling together. “Thank you again, really. I wish I could pay you, but…” You give a glance to your surroundings, a laugh following after before you’re meeting her eyes again. “I don’t even have enough to fix this place up.”

“No payment is necessary. I was simply helping someone who needed it.” There’s a mountain of work waiting for Arlecchino back at the Heart of Hearth, not to mention her other endeavors, and it’s all urgent, pressing matters, and yet she finds herself lingering in your rundown home, biding her time. What’s gotten into her? “I recommend keeping yourself properly hydrated the next time you go out to work, not to mention taking frequent breaks out of the sun. The next person who stumbles across you may not be as nice as me.”

“Of course, this won’t happen again! I’ve learned my lesson this time, honest to goodness—oh, don’t look at me like that, I mean it!” She gives you a wary look. “How about this, Miss…?”

“Arlecchino.”

“Arlecchino.” You test the name on your tongue, and seemingly finding it satisfactory, you beam at her, and it’s blinding. “Miss Arlecchino, I am formally inviting you to come back here someday and see for yourself if I learned my lesson. I’ll even cook you a nice meal to properly show my thanks.”

She’s busy, incredibly busy, and she’s never made it a habit to travel to the countryside, much preferring more… developed scenery. She has no time to stop by and come see you, a random woman whose name she doesn’t even know. Her time is valuable, and few can afford to waste it… but she doesn’t feel as though her time has been wasted so far—on the contrary, she feels as if she should be the one to dish out a few mora for having been on the receiving end of your attention.

“So? Is that a yes? You’re gonna come, right?”

“I’ll be incredibly busy for the foreseeable future. There’s many things that require my attention.” Your shoulders sag as you pout, and that feeling of disturbance from earlier comes clawing its way back to her chest. “But I suppose I can find the time to stop by, somehow.”

You cheer, a gleeful little sound followed by a bounce on the balls of your feet that Arlecchino finds to be oddly adorable, and she can’t help the slight curve of her lips.

Yes, she’s certain her time won’t be wasted on you.

[artsyunderstudy]

WIP Wednesday

Hey friends. These past few weeks are taking it out of me, I swear. But the excellent news is that I've officially met almost all my July deadlines except one, and that final deadline is for the final chapter of Someone Wicked. I am currently a few thousand words into writing the chapter, but still a bit more to go. And likely with a short epilogue to follow.

Gonna try and make it good for you. This fic has gotten so much love. It makes my heart happy. Thanks to everyone who's been reading along. I feel very 😢 😭 🤍 about it.

Here's an excerpt from the final chapter with Fiona, the most comforting character, actually.

Fiona clicks the stereo off, Joni cutting out in the middle of a soul-felt ‘darling’. Then she circles around to the front of the sofa. Her arms cross over her chest, and she raises that dark, thick Pitch eyebrow at me. Like I can’t give it back in spades.

“Are you back for Christmas, or are you spending it with Nico?”

"Can’t it be both?” she sighs.

I sit up, lean forward. “Are you serious? He’s coming here?”

"Well I can’t leave you alone, can I? Unless you’ve decided to go to Hampshire after all. Spend the holidays closeted up with dear old daddy.”

"No. I am not.”

"Well, that settles it. Now go wash up, you look fucking awful.”

“You can talk."

"This,” she gestures to her torso, to the threadbare Sex Pistols shirt layered with a scuffed and faded leather jacket, chipped nails and fingerless gloves that stopped being cool in the early nineties, “is a stylistic choice. While this,” she gestures to all of me, “is a bloody train wreck.”

"Thank you, Fiona. Comforting as always.”

“Do you need comforting? It looks like you need a boot in the arse. And a shower.”

“Fuck. Off.”

Tags below the cut!

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[super-ion]

Lisa's story

Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2

Context: this is my ttrpg character from the homebrew system Outside Us Nothing. Lisa is a giant squid/fungus/tentacle monster that lives in the walls of the ship. The ship has just arrived at an enormous space whale that is infested with members of her species, including her long lost sibling. At the very end of the most recent session, she links up with their sort of mycelial network and finds herself in a sort of dreamscape in a (presumably) human mental projection. I can't stop thinking about what if a Lisa was a people, so I ended up spending a couple hours on picrew trying to figure out what she would look like.

~~~

She is standing alone in the void, surrounded by stars.

She has the stereotypical build of a born freetraveler, suggesting a childhood spent in low gravity and an occasionally sparse diet. She's a bit too tall, a bit too skinny, her limbs are a bit too long for any planet born Terre.

She very unambiguously resembles the woman from the picture she keeps next to her orchid collection, with bright blue eyes and a splash of freckles across her face, but there are subtle hints of others mixed in. If you've spent any time looking at her group photos with the various crews of her childhood home, you might see features from the various human presenting individuals. Looking closer at her face, you even see hints of Kara, mercy and Order.

The roots of her hair are a dirty blonde, but most of it has been bleached and dyed a bright purple. It's shaved on one side and the rest is slightly ragged, as if she had cut it herself. Her nose, her brow, both her ears are pierced with various rings and studs. One shoulder pokes out from her oversized hooded jacket to reveal her twined roses interwoven with the beginning of that old Terre poem, suggesting that she bears all of Lisa's tattoos, rearranged to fit a human body. Around her neck is the chain you've seen her wearing in the common area, the one holding the tag from her first ship and the pair of Teuth fangs, one from each of her siblings.

Logically, you know she's never worn clothes in her life, but her wardrobe has every appearance of being both well worn and well cared for, somehow utilitarian and flashy all at once in the freetraveler style you see at least once in most ports you visit. Beneath the extensively patched and repaired jacket, she wears a tank top bearing a faded logo of an obscure entertainment vid series. Her pants have too many pockets and the torn knees reveal fishnet tights beneath. Finally, to complete the ensemble are a pair of scuffed, sturdy workboots that wouldn't be out of place set alongside the boots belonging to the rest of the crew (at least, the crew members who wear boots).

She's staring down at her hands, her fingers, her chipped and mismatched nail polish with an expression of mixed wonder and horror.

Something catches her attention and she looks up. From whatever vantage point you have, you can't make out what she sees, but the wonder and horror on her face intensify at the sight of it.

She swallows nervously. She knows exactly who it is that wants to talk to her and she is dreading this conversation.

~~~

It is picrew, so the styles are all over the place, but I feel like each one captures her vibe.

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #1: Heartless

Masterlist

content: lab whump, kidnapping, gun violence

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

The fact of the matter was that Heather required a human heart, and those weren’t easy to come by. She knew that there were ways to buy one, but where would she start asking? It was a waste of money, in any case. Of course, she had considered asking the butcher for a pig’s heart, or simply abandoning the experiment, but that would mean giving up. That would mean cowardice. Heather was not a coward. She would acquire this heart through any means necessary, legal or not. 

To get into specifics would kill her plausible deniability, but that was doomed from the start. The heart would stop beating as soon as it left the body. The experiment simply tested whether certain drugs could replicate those electrical impulses that kept it moving. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, and she had mulled over this for long enough. 

It was not particularly noble, or even helpful to the human race, but it would be interesting. Perhaps it would help some people, those who could not be implanted with pacemakers. And if that failed, like she mentioned, it would be interesting. Heather was getting bored. Bored of testing on parakeets and hamsters, or on the occasional dog. Bored of animal anatomy, of moral limits, of common sense.

