every angel is terrifying

ARIADNE ACOSTA ✫ 30 ✫ THE FALLEN STAR  

[ariadneacostas]

𝐍 𝐀 𝐓 𝐄​

This feels like a trap. 

It’s a dramatic sentiment, but it doesn’t feel like it’s missed the mark. There’s a sort of tension settling in the room like stale air and Nate scans the immediate area as though it might offer him a way out. Or, at the very least, offer him some kind of insight into what exactly it is he’s walked into.

He’s too busy cursing his father, trying to understand a war he’s beginning to realize he’s nothing but a pawn in, when she reaches out to touch his brow. And for one horrifying moment, he openly hates himself. It’s not in the way he’s donned like armor, a mask of disdain for the world to see, to hide the fact that only hate he truly knows is for himself. But it slips as he realizes he wants to lean into the touch. He longs for gentle hands, for a tenderness that does not belong to him, will never belong to him. It doesn’t seem to matter the hands, just the touch. To know he’s real. To know he exists.

That weakness is gone just as quickly as it comes, locked away into a room in his mind he will fortify with barbed wire if he needs to. 

He means to flinch away, to step out of her reach so that she cannot touch him again. But she is here for a reason, they are alone for a reason. Everything in this god forsaken palace of rot exists for a reason, and he will not give his father the satisfaction. He will not back down. He will not.

You don’t call him dad.

It snaps his attention back to her, nostrils flaring as the words sting his cheek like an open palm. It is too kind a word– dad. It could never belong to Raymond Blackwood. “Astute.” It’s all he can say, all he dares to say. For all he knows, she’s a wolf, here for his father to sniff out weakness, to devour him whole should he step out of line again. He does not trust her. 

His hand smooths down the front of his black button down, slipping into another mask. His lips turn down into an apologetic frown, though the hint of a smile– one that does not touch his eyes– dances in the corners of his mouth. “Forgive my forwardness, but why, exactly, are you here?”

❀ 

Astute, he says, and for a moment Ariadne is reminded of his namesake. Of the practiced indifference; of fortified walls and barbed remarks. 

Astute, he says, and she can’t help the way she flinches.

“Austere,” Ariadne shoots back almost immediately, hand dropping back down at her side, though there is no disdain within her tone, even as Nate stares back at her in his steady, disquieting way — so alike to the carefully planned interior of the house, so akin to the man it all belongs to, that Nate Blackwood might as well be another marble bust situated upon the dustless shelves. 

Yet, in all his likeness, there is no accusation in her eyes, either. 

No — there is only challenge. Only desperation. Doe-eyed and solemn, as if she is a child who has been told the wrong ending to her favorite story. As if she is waiting for him to smile — to actually smile, with light dancing within the depths of his eyes, so unlike the smile he currently dons — and tell her that it was all a joke. That this isn’t the ending, that this can’t be the ending; that princes are real and warm and not simply carved stone upon a display case. 

Yet he continues speaking and it is too late that Ariadne realizes when walls are built too high, the only vestige of the sun’s existence is the shadow it casts upon cool steel. 

“Forgiveness assumes sin,” she replies quietly, gaze finally dropping from his, as if assured that there is no light to be found, her earlier plans fading away just as the sun disappears below Crescent Harbor’s horizon. Still, she reaches for his hand, taking it in both of her smaller ones. 

Because Nate Blackwood is cold, but he is somehow still warmer than anything else in this house. 

“Your father asked me to come. To meet you. Our parents had an agreement for us to attend events together.” A pause. “Astute.” His earlier word, though it leaves her lips with a barely decipherable bitterness. Ariadne doesn’t elaborate, and she realizes that her grip on his hand had become harsher as she spoke, betraying her nerves — and her hopes. 

She straightens then, meeting Nate’s eyes with an attempt at an (admittedly weaker) mask of her own, chin tilting ever so slightly upwards as she meets his eyes. Still, Ariadne doesn’t release his hand. “You should be honored.”

[ariadneacostas]

𝐏 𝐄 𝐑 𝐑 𝐘

One paint-flecked finger twists into a spiraled curl, eyes squinting as she leans back to assess her newest project. She isn’t nearly as talented with a brush and acrylic paint as she is with charcoal pencils, but something about the way the window framed the light, a peaceful backdrop against her empty easel had called to her this morning. She’d surrounded herself in color, had chased away the restlessness of the night prior with gentle strokes against a canvas and somehow, hours had passed without her realizing.

