❝ i'm the strong one, i'm not nervous, i'm as tough as the crust of the earth is. but under the surface, i'm pretty sure i'm worthless if i can't be of service. who am i if i can't carry it all? ❞ ─ surface pressure, encanto
data.
— full name: francesca grace astor
— alias: frankie
— age/birthday: 29, november 20th
— mbti: istp, the virtuoso
— gender/pronouns: cis woman, she/her
— sexuality: bisexual
— languages: english
— status: visitor
— class: vice
— position: jack
— occupation: owner & artist at inkjection
visuals.
— face claim: antonia gentry
— height: 5'1"
— distinguishing features: has a powerful presence. curses quite a bit, as if it’s natural to her. has little scars that litter her hands, arms, and legs, most of which are relatively faded by now. full lips and expressive eyebrows. can’t hide how she’s feeling.
personality.
— positive: handy, direct, diligent
— negative: unapologetic, insensitive, skeptical
— quirks: determination personified. if she feels a certain way, you’re going to hear about it. doesn’t have the best manners. not very good with feelings. often smells more “masculine,” likes wearing cologne.
— character inspo: toph beifong ( avatar ), cherri bomb ( hazbin hotel ), hit girl ( kick-ass ), vi ( arcane / league of legends ), donna pinciotti ( that 70's show )
— character playlist:
— bad reputation / avril lavigne: i don't give a damn about my reputation, a girl can what she wants to do and that's what i'm gonna do.
— surface pressure / encanto: but under the surface, i'm pretty sure i'm worthless if i can't be of service. give it to your sister, your sister's stronger, give her all the heavy things we can't shoulder
— dogbite / dreams of venus: just a bad dog trying to sit and stay, just behave, i'll bite again, don't know why i do, i try not to. i can take out all my teeth, just to prove i'm worthy
— she's leaving home / the beatles: silently closing her bedroom door, leaving the note that she hoped would say more. quietly turning the backdoor key, stepping outside she is free. she (we gave her most of our lives), is leaving (sacrificed most of our loves), home (we have her everything money could buy).
biography.
Francesca Astor—a name that Frankie cannot stand and will knock you out if you use—was born into privilege. But you don’t get it! She hated being brought up in a beautiful three story home in a privileged area of New York. All of it is very ‘boohoo, rich girl problems,’ really, Frankie’s parents had her and then she was primarily raised by staff and caretakers at her family home rather than her parents. They were far too busy with her mother’s campaign, after all!
As a result, Frankie had to maintain an image, and that in of itself was suffocating. She had to look a certain way and act a certain way in public, and her parents would bring her to events and smile with her and act like parents and then the moment it was done, she was back home again with resentment slowly building up inside of her.
So, of course, like any rich girl who resents her parents, she rebelled! Still she didn’t get attention, and then eventually she fully decided 'okay, fuck this,’ and decided to just leave. Luckily her friend, Lana, was already planning on going on a trip and so off Frankie went to find a new beginning.
And then they found themselves in Hiraeth. Admittedly, it took Frankie a little while to adjust to life in Hiraeth but when the freedom registered, well, she took off. With her settling in Hiraeth, though, came her learning about the tensions between Vice and Virtue and, associating Virtue with her parents, Frankie developed a deep-seated hatred for Virtue. She worked at Inkjection early on, first as an apprentice, then as an artist and then not too long ago she finally became the owner, earning further notoriety for the shop when she invented neon tattoos.
Had her life really fallen so low from its marble pedestal? Had she really had sex with someone who said words like 'pie skin'? Some things even several scalding showers, complete denial, and self-inflicted overtime hours at work could not cure. They really fuck with these apples. Adeline lets out a long breath through her teeth. "Fine. Simply... don't interact with me. If I see you in the vegetable section next, however? That's it for you."
Matty wasn't sure if he was going to cry or throw up or some combination of both of them. To be fair, he really, really wasn't good with stress and maybe he cared a little too much about what people thought about him and the fact that this girl thought he was, what, some kind of freak—and shockingly this wasn't even an isolated incident so he had to be doing something really, really wrong—it tore him up. He just wanted to fix it.
"But—but I still need to shop, and," His mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish out of water. "I swear, I'm not following you. Seriously, I don't even have the attention span for that. I can't watch a movie without a game on my phone at the same time."
Reuben tries to fend off the smirk at his sister hanging off the back of the couch, but doesn’t win. It doesn’t matter that she’s in her twenties now, because he can still see flashes of her doing this as a little kid, when their birth mothers were still best friends and before he’d become her primary caregiver; he might have been coerced into joining in once. “Any requests? Otherwise, I’m making baked potatoes and chicken drumsticks.”