These thoughts circled on and on, like a fish in a bowl too small, as she watched the stranger attempt to light a cigarette. Lucky Strikes, she noticed. He clearly had never smoked before, or he was just an idiot, because he fumbled with the lighter for five minutes before giving up. Smoking would impede her results, so this only reassured Heather that he was the perfect candidate. 

She had been following him around for a while now. Watching for a month. Stalking was the correct word, but it was undignified. Stalking was for vexed lovers and private investigators, not chemists. Then again, not many chemists kept a pistol and a length of rope in their coat pocket, waiting behind a gas station like a fox by a rabbit hole. That’s what it felt like, at least—flushing rabbits. Waiting for a flash of fur, of beady eyes. 

In the air seeped the dense smell of gasoline and rain, hot and rubbery. The sky loomed over, a mottled gray only a few shades lighter than the concrete. Was this a bad omen? Oh, what was she even thinking? Omens were for indecisive ingrates. She would do this now, or she would pull her own heart out, God damn it.

She stepped closer, then closer, then close enough to see his face. Close enough to notice chipped black nail polish, his black boots, the dark color of his eyes, the curls of his hair. He was young, perhaps the same age as her, perhaps fresh out of college. Maybe still in college. Or university. He was wearing a varsity jacket, but it was store-bought and not tied to any institution. His clothes weren’t particularly expensive or new. His boots were scuffed on the sides. 

As far as she had observed, he wasn’t much of anybody. He lived alone in a small apartment. He was friendly to his neighbours, but they replied with only the necessary politeness. He had not gone to work this week. He was using his vacation days, she figured, or he was recently unemployed. He came to this gas station every Friday, usually only for bread and eggs. He had no close family, no nearby partner. His disappearance would go unnoticed. That was all the reassurance she needed.

“Hey, lady, do you want something?” 

She blinked. “Yes. I—” He really seemed like a nice guy. She felt bad. But feeling bad was for philosophers, not chemists. “I need help with my car. I’m out of town. It’s my husband’s car, and I don’t drive a lot…” She clasped her hands together, made her eyes go wide, mimicking the gentle feminine vulnerability she’d seen in movies. “I can offer money. Fifty bucks?”

Just as she’d rehearsed. The stranger pocketed the lighter and cigarettes. “I’m not a mechanic, but I’ll take a look. Keep the money, by the way.”

She led him to her car. The trunk was open. She let him walk in front of her. She reached into her pocket, feeling for cold metal, feeling for rough twine. He let her keep the money, too. She could have gone after a criminal instead. But the public would notice if a criminal went missing, especially in a neighbourhood with so many families. It was too late to change her mind, she told herself, too late to back down. Now or never. It was now or never…

“What’s the problem, anyway? Does it not start, or—” 

“Don’t move.” The barrel of the gun hovered inches away from his head. That cold, heavy steel. What turned a normal Friday afternoon into a crime scene. “Hands up, or I’ll shoot.”

He froze. “What?”

“You heard me. Hands up.” She made an effort to keep her voice soft. Polite, even. Nice and slow, just like that, and she’d get him hook-line-sinker.

He lifted his hands in the air, his motions slow and steady. “I don’t have any money.”

He used pocket change to buy the cigarettes. Money wasn’t a concern for her, though. “Get into the passenger seat.” 

With her free hand, Heather reached into her other pocket and unlocked the car. The noise set her on edge—she needed to be as quiet as possible.

“What…?” He hadn’t understood a word. Blanked out like an actor without a script. Hadn’t moved, either. Smart guy. That’s what they always said—don’t get into the car. Don’t let them get you trapped. Heather never imagined being on the other end of that exchange. The figure in the black ski mask. The girl with the gun. What a strange thought.

“Close your eyes,” she ordered.

“No?” He really looked at her now, searched her expression for rhyme or reason. 

“Fine. Just don’t make any noise.”

But he braced himself instead. He was going to scream, Heather was sure. He was going to yell, or call for help, or otherwise foil her brilliant plan. He was going to ruin the whole thing. All with a loud sound, a few words. 

The handle of her pistol quickly took care of that issue. She advanced, and he staggered back, but she raised her weapon before he could bolt. With the first hit to the side of his head, he merely fell off balance with a small noise of surprise, and by the second he was unconscious. He fell ungracefully across the pavement, head slumped against a tire, limbs sprawled out.

Heather had a good aim, and a strong one at that. She had been on the baseball team way back in university. If that didn’t kill him, it definitely gave him a concussion. Indeed, as Heather put her finger to his neck, she could feel his pulse. But that was only a concern until she could retrieve his heart. He would die anyway.

She didn’t have time to think about that. She needed to keep the momentum going, keep herself moving, or the whole plan would fall to pieces like a wet biscuit. Where would that get her? Jail. And how could she do her experiments from a jail cell?

Heather leaned forward and searched through his clothes. Keys, scraps of paper—there, a wallet. Identification. She scrambled to open it. Inside were some receipts, a five dollar bill, a penny, and a driver’s license. She read his name. Jackie Rockwell. 

With the rope, she bound his wrists behind his back. Then, she dragged his body off the ground and rolled it into the trunk. As she glanced behind her, there was nothing and nobody to witness it. No other cars in the dilapidated parking lot. Not a sound or a single bystander in sight. These were early hours. Nobody could be bothered to check.

Well, Jackie, she thought just before shutting the trunk, you’re going to be put to good use. Congratulations.

[anthrcpophagi]

maren aesthetics ; part two

bloodstains on carpets. the sound of beaded curtains. lake water. flakes of dried blood. tights with holes. dirt-caked fingernails. climbing a fire escape. chipped nail polish. rusted metal. squeaky trailer doors. lipstick stains on cigarettes. wearing skirts with boots. messy braids. rope swings. the sound of a tent zipping. trinket boxes with baby teeth. laundromats at 2am. graffiti on brick walls. the lingering smell of cigarette smoke. handmade pottery. scuffed shoes with sharpie stars. cold scrambled eggs. torn, crinkly maps. overstuffed backpacks. the reflection of neon lights on rain-covered asphalt.

[jackokinnies]

3-5 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 .

𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.

🧡 orange, of course

🧡 purple too. his bunny

🧡 black

🧡 red

𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬.

🍊 pizza grease & fried food, someone with a poor diet

🍊 sweat & b.o, someone who forgets to shower

🍊 metal & woodworking, hands that work long hours with tools

🍊 alcohol, cigarettes & weed, the kind of bad habits that leave strong smells

🍊 blood, iron-laced scent mixed with old rusty tools and regret

𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧.

🎃 distressed denim & scuffed boots with mismatched socks

🎃 unironed, unwashed fabric with food stains and grease

🎃 oversized sweaters & loose-fitted clothes, made to make someone feel smaller

🎃 other people's clothes, stolen for as long as they smell like them

𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬.

🔥 lighters, novelty designs and special momentos kept long after they no longer work

🔥 stuffed toys, all different types but all well cared for

🔥 pocket knives & switchblades, stuffed into pockets and run through the wash

🔥 love letters & poems, unfinished and never sent

𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞.

🟠 crossed arms, a nervous defense

🟠 middle fingers & devil horns, a hard rock disguise

🟠 nail biting & skin picking, damaging nerves and self-destructive anxiety

🟠 playful smirks, a sly wink and fun flirting

🟠 welcoming hugs, with kind hands and an open heart

𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬.