It’s the knock on the door that ejects her from whatever in-between daydream she’s found herself in, whatever amount of focus she’s managed to find between herself and the scene coming to life on the canvas. She sighs, yanking a hand through her hair to brush it from her face as she untangles herself from her stool and picks her way across the small, cluttered apartment she shares with Leona, to the door. She’s not expecting anyone– she never is– so the words she’s not home are already poised and ready on her tongue. 

The door opens with a creak of protest and her smile is welcoming, if a little bland. And then her eyes settle on the person on the other side.

Ariadne Acosta. 

Perry does the only thing she can think to do. She slams the door shut in her face.

Her lungs seize and she has to draw in several gulps of air to remind herself that she can still breathe. Emotions– so many she’d long thought dead– surge to the surface and her heart beats so loud in her ears that it could be more banging on the door. She’s hallucinating. She’s sleeping. This is a nightmare. She’s going to open that door again and there’s going to be nothing on the other side. Honestly, she’d even welcome back the ghosts of her youth. Anything but this.

Slowly, her hand reaches for the knob again and she curse the way it shakes. Ari has no power here. The lies taste like ash on her tongue. 

The door opens again and she’s still there. Perry avoids the temptation to look down at herself– at the paint coloring her fingers, the smudges left behind on her overalls. She’s not ready for this. She’ll never be ready for this. She squares her shoulders, though her voice doesn’t even hold an inkling of the power she needs it to. “What are you doing here?” 

❀ 

Ariadne bites down upon her temper, its beginnings already simmering under skin and tinting her cheeks a delicate pink that she would be quick to dismiss as artificial blush. 

Though she knows Perry isn’t one to point out such a thing — just as surely as she had known, back in middle school, that her beloved could be silenced all too quickly, huddled into herself as if she could somehow protect herself from the rumors; from the flames licking at her skin and leaving the air too smoky to breathe. Wasn’t that what they had been taught, after all? To sink low and curl in — to become small within the room. And sweet Perry had never been one to break rules.

Perhaps that’s why Ariadne merely waits, foot tapping impatiently, after the door slams in her face. 

Call it guilt. Call it atonement. 

Call it knowing — because the knob starts turning again, slowly, just as she knew it would, and her anger quickly fades. 

Perry isn’t happy to see her, but Ariadne is lively enough for them both, beaming as her gaze travels over her ex’s form, nose scrunching slightly at the paint stains, though there is no antipathy within the warmth of her eyes. And really, how could there be, when she had loved this very same picture? Younger, perhaps, and brighter. But with the same splatters on her overalls, the same acrylic paint smudges upon the highs of cheeks. 

And she does what she would have done, years ago: she reaches out, tucking a strand of wayward hair behind Perry’s ear. 

It’s done with a sound of gentle chiding, a faint scrunch of her brows in concentration. As if time has not passed. As if they are not separated by an enormous gulf of her own creation; of her own volition. 

“I came here to see you,” Ariadne answers finally, bottom lip jutting forward in petulance. Her eyes widen into the expression that she once had used countless times to convince Perry to indulge in her whims — with the same hopeful longing. With the same childlike hurt. “Would you like me to leave?” Please don’t tell me to leave. 

[89words]

“A crown of kisses to the queen of dreams.”

— Albert Camus, from a letter to María Casares

[thewinedarksea]

[ariadneacostas]

thewinedarksea​:

mythology moodboards | pheme

greek personification of fame, rumor, and gossip

[hqroleplaygifs]

PRISCILLA QUINTANA as Jacqueline Zhou in Pandora 1x08

[lifeinpoetry]

What did I expect? 

To leave a hemorrhage  of violets wherever I walked? 

No. A lost son is called prodigal.  A lost daughter is just called lost.

— Emily Rose Cole, from “Persephone Returns,” Love & a Loaded Gun

[analife]

Alexis Mabille // Haute Couture - Spring 2020

[talesofpassingtime]

“I do not have fantasies. Fantasy opens me up; I become fantasy. I am the dangerous daughter, thigh-stroking, soft-tongued lover, the pit, the well, the well of horniness, laughter rolling up out of me like gravy boiling over the edge of a pan. I become the romantic, the mystic, the one without shame, rocking myself on the hop of a rock, a woman as sharp as coral. I make in my mind the muscle that endures, tame rage and hunger to spirit and blood. I become the rock. I become the knife. I am myself the mystery. The me that will be waits for me. If I cannot dream myself new, how will I find my true self?”