Carmen considered it, pursing her lips as she tried to imagine the dinner he proposed compared to what she was craving—and then as if struck by a genius idea, she gasped. "Oh! Yes. Chicken drumsticks yes, but can we do fries with it instead of baked potatoes?" And then for extra effect (read: little sister buff), Carmen jutted out her lower lip and fluttered her lashes (because she was very precious and innocent, as he knew). "Please? I had a long day."
who: @arcanae
where: beatrice's purgatory, condo 7
when: may
When he opens the door, Matty will find one Alyssum Serling staring at him with an intensity reserved for people other than him. With no greeting, she grabs him by the shirt and pulls him down a few inches until she can press her nose to his, staring into his eyes like an omen. "Matty Atkins. Where the hell have you been?"
It felt a little bit like a trick question and a little bit like Matty had genuinely stepped into another dimension with Alyssum not only grabbing him by (his absolute favorite) purple shit and dragging him down (though it wasn't as if he put up much of a fight) until he was eye level with her. "Um." It took his brain a few moments to catch up, his mouth hanging open as he tried desperately to search for the correct answer, of course coming up blank. "... Getting snacks? Were you... waiting for me?"
"Mate... I can barely arrange my thoughts clearly on the best of days, let alone remember if my singing was any good." Danny told him with a slight sigh. "It doesn't matter, if it doesn't happen, then it doesn't happen."
"So have you like, literally not sang since you've been here?" Matty questioned, raising his brow as if he was confused—which, for a guy like Matty Atkins, wasn't outside of the ordinary at all. "You should at least like, try to see if you're good before you pursue it. 'Cause what if you try and then you realize your talent was like, knitting and not singing or something?"
When it didn't work, Sara cringed. "Oh dear... I have no idea." She shrugged her shoulders. "Did you do something before coming out? Like touch something you shouldn't have?" she was just pulling ideas out of her ass to try and help.
"Uh... no," Matty assured her, holding his hands to his chest as if to comfort himself. It kinda was comforting, but it was also kinda distracting to be touching a body that wasn't his but that he was somehow inhabiting. Freaky. "I don't think so. Like, I didn't touch anyone besides you. And like, I bought stuff at the store but I paid for that."
"Well, it is," Jaren complains, as if right now is the appropriate time to argue his skills in bed. When the kid approaches them, Jaren's face goes white, like they're approaching a firing squad and not a literal child. It's not that he doesn't want a kid, like, ever. He kind of literally has to, in order to continue on his family's or the founding family's bloodline or whatever. But he'd kind of imagined it not happening until he was in his forties! And when he had several hot nannies to do all the work for him? He doesn't actually have almost a single memory of either of his parents doing anything that resembled a caretaker role? Well, once, his mother had dismissed a cook for giving a little Jaren food that caused an allergic reaction, and one time he'd played baseball with his dad for a father-son event when his brother ended up sick, but other than that? Zilch.
"Okay, okay, yeah. I can help by texting the groupchat and posting on Murmur," Jaren volunteers, as if he's really taking on the brunt of the parenting as he starts tapping away at his phone. "Do you think we should order him takeout or something? Or I could EatsUber... a bottle of milk? You can't... do that, right?" Jaren asks very quietly, gesturing to her breasts.
He could help—Jade almost about fainted on the spot in shock until Jaren detailed exactly how he hoped to help them. And then she shot him a look. "You're not posting on Murmur. I can't have this getting out to the public—you have no idea how—" A pause, and she covered it up with a roll of her eyes. "—how this would look to the public. Think about it."
She stepped into her place, shooting Jaren a look. "Jaren." His voice left her lips as it had often before—expectation, a little bit of irritation, somehow a willingness to deal with his moments—when that little boy looked up at her and said, "Yeah, Mommy?" In his tiny little voice.
Jade almost dropped his sticky little hand in shock, and maybe she would have actually if it weren't for the fact that he was grasping onto a few of her fingers like she was a lifeline. The kid, for his part, didn't seem to notice her shock while he was looking back at Jaren. "Daddy. Come on." His little face screwed up in anguish and he reached out his other tiny, sticky little hand out towards Jaren. "Come wif' me."
"Right," they said, letting out a small, humorless laugh. "Of course. You didn't bake it. You just set it all out to play make believe. You're a little storybook mother waiting for everyone to come running, huh?" The words should have felt wrong. They did feel wrong. But Ophelia couldn’t seem to stop them. She felt trapped in her own mind. Their gaze flicked over the food, then back to Madeleine as she rolled her eyes.
"Is that what this is? Answer me." they demanded. "Feed the broken ones enough sugar and maybe they'll forget nobody wants them?" The words left her, something flickered across their face. Not regret, exactly. More like sadness trying to break through and failing. They took a step back instead of forward. "I'm not hangry," Ophelia snapped, though their voice wavered. "And I don’t need you fussing over me." Their eyes dropped to the counter again despite themself. It all looked so warm and safe... Why were they acting this way? "I didn’t ask you to be nice to me."