🌻 chipped black nail polish, harsh words, knuckle wraps & a sharp glare

🌻 checkered floors, smashed mirrors, flickering lights & no sense of direction

🌻 wanting more than anything to go back home, but knowing you can't because home doesn't exist anymore

🌻 staying awake all night, seeing the first rays of dawn peek through closed blinds, the comfort of knowing that tomorrow is another day, a gentle, familiar hand on your arm

🌻 the sky turning everything gray, linked fingers in the dark, kissed knuckles and fingertips, entwined limbs under covers, bruised lips feeling warm breath and soft skin

tagged by: @feralreason (not technically but... of course i was gonna steal it)

tagging: whoever wants to do it! this is ur excuse to do it!

[oflowtides]

⸻  SOPHIE THATCHER SHE/HER / have you ever heard of PASSING THROUGH A SCREEN DOOR by the wonder years, well, it describes JAGGER MARR to a tee! the twenty three year old, and CASHIER AT SAWYER STUDIOS was spotted browsing through the stalls at portobello road market last sunday, do you know them? would you say SHE is more spiteful or more SELF-RELIANT instead? anyway, they remind me of chipped nail polish, overly scuffed second hand combat boots, hair cut in the bathroom at two am out of spite and love & resentment fighting to take over, maybe you’ll bump into them soon!

time in notting hill: twenty three years

The youngest of the Marr clan, Jagger felt like a giant burden on her family for as long as she could remember. She was just another mouth to feed, another small body crammed into a bed with Wilde or Sparrow, another reason to try to make the dollars stretch just a little further. It was a terrible thing to feel at any age, but she spend her entire life trying to overcompensate for it.

Growing up on 'the wrong side of town', Jagger spent a lot of time getting to know the other kids in the area, playing outside until it got dark, making her own fun as needed. Things were okay - until they weren't.

Life started on a downward spiral the day the Marr father decided he wanted a divorce. Splintered, it seemed like Owen and Sparrow were happy to run off at the earliest convenience, leaving Jagger clutching onto Wilde and Remi, and wondering if she could have possibly done anything different or better to have not been the very last straw that pushed their father over the edge (she had no way of knowing if this was true; it's simply how she felt).

Always looking for trouble, Jagger has managed to avoid being caught by the law in any sense, but she enjoys loitering, smoking and drinking where she shouldn't be, sneaking into clubs before she was of age with Remi, stuffing bottles of alcohol into her bag or distracting cashiers as her best friend pocketed their loot. It wasn't the smartest thing she'd ever done, but the adrenaline and the feeling of being invincible kept her going.

Jagger has deep abandonment issues, fearing that everyone will leave her at the end of the day; it prevents her from really getting close to anyone. She even occasionally keeps Wilde at an arms distance, snapping too quickly for no reason, and it keeps her from baring her soul to Remi, who she is deeply in love with but can't bare the thought of losing him.

Sparrow calling everyone home again (not like Jagger left) because of their ailing mother was both a blessing and a curse - while Jagger has deeply missed her siblings, there's a deep resentment and hurt that resonates in her tiny body, causing previously patched up schisms to crack again. She wants things to be the way they were, she wants her and her siblings to be close again, but she's also afraid nothing can ever be the way they once were.

[kosmiskmysterium]

“ things could always be worse. at least you don’t have flesh-eating bacteria, right? ” randall ( @evrmors​ ) said to ruby.

lips pull back, flush against sharky teeth. brows arch in minor amusement as the blonde rocked on her heels, swampy gaze darting between the boy standing beside her, to the locked door -- locked from the outside. her arms folded over her chest as the tips of her boots scuffed against the linoleum. “yeah - could be way worse,” her tone is forced to be light - she knew of randall, didn’t know him personally. seemed like she would after this breakfast club type encounter. he was a sweet guy, never one to have much bark, nevertheless any bite. 

he was harmless. who was she to snap at someone as aggressive as a bunny? “only issue,” ruby started, taking grand strides toward the door, chipped nails tapping against the heavy oak. “i have a shift that starts in thirty minutes, and if i’m late, i’ll be royally screwed,” her stare lifted to the window above the door, and she settled on that as their way of escape. “wanna give me a boost?”

[unprocione]

           * @greenherb ︴ continued from 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔!

"..you've won one every year since you started, won nationals, and they still won't let you in?" leon will have to take two steps for every one of kevin's own strides, but knows he'll have no issue keeping up, even with his astonishment at the seemingly insane requirements of the s.t.a.r.s entry exams taking his breath away. "that's.. that's ridiculous. maybe there's something wrong with the test, like a trick question, something like that." leon's eyebrows furrow; he won't know for sure until he takes the exam someday himself, but maybe he and kevin can compare notes when that day comes. leon's own marksmanship wasn't too shoddy. on average, he could hit the dead-center of the target most often than not if he really gave his full concentration, the result of weekends spent with officer kennedy senior on various gun ranges. however, leon was sure there was plenty of tips and tricks to learn how to hone his accuracy further from the advice of a national champion like kevin - if his father were still alive, he would surely be proud of how far leon had come.

leon's own boots are unblemished, barely scuffed, coming to a pause with a squeak against the polished floors. "that's what i said. i'm sure you clean up nice and all, but there's a distinct difference between.. your type's nice, and, you know, my standards." leon stumbles a bit at the clap on the back, cracking a grin at their back & forth exchange. "that's alright, really, if i had to, i'd work out of my car if it made a difference here, uh, but i'd rather not, of course." leon stays behind kevin as he's led out of the building's side entrance, using the taller officer's silhouette as shelter against the incoming mist of rain. he makes a convincing shadow, mirroring kevin with a mild raise of his hand in greeting to the pair of strangers clustered under the awning, but leon doesn't stick around to make an impression, stuck to kevin like glue, and even then, the smoke certainly doesn't persuade him otherwise. to his credit, he makes it halfway up the stairs before mentioning the cigarette plucked from the box, a new personal record. "you know, they actually say women find men who don't smoke more attractive these days? just ah, in case you hadn't heard."

leon picks at the black polish on his nails as they continue, paint chipping and flaking away with ease, leon nodding his head to acknowledge kevin and then, realizing he was out of kevin's eyeline again, speaks up. "got it! i trust you. straight to back hall, outside, then stairs... i think i can remember that. do i need a key card for this door, or..? and why are we working out of museum rather than like, a station building, if it's this difficult to get around in a hurry? is there a separate building for the holding cells? how far from our desks? is there an emergency exit in case of a fire or something, so i don't set off any alarms by accident?" firing off a handful of questions without taking a breath, leon steps ahead of kevin into the doorway as guided, but doesn't stray far from kevin at all, glancing over his shoulder and waiting patiently for him to take the lead again, maneuvering his damp bangs away from falling into his face with a toss of his head.

"i'm right behind you. murders, though? i was told, uh, rabies outbreak and influenza, a really nasty combination. i'm up to date on all my vaccinations, just in case, i had them finished up before i left new york with my last physical. i've heard nothing about murders. are you guys thinking like there's a possible serial killer in the midst of all this too? christ."

[nottinghillhq]

welcome to notting hill lenny, artemis & rachael, we’re super excited to have you here, you’ve got twenty-four hours to send in your account!