— Dorothy Allison, The Muscles of the Mind, Trash

[ariadneacostas]

𝐏 𝐄 𝐑 𝐑 𝐘 / @perryfrye​

❀ ⋆*･ﾟ these hands are liars. these hands will hold you. these hands will hold yours. these hands will hold your heart with a gentle ease that you have never known before. these hands will love you. these hands are liars. these hands will hold your heart, but will break it because it is easier to break then it is to be broken. these hands will feel your heartbeat in their fingertips.  these hands do not know gentle ease. these hands do not know how to be held. these hands are liars. ❞  ── PERRY’S RESIDENCE on the SEVENTEENTH OF MARCH.

Tinkerbell, she’d once been called, the nickname followed by hushed giggles behind tall library bookshelves; hands clasped in warmth, lips curved upward and eyes shining with unadulterated light that could only be attributed to the innocence of first love. At thirteen, Ariadne hadn’t paused to consider that the nickname was the closest anyone had ever come to knowing to her — to accepting her despite her faults; her constant need of adoration. No, she was too busy plucking flowers and tucking them behind her love’s hair; too busy preening under a gaze that followed her as if her radiance put the sun to shame. 

Ariadne would come to shove those memories aside in the years that followed, neatly tied with a bow that too closely resembled a noose if she cared to stare long enough. 

She hadn’t. 

And she doesn’t care to now, as she stands at Perry’s door, knuckles rapping against the wood impatiently. 

It is only when the door swings open that her expression melts into a saccharine smile — such ardent sweetness that can only found in artificial sugars. “My Perry,” Ariadne beams, as if betrayal is nothing in the face of a reunion of star-crossed lovers (no matter if she, herself, was the catalyst for their tragedy). “How I’ve missed you.”

[ariadneacostas]

𝐓 𝐇 𝐄 𝐎 / @theobowman​​

❀ ⋆*･ﾟ there’s something fairy-tale-like about it, which is perfect, because fairy tales are all about innocence and ill will and the inevitability of terrible things. they’re all about the moment when the girl is no longer who she was. ❞  ── COMING UP ROSES on the EIGHTEENTH OF MARCH.

Ariadne had long forgotten the fickle nature of Crescent Harbor’s springs; how mother nature spurned as she caressed, sunny days bleeding into chilly nights with short bursts of rain as the sky sought to wash the land anew with its tears. She, too, hoped to bask in the low hum of renewal; the cadence of life’s cycle that had drummed upon Earth since the beginning of time. Yet it was now more than ever that she felt an imposter, gossamer draped upon her figure in a color that was more bruise than blooming wisteria; more ache than growth, as if the damp of the earth had seeped into her bones, weighing down her steps as she made her way into the floral shop. 

Most things can be bought, she had once learned — comfort most of all. 

Beauty was her nesting place, her warm alcove in the dark, and it was with a small hum of pleasure that her gaze landed on bouquet of peonies — though it was soon followed by larger gasp of (perhaps feigned) delight as she beheld the figure standing beside the arrangement.

“Theo Bowman!”

Enthusiastic bounds closed the space between the two women; though Ariadne would argue that everyone had been her friend in high school, Theo had carved a special place upon her heart (carved rather than painted – for their relationship had always been more winter’s frost than summer’s warmth; winter, in both its stormy turbulence and its holiday glee). 

Ariadne leaned close, intending to place a kiss upon Theo’s cheek, though she quickly realized birth wasn’t exclusive to spring, and a choking sound left her lips, unbidden. Her smile faltered. “You’re big.”

[weltenwellen]

Tracy K. Smith, from “Don’t You Wonder, Sometimes?”, Life on Mars

[velvetcloak]

zuhair murad

[lachlan-peters-archive]

—Open Starter @crescentstarters​ Location: The Art of the Draw

His nephew Donovan had apparently come down with a cold, so to keep the kids from cross-contaminating, his sister-in-law had asked Lachlan to take Ava for the afternoon. He didn’t mind - for a five year old, his niece was surprisingly good company. Later, he’d use her as an excuse to get ice cream and eat chicken nuggets for dinner, but for now, they decided to go to the art store and pick up some crafts that would last them a couple hours. 