No, something was clearly not right with them—they'd never say anything like this under normal circumstances. What that could be was evading Madeleine—maybe someone had tricked them and slipped them something that was making them act differently.
"That's what you think? Logically?" Madeleine posed, watching Ophelia carefully as they stepped back, though she made no move to step forward to close the distance they'd created. Instead, she waited. Patient. "Or is that what you think would hurt me—or what you're afraid is the truth?"
"Apparently," he said, a light chuckle falling from his lips. Naturally pretty distracting. Yeah. That was one way to put it. He kept his eyes on the washcloth for a second longer than necessary, dragging it gently over the last faint mark on her skin. The blood was completely gone now. There was nothing left to focus on except the warmth of her body beneath his hand and the fact that Violet was looking at him like she had just realized she was allowed to.
Then she offered him a shirt from her room. Jonah’s gaze lifted to hers. For a second, he only looked at her, quiet and searching. There was a good chance she meant exactly what she said. A shirt. Something dry. Something simple. Easy. But there was also the way her hands were touching him. The way her eyes kept dropping and returning. The way her voice caught around simple words like she wanted to tell him something.
"Your room," he repeated, softer this time. Not teasing. Not backing away. Just making sure she heard it too. His hand stilled at her side, thumb resting lightly against her skin. "Vi," he said, and her name came out lower than he meant it to. "I'll wear the shirt." His gaze flicked to her lips, slower this time, no longer pretending it was an accident. "I just don’t want to misunderstand you," he said quietly.
He looked back at her. "If you're just offering me something to wear, I can do that." His voice stayed quiet, careful, but there was no distance in it. "I can be good." His thumb brushed small lines against her waist. But if you're asking me to go to your room for any other reason…" The words hung there, unfinished for half a second. Jonah swallowed hard. "I need you to mean it."
A small, unsteady breath left him. "Because I want to go with you," Jonah admitted, voice rough around the edges. "I really want to." His hand tightened at her waist, just barely. "But I don’t think you understand how long I've been trying to be good... If I touch you the way I want to, I'm not sure I'll be able to let you go."
Why was he looking at her like that? It was so distracting—she couldn't think straight, couldn't name all of the reasons why this wasn't a good idea and why she should stop this before he realized it was a mistake and before he caught on that there was nothing good about her, nothing he could find beneath the front she put up—but the frustrating part was that Jonah never seem to be tricked by that front anyway. He'd seen the darkest parts of her and he'd never run away.
Did Jonah realize his hand was still on her? She hoped not, she hoped he left it there because it was making her head spin. Why did he smell so good? Fuck, she couldn't think straight. So many things ran through her mind—a lamp, a promise, a kiss—and then now his eyes looking at her so softly that Violet couldn't help but lean in closer. Maybe she'd get lost in them and never need to leave him.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, hoping she wasn't misreading Jonah—she couldn't lose him (though the chances of that happening now were, well, they were pretty low to be entirely fair)—goosebumps erupted across her skin where his thumb touched and her fingers pressed into his skin just ever so slightly more, like she could make her mark and never allow anyone else to see him like this—besides her—ever again.
She did say she was selfish, to be entirely fair.
Violet couldn't stop looking at him. Maybe there really was blood loss, maybe it got to her because she felt dizzy—or maybe that was all him, maybe it was just hearing him say things she'd only ever imagined late at night when no one else was around.
"What if I don't want you to let me go?" Finally she spoke, something uncharacteristic of her—of the two of them, in fact, for Jonah to speak so much and for Violet to listen, though she'd always loved the sound of his voice, even more now—her hands slid up his chest to rest on his shoulders, her eyes never leaving his.
"I want you to come to my room," She clarified firmly. "I don't need you to be good. I just want you. Okay? I just—I want you."
Did Merle scare him? Yes. A little bit. Sometimes. Actually, a lot of the time. A woman could be a force of nature at the best of times, let alone an angry one. And somehow, Merle always ended up angry when in Maxie's presence. Yet, he couldn't help himself. He couldn't bring himself to avoid the allure that came with teasing her and riling her up for his own enjoyment. Mostly, he wanted to see what she would do, and how far he could push her. "Oh we both know I did plenty'a work to get where I am. An' it took more than balls to do the shit I done. Keep that in mind, yeah?"
And in response, Merle laughed. It was an ugly sound, biting and filled with as much as venom as one would expect from someone like Merle Vos. It was clear she wasn't amused either while she glanced at her object of irritation of today (and many days). "You have no idea what it took to get to where I am. And you never will, Maxie," And she stepped closer, glaring up at him. "You'll never know what it took for me to get here because you can't even begin to imagine it. How could you? You don't even have a seat at the fucking table." She squinted as if looking through him, and then the corners of her lips tilted up into a dangerous smile, her head tilting. "And that kills you, doesn't it? Knowing that no matter how much you kick and scream and fight, it will never be enough. You will never be enough."