⸻  HARVEY GUILLEN. HE + HIM / have you ever heard of about damn time by lizzo, well, it describes GAEL DELIZ to a tee! the thirty-one year old, and cat fanciers’ association judge was spotted browsing through the stalls at portobello road market last sunday, do you know them? would you say he is more loquacious or more effervescent instead? anyway, they remind me of the steady hum of a sewing machine, bottomless mimosas at drag brunch on sunday morning, weeknight wine and craft parties, and the sound of a hundred or more cats chittering and purring and meowing in tandem. maybe you’ll bump into them soon! [ LENNY / HE +THEY / 29 / EST ]

⸻  SOHAN PAGUE. HE + THEY / have you ever heard of alors on danse by stromae, well, it describes MARS MOREAU to a tee! the twenty-four year old, and forensic cleaner was spotted browsing through the stalls at portobello road market last sunday, do you know them? would you say he is more compulsive or more meticulous instead? anyway, they remind me of the sharp scent of bleach on tile, a pair of noise-canceling headphones covered in band stickers, framed posters on the walls of a pristine bedroom, and the heavy thrum of a bass line in a crowded, strobe-lit warehouse. maybe you’ll bump into them soon! [ LENNY / HE +THEY / 29 / EST ]

⸻  ROBERT SHEEHAN. HE/HIM / have you ever heard of BANG THE DOLDRUMS by fall out boy, well, it describes PATRICK JOHN ‘PJ’ HALLARAN to a tee! the thirty four year old, and DRUMMER FOR MANIC IDOLS was spotted browsing through the stalls at portobello road market last sunday, do you know them? would you say HE is more rambunctious or more AUSPICIOUS instead? anyway, they remind me of bandaged hands, a loud laugh cutting across the din of a bar, crushed up water bottles and uncontrolable curls, maybe you’ll bump into them soon! [ ARTEMIS ]

⸻  GABRIEL LUNA. HE/HIM / have you ever heard of THE REAL LIFE by 3 doors down well, it describes RAFAEL ‘RAEL’ MONTOYA to a tee! the forty year old, and CARPENTER was spotted browsing through the stalls at portobello road market last sunday, do you know them? would you say HE is more frugal or more ADAPTABLE instead? anyway, they remind me of leftover wood shavings, rough hands, a soft heart for your only child, and the smell of leather, maybe you’ll bump into them soon! [ARTEMIS ]

⸻  SOPHIE THATCHER SHE/HER / have you ever heard of FEEL THE PAIN by dinosaur jr, well, it describes JAGGER MARR to a tee! the twenty three year old, and CASHIER AT SAWYER STUDIOS was spotted browsing through the stalls at portobello road market last sunday, do you know them? would you say SHE is more spiteful or more SELF-RELIANT instead? anyway, they remind me of chipped nail polish, overly scuffed second hand combat boots, hair cut in the bathroom at two am out of spite and love & resentment fighting to take over, maybe you’ll bump into them soon! [ARTEMIS ]

⸻  MACARENA GARCIA. SHE + HER / have you ever heard of i will wait by mumford & sons, well, it describes HONEY MONTOYA to a tee! the twenty-two year old, and student and personal assistant was spotted browsing through the stalls at portobello road market last sunday, do you know them? would you say she is more meticulous or more reliable instead? anyway, they remind me of collared shirts paired with cardigans of various colors, textbooks tucked neatly away in a backpack, color-coded notes, and sleepless nights, maybe you’ll bump into them soon! [RACHAEL]

[slaterherms]

˗ˏˋ 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

                  𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔 ! ´ˎ˗

hi rpc ! i decided to make my very first masterlist, and i made this for random muse aesthetics, for that one little section in some apps that ask for aesthetics. i was a bit lost on how to approach this, but ultimately, i’ve decided to give aesthetics inspired by own muses. so please enjoy this little insight of my muses and i hope this helps / inspires some of you ! ♡

i still have many more muses, so i might make a part 2. 

ALEXANDER MORGAN bruised knuckles, chipped black nail polish, annotated books, a half empty bottle of alcohol, weirdly shaped mugs, winging life, a god complex, messy sneakers, cigarette butts, a boyish grin, smiley piercings, sarcastic comments, a modernized vintage car, dive bars, the song magnolia by gang of youths, sunglasses after a rough night, raising the middle finger as a response to everything, taking a punch with a grin, riling up a crowd, the sound of cheers, drumming fingers on tables, summer nights. 

ACHILLES HART video game music, long socks with patterns, a pot of black coffee, clicking of a keyboard, coding, all-nighter for work, all-nighter to finish a video game, a scowl that seems permanent, self-deprecating humor, a cracked relationship with a father, a beat up 60′s model car, red eyes from a screen, the song father of mine by everclear, lights reflecting on the street right after rain. 

JACK O’RILEY a small plant in every room of an apartment, a collection of vinyl records, a worn out journal, an acoustic guitar, calloused fingers, a black kitten, live music, jeff buckley’s voice, an empty record store, the color dark sage, a broken home, thunderstorms, black coffee, second-hand books, a walkman, long leather jackets, dirty boots.  

SUMMER DALTON tattoo sleeves, pink rolling paper, winged eyeliner, baggy pants, a habit of self-piercing and tattooing, clear lip gloss, lipstick stained cigarette butts, festering rage, balled fists, the song honey by halsey, a bluntness that can’t be helped, acting out, red heels, black crop tops, claw-shaped painted nails, fingers full of rings, mid-day summer.

DAXTON PASCUAL skateboards, scuffed shoes, bruises all along legs and arms, the sound of a bong when you take a hit, a drawer of rolling paper, the smell of freshly baked goods, golden retriever energy, counting in your head to ease anxiety, painted nails, dyed hair, impulsivity, innocence, oral fixation, the inability to focus on a single thing, romantic comedies, the smell of freshly cut grass. 

RONAN JEAN random sketches, a sketchbook, random band t-shirts, messy curls, dilf glasses, chewing at the end of a pencil, all-nighters, a spacious loft, industrial styles, honey whiskey, male manipulator music, sixties movies, finding peace in being alone, dark academia, hand-me-down clothes, dark colour palettes, an autumn night. 

ROSALIE BERG light academia, red lipstick, tote bags, long coats, hair clips, french nails, always holding a book, gold jewelry, kind to everyone, wandering in bookstores, walking everywhere, listening to podcasts, watching crime documentaries, neat handwriting, sticky notes everywhere, a little bit of sadness behind their eyes, natural makeup (or none at all), sweaters, a spring morning. 

FAIROZ MOUSA snake imagery, colourful jewelry, layered necklaces, a collection of crystals, tarot cards, incense, plants all over their apartment, sapphic literature, academia, chanting for a cause, dark coloured nails, tattooes all over their body, crop tops, long skirts, bandanas, braids, colourful eyeshadow, combat boots, feminist art, social justice social media, mood lighting, sunsets on the beach. 

[kyberphilosopher]

Iɴ ᴛʜᴇ Nɪɢʜᴛ

“ Late night conversations always seem to hold more weight and teach you more about a person than you knew before. They seem to reach a deeper more truthful form of honesty than talking to someone during the day. “ Word Count: 3452 Requested: no. i just... seriously appreciate this character. 

                      .✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*

Sleep seemed to follow you around, but never catch you. You weren’t running from it, you weren’t even teasing it in some way. Hell, you were standing still and sleep was still trailing behind. So, if anything, it was the one teasing you. 

It had no affect on your demeanor or travels. Your shots were just as precise as ever, your agility never wavering. While you may have felt sluggish, it was confined only to the inside, and your movements were as fluid as before. Your irises did not dull from exhaustion. Skin did not pale, throat did not dry. Food didn’t become ash, water was no more a necessity than it was before. It was all the same. 