“What about this one, Avs?” he asked, picking up a Sew Your Own Unicorn Pillow kit and looking over his shoulder to consult… no one. “Ava?” The kid had wandered off… 

He turned the corner to the next aisle - not quite panicked, but getting close - only to spot the little girl had struck up conversation with someone. He sighed in relief before approaching. 

“Ava, kid, you gotta stay in my eyesight. Your mom would kill me… Sorry, was she bothering you?” He directly this question to the other, who might not find the girl’s company quite as charming as he did. 

[ariadneacostas]

Ariadne wasn’t a fan of kids. They were too active, too bright, too loved. More loved than her, that was. And that was simply unacceptable. Was it petty? Perhaps. But Ariadne liked to think that she was equally as deserving of unadulterated adoration as children. Yet there was a subtle difference, even within the gazes of those most infatuated with her presence — hunger. The prelude to a question; a request; a condition. Love with strings in a way that children were spared from. 

“Are you a princess?”

She blinked, staring down at the child. “I certainly am,” Ariadne sang after a moment, giving a small spin in her dress, all pale pink gossamer and layered flowers. She wasn’t a fan of kids, but here was certainly one with taste. 

It was in the process of plucking a golden adornment from her locks that a masculine voice interrupted them, though Ariadne only gave him a cursory glance before turning back to the child, ignoring his question altogether. 

“Look, a peasant!” A mischievous smile played on her lips and she gave the little girl a small wink, handing her the hairpin she had admired. “Shall we make him dance?” Two pairs of expectant eyes (puppy-dog, in Ava’s case, and laughing, in Ari’s) landed on the stranger. 

[ariadneacostas]

𝐍 𝐀 𝐓 𝐄

The estate looms cold and unyielding. There is a reason for this summons– there’s always a reason– but his father has chosen to let him drown in the what ifs for as long as possible. It is, perhaps, a punishment in its own right– allowing Nate’s mind to cut itself on its own sharp thoughts and worries without uttering a single word. He’s not stupid enough to believe it has nothing to do with the gala, however, so he enters his childhood home with the weight of his actions bowing his shoulders. Submissive, the way his father prefers.

But it is not his father that greets him and Nate’s steps falter. His eyes settle on a woman, a spark of familiarity, though it struggles to catch. There’s a reason for this as well and as Nate’s gaze drags itself down the length of her, he tries to follow his father’s train of thought. His father, who is somehow always several steps ahead. 

Nate’s brows narrow and he blinks. “Disappointed?” he echoes. Rocking back on his heel, his eyes slide away from her to take in the rest of the empty space. “More confused, I think.” His head cants to the side. “Are you here to see my father?”

❀ 

It’s not love at first sight.

At that knowledge alone, Ariadne bristles, lips pressed together as she stares up at him, trying to discern exactly why he isn’t completely enamoured. Surely, there’s something wrong with him. 

Nate Blackwood’s eyes are brighter than she remembers from those brief moments of passing through their high school’s hallways — not simply brown, but a hazel with flecks of green and gold, like sunlight reflecting off the sea. Romantic, though such romanticism is gilded — light only reflects off surfaces it is unable to pass through, and Ariadne can’t help but wonder what creatures are hidden beneath Nate’s depths. She wonders if even he knows. 

“I have already seen him,” she answers, unable to help the grimace that flickers briefly across her features as she recalls Raymond Blackwood’s steady gaze, quietly assessing before they had flicked away, dismissive. As if a glance was all he needed to pin her down; to determine her worth and conclude that she meets expectations in the same way the sky is blue or an animal can be sacrificed. For once, Ariadne refrains from further comment, the sheer remembrance of Raymond’s beady eyes slicing cold reality into the world she has built for herself.

Helplessly, she reaches to run her fingers over Nate’s brow, as if she can smooth out the tension into something that resembles peace. Into something that has absorbed light; that has known love. Does Raymond Blackwood also think his son’s eyes are brown? 

Her hand pauses in its ministrations but doesn’t move away.

“You don’t call him Dad.”

[ariadneacostas]

𝐋 𝐄 𝐒 𝐋 𝐈 𝐄 / @leslie-bowman​

── spring’s first breath lends a hazy glow to MCINTOSH PARK, buds sprouting from dogwood branches echoing the stars overhead on the ELEVENTH OF MARCH. it is along the park benches that sweet ariadne’s gaze lands upon a high school classmate: LESLIE BOWMAN. 