This bothered you more than if the lack of sleep actually took a toll on your life. If it had, that would’ve at least meant that it was possible for you to sleep. It meant that you had to sleep at some point. But with life going on the same, it left you to wonder if you were now bound to a life without some shut eye. It was like torture. No, it was torture. 

“You alright?” Greez asked at breakfast. It was your fourth day without sleep, fifth night. 

The Latero piles some yellow, scrambled food onto his plate heavily, looking up at you as his beady eyes. “I’m fine,” you assured as you took your own fill. It wasn’t as much as Greez’s, but that was okay. He was always hungry.

“You sure? I thought I heard some noises from your room,” he continues. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Alright, alright,” Greez says. One of his four hands waves you off as you take your plate and turn towards the table. “Just keep it down next time, eh?”

“Oh, I’ll do my best.”

You take a seat, your boots scuffing the floor slightly. Cal raises an eyebrow at you as his chewing comes to a slow. A few wisps of hair had fallen around your face with your movement, but that wasn’t what had intrigued him so. 

“You were making noises last night?” Cal asked, his spoon half raised. His pale orbs were trained on you, pink lips flushed. 

“I guess so,” you said, without looking at him. In truth, you had been messing with your sniper when a shock burned your finger and you knocked over your chair. While you prayed no one heard the commotion, it was clear the endeavor had failed. 

You stuff your mouth with a big bite of the yellow stuff. It wasn’t Greez’s best work by any means, but it was hot and better than many other things you had eaten in your life. 

You were a bounty hunter, hired to help Cere Junda and the Latero on their quest. It helped having extra ammunition and someone to help out in combat... and, of course, someone to be the deciding voice in arguments. 

You didn’t care too much for their mission in the beginning. The Jedi Order was made up of a bunch of cruel and ignorant fools who were responsible for more taken lives than saved ones. But while you weren’t big on helping these people, you were big on the pay Cere offered. 

Over time, you actually came to enjoy the pairs presence. Greez was fun to joke around with, and Cere had interesting stories. The both of them respected you for your quiet demeanor and efficient skills. When you ran into trouble, you were the defense. All was well. 

Then Cal Kestis joined the crew. “Okay,” you thought. “A real Jedi this time, that’s fine.” And it was. You never really had a problem with each other- in fact, you found him quite attractive. You always had a weakness for redheads, of course. But the words spoken between you and the Jedi were always short and necessary, never for pleasure. 

You weren’t sure why this was. He had saved your life several times, and you had saved him in turn. Even when you thanked each other sincerely, things felt stiff. Perhaps you were intimidated by him for what he was, or maybe he felt discouraged by you for what you had surely done in the past. Suppose it didn’t matter at all, and you were just forever destined to feel anxious about looking him in the eye. 

“You sleep okay?” Cal further inquired, finally taking another bite. His eyes were still glued to you, taking in your profile. It was a very nice one, in his opinion. 

“Yeah,” you quickly lied. “You?”

Cal looked up and down, from your lips to your upper lashes. He could sense you were lying, though he wasn’t sure to what extent. “Yeah,” he eventually said. “Yeah, I slept fine.”

You didn’t need to be a Jedi to feel that Cal was lying too. You met his eyes briefly, taking note of the multicolored flecks in the iris’s. It mesmerized you, their color. Somewhere between green and blue and grey. They were like their own little planets, circling in miniature orbits and glowing in white light. 

Greez lumbers into his own chair. “I am starving,” he grumbles. One of his hands goes to reach for some spice, causing your eyes to snap away from Cal’s. “Mmm-mmm. You won’t believe what I’ve cooked up today.”

You loaded another bite into your mouth, glancing at Cal from the side. 

He was no longer focused on you, instead shifting his eyes about food and Greez. Locks of his fluffy, orange hair fell out of place. His long eyelashes looked soft as he gazed down. Faint freckles faded in and out with the shadows. Little divots in his lips were like details of a painting. 

“Well, thanks for breakfast, Greez,” he said. 

“Course, kid.”

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*

Sleep continued to evade you for three more nights. Your normal mood did not budge nor falter, much to your silent frustration. 

You felt more anxious around Cal than usual. Seeing him made something in your stomach spark and fly around, daring to escape your throat in a series of coughs. His eyes seemed more piercing, skin paler. Easier to catch your eye. His voice rang clearer, muscles seemed more noticeable. It was like he was standing out against your reality now, forcing you to see him. 

This was no fault of his or yours, nor the lack of sleep. It was simply a fit of anxiety that impaled your air and haunted your thoughts. 

You catch the wooden ball in your palm, then throw it back into the air. Laying with an arm behind your head and your other hand in the air, your muscles still feel tense. It wasn’t under the weight of your armor, but the weight of stress. You missed sleep so much. You missed dreaming. 

The next time the ball is caught in your hand, you do not toss it upwards. Instead, the ungloved part of your thumb runs over it subtly. A sigh escapes you as you memorize the swirling pattern within. How could something so small and simple evolve into something so complicated?

Narrowing your eyes slightly, you let your fingers go lax. The ball floats up and away as if on invisible strings, setting itself somewhere on your desk. This did not faze you in the slightest, as it was something small you had been able to do since you were young.

You sit upright. Your eyes flit over to your door as a thought crosses your mind, daring you to answer it.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*

“Cal?” you ventured out softly. You did not wish to wake Greez or Cere as well. “I know your awake,” you said. You could feel his presence from the inside of his chest. 

There’s a pause, then the crackling sound of a chair creaking up. Faint footsteps coming closer and closer... finally! The door whizzes open with a beep. Cal’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of you, his lips parting slightly. “You’re awake,” he observes, almost to himself. 

You partly want to make a sarcastic remark, but your relationship truly isn’t comfortable to do that yet. “So are you,” you say in return. Your left fingers pick at its nails, chipping at the black polish. 

Cal is still in his day attire. A hand rustles the harness on his chest, while the other arm leans against the doorway, above his head at the forearm. “Fair enough,” he says nervously, with a small smile and breath. 

“I uh...” you look down, shuffling your boots. You can’t believe the words you’re about to force yourself to say. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah, just having one of those nights, huh?” he says with another nervous breath. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “One of those nights.”

Cal has known somethings been off with you. He can recognize the signs of sleep deprivation, no matter how good you were at hiding it. He can’t remember how many nights he’s spent wide awake, thinking of his old life and his losses. Sometimes it would last for weeks at a time without stealing anything from him, which bothered him to the greatest amount. 

Sleep was precious, though it seemed people like you and him were fated to live without it. It was somewhere between a cruelty and a blessing, resulting in a painful and cursed way to live for long periods of time. 

“I guess I was just bored,” you began to say, though Cal started speaking at the same time. 

“You want somebody to talk to?”

You locked gazes, butterflies fluttering around in your chest. There it was- the anxiousness. It was drumming inside the both of you now. 

“Sorry I didn’t mean-”

“Sorry-”

Your eyes widen further. 

Cal smiles softly, his own chest swelling. “Need someone to talk to?” he repeats kindly. 

“I do,” you nod, your shoulders sinking with his politeness. 

Cal moves out of the way, closing the door behind you as you look around. “Hey BD-1,” you say. The droid beeps and whirls around excitedly, bouncing between legs. 

“Yeah, Buddy. I know,” Cal says. The droid gives a long beep in response, prompting a little smile to cross your lips. “It’ll only be for the night, BD. You can go back to sleep.” The droid whirs again before stilling himself.