She had forgotten inherent romance twined upon the coming of Spring; flowers blossoming and days growing longer, giving into star-filled nights that had long become foreign to her. Ariadne had convinced herself that not even LA’s polluted skies could dim her light — she would surely shine through. 

She had been wrong.

It was, perhaps, why her steps felt lighter as she bounded over to the familiar figure of Leslie Bowman. Crescent Harbor’s skies were clear — and she reckoned that the memories of those from her past were, too. Ariadne had been the sun, had she not? Bright and impossible to miss, ever-present by sheer virtue of existence. Rain pervaded the pacific northwest; it was she who could bring refractions of color throughout the sky — who could bring beauty within their dull lives. 

“Little Leslie Bowman!” The words were practically cooed, Ariadne’s lips puckering into her version of appreciative surprise. Though really, it resembled more of the look a child would give as they gaze down at a particularly cute animal — a pet. 

Ariadne let out a small squeal, plucking the woven flower crown on her head and depositing it upon Leslie’s, though not before giving the shorter woman’s head a customary pat. “Oh, how lovely you look!”

[absiinthee]

@ariadneacostas​ where: auto buddy repair shop

He thinks its probably the karma that came with being back in town. The spirits of Crescent ganging up on him because he’s the asshole that left without a glance back. 

That or he just needed a new car dealer. 

“It’s a nice car.” The old mechanic commented as he circled the BMW that honestly didn’t have any business being as expensive as it was. “It’s vintage.” Was all Saint could say, a smile tugging at his lips in an attempt to seem amiable. It didn’t seem to work. “Might make things a bit harder. These models are always a pain in the ass to fix up. Not enough parts readily available for it.” Of course. Saint let out a sigh before running a hand through his hair and over his scruff. Of course it would be this difficult. His smile grew strained before finally handing over his calling card to the man. “You have a ride back home?” No. No he didn’t. He glanced around the auto shop, only to have his gaze land on someone far too familiar. 

His smile grew just a tad bit, obnoxious and smug before he nodded his head. 

“I think I might.” Without another word, he made his way over to someone he hadn’t planned on seeing this soon. Karma. The reckless side of him preened at the idea of walking up to someone he hadn’t spoken to in years, the sentimental side of him was just happy to see her. Like there was an invisible string tying him to her, tugging him closer. 

“Hey, killer. You a mechanic now?” 

[ariadneacostas]

Luck did not be a lady — it was the only explanation she could give for her smashed side mirrors (the other, of course, being an admittance that she hadn’t noticed the immobile pole she had driven into; that Ariadne Acosta had made a mistake — an improbability greater than the pole actually popping up out of nowhere — which, coincidentally, had been her initial explanation). Her foot tapped impatiently as she waited for the assistants to pull her car around, relieved that she was finally being freed from the soft rock music that filtered through the repair shop’s speakers and gave her the urge to reach for hand sanitizer every five minutes. 

Hey, killer. 

Her head snapped up, and she stilled. 

Or perhaps it was the world that stilled. 

Or perhaps it was the world that moved, as if she had been underwater and it was the sound of his voice that brought air back into her lungs; that rendered the world back into startling color. As if the organ in her chest had stopped beating all those years ago and it was only to the cadence of his voice that it started up again. That it remembered how. 

And Ariadne hated it. 

“You.” Her voice came out softer than she liked. Breathless. Then, in a sharp hiss, “You bastard.” She had never been one to swear — it was unladylike; crass — but the words left her lips unbridled, as if the years apart were nothing more than a haphazardly built dam that stood little chance against the calamity of his presence. 

Or maybe it was the calamity of hers, because it was with the rage of a storm that Ariadne closed the distance between them in quick strides, her hands reaching up to grasp at Saint’s shirt, bringing his face down to her level. “You left me.” No matter that it had been after graduation. No matter that she had also skipped town, years later — or that she would have done the same, in his place. Storms knew no logic; only rage. 

Perhaps the same could be said of grief. 

She didn’t release his shirt, her small fists bunched up within the fabric and slightly shaking, as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted to push him away or pull him closer — only that her hands needed to assure themselves of his presence. That he was there. “Fuck you.”

[incel-moved-deactivated20210803]

“i’m the main character” girl you’re the unreliable narrator