“Sorry about him,” Cal offers as he turns to look at you with hands on his hips. “Just gets excited about visitors.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say sincerely. While the anxiety hasn’t left, your heart is warmed by the interaction between BD-1 and Cal.

Cal watches you silently for a moment, examining your details. Part of you is wondering if he can read your thoughts, while the other is concerned he’s mapping out how ugly you actually are.

He shakes his head, remembering himself. “Uh, you can sit anywhere,” he offers, gesturing around.

You glance behind you to Cal’s “bed”. A slab of metal with a comforter and blanket and a pillow, similar to your own. Upon sitting on it, however, you find that his is much comfier. It feels soft on your bum and you wonder how it would feel against the other muscles of your body, if you could get tangled up in it.

“Is something on your mind?” the Jedi asks curiously, his pale eyes gazing into yours. You can’t tell if it’s the shade or not, but they always look like they’re searching for something. No matter who or what they’re looking at. It was, in a word, mesmerizing. 

Then you feel intimidated by him all over again. Cal was a Jedi. The Jedi were good. Your work as a mercenary... often led you down a different path. Cal made you feel guilty, even if he hadn’t done anything too obscene. You’d never killed a child, you’d never killed anyone who didn’t deserve to die. But Cal didn’t kill anyone at all- unless they were servants of the Empire, of course. 

“Nothing,” you said instead, eyes wide to give away your lie. You felt so mesmerized and entranced with the person in front of you, intimidated and unworthy. 

“So you’re up because of nothing?” Cal questions, fingers dancing at their spot on his hips. When you don’t answer, seemingly stuck in between the aquamarine flecks of his Cal’s eyes, he continues his dialogue. “And if I don’t believe you?”

You take control of yourself with a snap. “When have you ever known me to be a liar?” you joke nervously, hoping he doesn’t feel it. You let out a breathy sigh as you speak. 

“Since the moment you came in here,” he says softly. And you think he looks like the most beautiful person in the galaxy. 

You’re at a loss for words again, for multiple reasons. 

“Can I ask you something?” Cal questions. 

Now, it’s not a big deal to ask for permission to do something. Sometimes it’s just a minimal, polite line. But for you, in this particular instance, it means everything. He’s not just saying it to say it, or because it flows nicely. Cal Kestis is asking permission because he actually cares if you’re comfortable with what’s about to happen or not. 

You nod without skipping a beat. 

“What was your life like?” the boy asks. “Before the Empire?”

Cal’s eyes flit down to watch your hands ball into tight fists at your knees. Your sweaty palms burn with the friction. Life before the Empire...? Well, you were young when it came about. 

“I was alone,” you start, looking down and averting your gaze. Nobodies really asked about your childhood before, and the fact that Cal has both asked for permission and the question is almost overwhelming. Such a subtle and simple amount of kindness from the right person, can sometimes grow larger than it should. “I guess I was born on Nal Hutta. I don’t really remember my parents or anything.”

“You were born outside the bounds of the Republic?” Cal asks, almost with disbelief. He steps forward once with urgency. 

“Not everyone has the luxury of being born within it,” you say quietly. 

“What about your parents?” the boy further speaks. 

You take in a breath, your shoulders dropping farther. You look up to meet his gaze again, and you tell him, “I don’t know.”

Cal feels bad for asking. He knew it wasn’t any of his business, but he’d pushed anyway. He should not have brought it up. 

The Jedi can feel your sadness creeping through you. It starts in your chest, right at your heart. From each of the strings, it moves outward like waves on a shore, slowly washing up and away. When it reaches your veins, it spurs faster, making your hands feel cold and your toes wiggle for warmth in your boots. 

“I, uh...” Cal crosses to the bench next to his bed. It’s just to your right, closer to the door and surrounded by some shelves of trinkets. He sits down on it slowly, keeping his eyes away from yours out of guilt. “I didn’t know my parents either. If that helps.”

You peak up at him. A smile a little as you watch the nervous young man. “It doesn’t help, but thanks.”

Cal looks up at you, scared that you’re angry. But you’re smiling! Making a weak attempt at a joke! He lets his lips turn upwards as well, just as soft as your own. 

“What about you?” you venture in return, attempting to ease the awkwardness away. “What was life like before the Jedi?”

Cal sighs out and leans forward, elbows on his knees as he thinks. Then he snaps back upright and moves his head slightly as he talks, in that cute little way that he does. “Can’t say I remember,” he says. “The Jedi took force sensitives when they were young so they could train them before it’s too late.”

“Too late?” you question. The memory of all the times you’d been able to push and pull things away from you pops into your mind, but you usher it away before you think about it too hard. 

“Well, the theory is the older they are, the more difficult they’ll be to train.”

“And you? Were you difficult to train?”

Cal wouldn’t be surprised if someone described him as a brat in his youth, even if he had gone out of his way to avoid that. “I sure hope not,” he admits. 

He snaps his head up after out of fear. His words are like a confession of some kind, and he feels more vulnerable than before. He feels more vulnerable with you now than anybody else, and it’s disturbing because you’re relationship has been so blocked up until this point. 

He knows you feel it too, but you’re smiling softly again because you want to make him feel comfortable. Returning the favor to some degree. “I don’t think you were difficult to train,” you muse. “I bet you were a softie.”

Cal’s smile cracks through, and it’s the realest one he’s given in a while. “So what does that make you? A... a hard-y?”

Your face stills. Your eyes light up and sparkle as a big grin comes over you. The laughter falls from your lips, slipping past the fingers that raised to stop it. It’s musical and full of life, making anyone’s black and white picture of you illuminate like a rainbow and kaleidoscope. 

The redheads smile gets bigger as he watches you. He likes seeing you laugh, and he likes knowing that he’s the one that’s made it possible. You look peaceful and true, even though it’ll only last a few seconds. 

Your chuckle dies down soon enough, but Kestis still wishes it had lasted longer. “Maker, don’t ever use that word again,” you sigh out. Your head rolls back against the wall, giving the Jedi a good view of your throat and jaw. 

“You’re a good man, Cal.” 

Your tone is sincere, and your face is wiped clean as a show of honesty. You continue to gaze up at the ceiling before your eyes roll over to watch him. Cal glances down, and then back up at you. His throat feels dry and parched all of a sudden, for the warmth of your words has the ability to make everything else evaporate. 

Cal’s big, broad shoulders heave up and down once before he speaks. “Am I?”

Your eyes twitch in curiosity, silently urging him to continue as he’s peaked your interest. Of course Cal was a good person. Probably one of the best there was. He was thoughtful and quiet, and had the ability to empathize with anything and everyone. Even when he doubted himself, his insight was valued and made clear. 

Cal continues. “My master died because of me. If I had been better, maybe I could’ve saved him. And sometimes I just... I just think back on it. I get stuck in it. Then I can’t breathe.”

“I thought Jedi couldn’t have emotions,” you said stupidly, half to yourself. 

“We’re not supposed to,” Cal admits. “But sometimes I just feel so-”

You cut him off, just as he’s about to say the word ‘angry’. “To have feelings is to be human, Cal.”

Cal shakes his head, which is still dropped down in disappointment, and the weight of it. “I’m supposed to be better than that.”

“Nobodies better than that, Cal. Truly. If they were, none of us would be here.”

Cal looks up to meet your eyes. The truth in them, the sincerity, the empathy is undeniable. Too many people in the galaxy spread hollow words as easy as air, and maybe you’re one of them. But these words aren’t hollow. You believe them. That’s just about enough credibility and kindness to make anybody woozy with disbelief. 

“Don’t you ever wonder if you’re a good person, too?” he dares to ask. Another bold way of overstepping bounds, but it’s too late and full of darkness to stop either of you. 

Cal feels the weight sink into your stomach. Your eyes drop again. “I think it’s a little late for me to wonder about myself at this point. I already have my answer.”

“I don’t think you’re so bad,” Cal says, without thinking. “I don’t think you’re so bad at all.”

When you look up at him again, it feels like the first time. It feels like what should’ve happened the first time. It feels steady and real, and like if you guys do it right, the time that you guys can fall in love for real. Cal would certainly like to. Would you?

You would. But not now. 

“You’re not so bad either,” you promise softly. And for the next moment, Cal’s eyes don’t leave yours as you form your bond in the dead of night, this time in the right way. 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*

@omg-we-really-doo @haztory @chokemeanakin @anakinswhore @fanficsforheartandsoul beonuwhg9utwr i can’t remember if this is everyone again. i should make a list. 

[fallingoverharrypotter]

Priorities We Wrap in Bands of Silver

This started out as a fic fill for @drarrymicrofic's prompt 'Alpha', and then it spiralled out of control. 12k's worth of out of control.

Below is the first 500 or so words, and here is the link to AO3. I had so much fun writing this. I hope you enjoy it!

In Harry’s study is a man who really shouldn’t be there, leaning over the desk reading something he really shouldn’t be reading.

“That’s classified, you know.”

Harry waits for a reaction. He knows that Draco isn’t supposed to be here. Doesn’t he? But the man just seems to… smile.

He's not even looking at Harry. The short shaven fuzz of white blond on his head is all he can really see; Draco’s directing his face downwards, focusing too heavily on the desk underneath him.

“Draco. I’m serious.”

Success. Draco’s strong forehead comes up first, then the pointy nose, then the thin lips above the pointy chin. And the smile is still there. Not even the hint of a smirk. A smile. That puts Harry on edge, just a little.

And when he asks, “what’s behind Alpha?” –

- well, Harry’s edginess was right.

He sighs and wanders closer to the desk. When he’d left it earlier this morning it was surely clear. He’d gotten into the habit very early on in this profession of clearing off this desk with a quick charm, at risk of anyone wandering by with loose eyes.

The desk now looks like someone had thrown a stack of paper at it. Tipped off the side, littered across the top. And right there, right under Draco’s heavily ringed right hand tipped with bright green fingernails, is the heavy card binder upon which an alpha symbol sits.

“I can’t read any of this, you know.” Draco’s smile wavers here. He furrows his eyes and looks at Harry with something that rings like frustration in the eery back of his mind.

Harry puts that aside, and focuses on moving himself to the front, snatching that thick page out from under Draco’s hand, staying clear of the rings on his fingers.

It’s a trick, those. The shorn hair and the jewelled hands, the nail polish. The ripped, black, muggle jeans. Right around that pale bottom lip is another piece of metal, two in a light eyebrow.

“You’re different, you know.”

Did Harry’s lips move? That was a thought, so loud that it pushed itself out of his mind. Surely. Because why would Harry feel the need to truly advertise that to this ghost of a man. A ghost that’s working his way silently around the confines of the desk, on heavy boots scuffed to grey with wear.

“What’s Alpha?”

Green, chipped fingernails atop silver banded, slim fingers. Rising up through the thick atmosphere between Harry and this Draco. Reaching out and pointing at Harry’s face. Harry can’t look away from the green. Can’t move here. Like every direction is wrong. Like every move of a limb or a thought exhausts him.

The finger touches his forehead.

That reality extinguishes -

- and another drops on him like the weight of silver silver silver rings coming loose.

Read more

[playlistcenter]

types of boys // cryptids

mothman boys: 2:47am in a 7/11 parking lot, checkered vans, endless roads, telephone wires, an electric guitar with broken strings, chipped black nail polish, shopping carts in places shopping carts should not be

bigfoot boys: cool rocks found on hikes, a bomber jacket covered in patches, muddy boots, folk guitars, farmers markets, getting lost a bluegrass festival but not caring, locally brewed beer, long hair, baseball hats

nessie boys: walking in the rain without an umbrella, full schedules, daydreams of adventures yet to come, dirty glasses, crowded coffee shops, a forgotten herb garden in a back yard, foggy mornings, corrupted polaroids

jackalope boys: old vinyls, strike on box matches, climbing onto the roof to watch a sunrise, iced tea, watercolor paintings, making flower crowns while laying in clover, scented candles, corduroy jackets, vintage thrift stores

alien boys: sitting on the roof of a car to watch a meteor shower, tangled headphones, bright eyes, abstract art, taking things apart just to put them back together, scuffed converse, doodles in margins, indie music

based off of this post by @achilleanss

[afy2018]

Rooftop Vodka

Walking through the first year’s barracks, Scylla laughed to herself at the drunken antics of the young cadets who had gotten into their peers’ liquor. She found the source of the party in a small room unsurprisingly belonging to the Bellweather unit with a few additions. The bright auburn sprite, Craven, sat between another cadet’s leg, chuckling to herself and engorging on some crackers while Raelle wiped her cheeks and nose with a wet paper towel. Having come upon what must have been the tail end of their night, Scylla took in the other recruits' conversations, catching the leader of this unit in a playful argument with another cadet. She smiled at their innocent escapades, distracted by her own memories until the others noticed her presence.

“Look!” Tally exclaimed, leaning next to Raelle’s ear to whisper something that made her friend blush scarlet red.

“Yep, yup, thank you, Tally,” she bashfully giggled.

“So, this happened,” Scylla smiled, not trying to hide her amusement at all.

“Yeah,” Raelle, sighed, going back to wiping the lipstick from her friend’s lips.

“She’s alright, right?”

“Yup, she’s lucid, just drunk, look,” Raelle began, “Where are we?”

“Our dorm,” Tally responded through another mouth full of crackers.

“What are we eating?”

“Goldfish!” she brightly exclaimed, popping one in Raelle’s mouth.

“What are we drinking?”

“Water,” she chuckled.

“Because we drank?”

“Vodka!” she laughed.

Raelle guffawed with her and turned back to her girlfriend, “See, she passed the test. What’s up?”

“Well, I was going to invite you over-”

“Oooh,” Abigail teased.

“Abigail,” Collar warned.

“But, I can wait until tomorrow,” Scylla continued.

“Did we scare her away?” Tally whispered.

“You know what, I would love to join you tonight.” She stood up and threw the paper towel at Abigail. “Your turn, Bellweather.” Raelle placed her hand on her partner’s back and wheeled them around to escape the barracks.

“You look like you had fun?”

“Yeah, we did,” she chuckled, pecking her temple but instantly interrupted by other cadets who passed them by. Scylla rolled her eyes and intertwined their fingers and kissed the back of her hand. Raelle blushed and clung to her arm. “So, did you go to the Pageant when you were in basic?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t as eventful as this one, but it was fun.”

“Who was in your unit?”

“Oh, two other girls, a fixer and a knower,” she noted, avoiding colliding with another unit.

“Hey,” Raelle changed course, “Come on, I know a better place than this.”

“Okay,” she chuckled.

They slipped past the other units until they found their way to the staircase. Raelle led the way up to three more flights of stairs, breathless giggles that echoed against the cement walls. She momentarily checked behind her as if to assure herself that this macabre siren was still at her heels. Scylla couldn’t help but let a joyous smile stay plastered across her face while they ascended to the roof, tripping up the steps until they found the door. Raelle swept her hair from her eyes and opened the door.

‘Entrez-vous, s'il vous plait.” she politely requested.

Scylla blushed, turning her head away to study the loose gravel roof. She meandered to the edge of the building, peering over to the six-story drop. She scuffed her boot against the rocks, staggering backward when she felt Raelle tug her back with her arms wrapped tightly around her waist in a vice embrace. They let out a loud laugh that echoed across Fort Salem while Scylla tried to regain her balance. She turned around and gripped her surprisingly strong biceps, leaning over to kiss her. With the burning taste of vodka on her lips and tongue, Scylla pulled away.

Raelle covered her mouth after reading her expression, “So, what did you have in mind?”

The young necro played with the hem of her girlfriend’s black shirt, “I mean, I just wanted to spend some alone time with you, but not in this state.”

“It’s the vodka breath isn’t it?”

“And you’re drunk,” she added.

“Okay,” Raelle nodded, brushing her thumb across her back. “Um, so do you guys still party after Pageant?”

“Like, second-years and up?” she inquired and earned a nod. “Well, yeah, but I just like to walk around campus when everyone else is too busy getting drunk. For instance, the big party going on with the Bellweather Unit.”

“Ah, so you decided to crash it?” she joked, instantly regretting her words as she saw Scylla cringe. Raelle placed a few meaningful pecks against her lips and cheek. “Wait here, I’ll be back.”

Scylla watched her disappear behind the door, curious as she waited on the roof, listening to the playful yelps and screams that echoed across Salem as all of Massachusetts partook in the Pageant’s festivities. She found it ironic that humans celebrated this day seeing that not only did they still enslave witches, but they looked down on her people with fear. Scylla glanced back to the door when it flung open, Raelle standing proudly with a bottle of liquor.

“Come on,” she beckoned, closing the door behind herself and locking it. When Scylla stood her ground, she held out her hand. “I don’t bite but Cadwells does.”

Ramshorn chuckled at the poor joke and joined her, backs pressed against the locked door. She glanced at the half-finished bottle, watching as Raelle rubbed off the lip before handing it over to her girlfriend.

“How many did you get your hands on?” Scylla asked.

“I know I snagged two, Abigail got one and I’m pretty sure the beer came from Moffet, Barbette I know followed us with tequila, and I think Amigaunt got their hands on some harder liquor. Yeah, it’s been an interesting night, to say the least,” Raelle chuckled. She twiddled her thumbs, watching Scylla sip from the bottle. “I know you had some other fun in mind, but do you want to talk or other things?”

“Sure,” she shrugged, taking a long swig as she tried to figure out what she wanted to ask. “What did you think of the Pageant?”

“Boring. The actors hammed it up. But I had fun when you showed up,” Raelle ended with a genuine, but leery, smile. “How were you able to go?”

“Well, I was given a bit of extra free time after class, so when I heard that the Bellweather unit found their way on the trip, I thought I’d pay you a little visit,” she smiled, finishing with a peck on her cheek.

Raelle blushed at the gesture, but thought again, “Are second years allowed to just leave the fort?”

“No,” she responded with slight annoyance to her inquisitorial remarks. “But Doctor Izadora permitted me. You know, I have to say, compared to the other girls, you can hold your own.”

“You’re not a real Cession-Girl unless you’ve made your homebrew,” she joked. “But my constitution isn’t the only thing I learned back there.”

“What else did they teach you?” Scylla cheeky asked, glad to have fully pivoted away from their previous conversation.

“I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not that sexy. My dad taught me how to do celestial navigation, it’s something humans do to, you know, navigate at night.”

Scylla leaned into her and gazed up at the stars, watching as they twinkled against the nearly black sky. Raelle pointed to Polaris and Acrux as the north and south stars, using the constellations for reference. Her partner tried to follow her gaze, lazily taking in the information. Something about her knowledge about those stars made her feel surprisingly safer with her. Every time she watched her train or mess around with her unit, she was reminded just how much power she harnessed, yet she had no idea. Just having her hand wrapped across her back she could feel the sheer force of energy exude from her. Scylla continued to nip from the bottle for a few minutes before it was taken from her.

“What?”

“Do they sell snacks somewhere on the fort?”

“Nothing that isn’t in the mess hall. Why, feeling a bit homesick?”

“Yeah, I’m mostly just tired of the bland food here,” she smirked. “Luckily I got a package from my dad.”

“Did you smuggle food on base, Private Collar?” Scylla demanded by poorly mimicking Quartermaine.

“Yeah, I did,” she taunted with a brief kiss. Raelle pulled away laughing. “I was going to say something, but decided against it.”

“Dish,” she pleaded, wrapping her arms around her torso while slyly reaching for the bottle of vodka.

“I can’t, it’ll sound so ridiculous.”

“Come on, you can’t just leave me hanging?”

“Anyway,” she segued, sliding the bottle out of reach, “my dad got me some potato chips in a care package with… some other stuff.” Raelle produced two bags of Mister Bee chips. “I got the salt-n-vinegar and original. Pick your poison.”

“Wow, so, is this your vice?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she joked, opening up a bag for herself. “I was rationing them, but this seemed like a good occasion to indulge in a bit of sin. What’s your vice?”

“Other than pretty girls from the Cession?” she successfully flirted. “Um… well, I loved these things called pinky skulls and skogsbar when I was little. They sold them everywhere on- where I grew up.”

“When was the last time you had it?” Raelle asked, offering one of her salt and vinegar chips.

“No thank you. I think the last time was… oh wow, when I was ten. Yeah, that was the last time I had it,” Scylla recalled, closing her eyes and snuggling into her abdomen, feeling her girlfriend’s stomach pulse and shift as it digested the booze and chips.

She could feel her heart push blood through her veins quicken when Raelle threaded her slim fingers through her hair, gathering her brown locks in her palm and gently dragging her short nails back down her scalp. Scylla closed her eyes and clung onto her partner, tighter than she normally would have.

Sliding her hand down to her back, Raelle whispered, “Hey, let’s go back to your place.”

“Mmhm,” she nodded, leaning up to kiss her.

Collar chuckled and kissed her back, tasting that same burning spirit on her lips that first made her girlfriend cringe. She stood up and unlocked the door, helping her lightweight partner to back down to the ground level, taking a quick moment to leave the booze in her dorm before going to walk Scylla back to her dorm. The older cadet closed her eyes to fend off the buzz that lingered in her head from the vodka. She knew she would feel at least slightly hungover from tonight, but nothing as horrible as her first year at the Pageant. Scylla took Raelle’s hand once she returned, leaning into her for warmth while they braved the harsh chilly night. Trekking through the lamps, the young couple found their way to the Shipton Dorms, taking their time up to the fourth floor, Raelle opening the door for her partner.

“Stay,” Scylla suggested as the door closed.

“I’d love to, but I can’t,” she smiled, helping her unbutton her jacket.

“Only to sleep, I always have trouble sleeping when you aren’t here,” she pouted. Raelle chewed the inside of her lip and chuckled, only considering her request after Scylla said, “Craven and Bellweather will be fine.”

Collar tipped her head back and sighed, “Fine, you got me!”