* 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓 / 𝑾𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑺. @augustortiz - Tumblr Blog

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 💌 𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒛.

about. wanted. pinterest. affiliated with heartsdalerp !

ft . 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧

“Eleventh…pay better attention, Aug.” Jackson let out a laugh before using his free hand to tug proudly on one of the straps. “How long is it gonna take before ya finally join me? Not sayin’ ya don’t look like a sexy guy in a suit, but I think overalls would do ya some good.” He wanted to ignore the fact that August had taken notice of the flowers that he currently held on his mission to find Lucia, but he had only ever been truthful with his long time friend. “You’re more of a cactus guy. They’re for someone much better lookin’ than you…can’t get her off my damn mind.” He had always been good at minimizing anything to do with him that was out of character or deserving of attention. “Ya got married and didn’t make me your best man? I shared ya in high school already…too soon to make me do it again.”

“ 𝐨𝐡, 𝐢'𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐭 as a sexy farmer. that’s why i haven’t done it, you know -- don’t wanna steal your thunder. ” the mere image of himself in overalls, curls twisted in twin braids on either side of his head, has him keeling over in hysterics. yeah, he’d leave the redneck romeo thing to the experts. although -- from the way jacks spoke about his mystery girl, it sounded like his lothario days might just be behind him. “ don’t worry. you’ve got a few more years before sel and i make good on our marriage death pact. ” they stroll past a vendor and august forks over a few crumpled bills in exchange for two ciders. “ liquid courage. ” he presses a solo cup into jacks’ hand before bringing the other to his lips. of course he’s dying to know who she is, but he’ll tread carefully -- for now. “ i haven’t heard you talk that way about a girl since high school. you really like her, huh ? ”

#jacksonhendry #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.#as discussed im just posting this bc i had it hoarded :')

𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐳 + character posters

#* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ inspo.

kuwentista

why so upset? ↳ Episode 103; Good Trouble

#* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ vis.#pouty <3

ft . 𝐠𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲

starter for @augustortiz

lets go to your place, i need to unwind after this — this being the weekly family dinner ( if you could even call their little four-person-thing a family when gabby still hates one of the members ) and august’s place is always ridiculous enough that she will get some entertainment out of it. truly, the moment she walks inside, she has to wonder which surfaces are safe to sit on or put her stuff on. after putting her handbag and jacket on some makeshift coat hanger she can find, she follows august into the kitchen, torn between looking around or living in complete bliss about her surroundings. “two questions — one, are these stools safe to sit on or will they ruin my dress,” she starts, a smirk on her lips as she looks at her brother, “and two, do you have anything to drink that’s not cheap beer that will make me hate this night even more?

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 around the dining table at the santos’ compound, even august had to admit that his own place ( one bedroom, crammed with thrifted furniture, not a surface free of beer bottles or art supplies ) looked shabby in comparison. of course, pedro had a small army on his payroll, at least twenty staff members dedicated to maintaining the sprawling estate -- polishing silverware and dusting fabergé eggs under his mother’s watchful eye. august had himself, and his expectations weren’t nearly as high as valentina’s. or gabby’s. as he rummages through the cabinets for two mismatched mugs, the thought brings a devious grin to his lips. he knew she’d absolutely abhor being likened to the gold-digging monster who ruined her life.

“ oh, the stools ? i hear the previous owners were pretty adventurous, but they’ve been cleaned since then. i think. ” he plunks the mugs on the counter and glances up, anticipating another look of horror for the collection. once satisfied, he moves on to his next task -- drinks. from the back of the freezer, beyond all the frozen dinners and half-finished pints of ben and jerry’s, he procures a bottle of don julio 1942. “ lifted this from your dad’s study last christmas. he keeps all the good stuff in the file cabinet, bottom drawer. password’s your birthday. ”

#gabbysantos #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.#didnt mean to double this dont feel obligated to match !!

ft . 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐲

❝ SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 6TH, 2021 — at the akman family estate with @augustortiz.

Emerald silk shimmied over spandex leggings that were cast off and abandoned in the driver’s seat of a car. Heels were hopped and hobbled into on an ascent up the stairs. Shay was running late - as usual - but she’d be damned if she waltzed into the dining room looking any less than the level of perfection her mother would expect.

No - demand.

Deft fingers coaxed a pair of diamond teardrops through her ears and she paused in the powder room off the grand foyer just long enough for a swipe of color across her lips. MAC’s ‘Please Me’ pink - an apt choice for what surely lay ahead. Not for the first time, and undoubtedly not the last, Shay stared at her reflection, wondering why even the simplest family dinner had to be such a show.

As if their family’s finest china cared whether she picked at the food upon it wearing something from Saks or a pair of ratty sweats? Would the marble floors weep if they were kissed by the scuff of old Chucks instead of the Aquazzura’s pinching her feet?

For one bold, reckless moment Shay wanted to find out.

She stood there, sucked into that yawning wasteland of indifference within her meticulously made up eyes, and wanted to ruin something. One of the priceless ginger jars her mother had scattered about - not because she liked them, but because it’s how all the other ‘mistresses of the lake’ were decorating these days. Their five course meal fit for an army instead of a party of three. The fortune of soulless art on the walls. Herself.

An familiar, incendiary urge toward destruction swept through Shay’s veins like a brush fire, and yet… steady hands smoothed a wayward curl into submission. Skimmed over her hips, her thighs, and adjusted the fall of her dress.

Almost thirty, and she was still her mother’s little marionette.

She pilfered a glass of Macallan from her father’s study on her way to the dining room and approached the imposing double doors, twenty minutes late. By the time she tossed it back, chucked the crystal snifter in one of her mother’s many potted plants ( hah! ), and ventured inside she wished she would’ve made it two. Or five.

It wasn’t the exquisitely dressed table - complete with far too many settings - that stole the breath from her lungs, or the flinty glare in Cemre Akman’s eyes above a deceptively saccharine smile. It was who stood beside her, dapper in his three piece suit yet looking every bit as desperate to be anywhere else as she was.

August.

It’d been two years since Shay was last home. Two years since she’d last seen him. She never called to say she’d returned this time around, though it struck her now that perhaps she should’ve. Perhaps if they’d talked once in these two months she would’ve realized tonight was about more than just dinner with her parents. It was a spectacle of an entirely different beast.

Cemre slinked forward on stick thin heels - the epitome of poise, grace, and silent but deadly condemnation. Twenty minutes late, scotch on her breath, and not a drop of polish on her unadorned fingers. She’d be hearing about this later. At present, her mother just pressed forth to kiss each cheek, not so subtly shoving between Shay’s shoulder blades to force her front and center for their company. “Şeyda, you remember Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop. Their son, August, their daughter—”

Shay tuned her out. Shay tuned everything out but the achingly familiar landscape of his face.

It might’ve been two years, but she remembered their last moments together as if it were only yesterday. How her fingertips penned invisible promises and apologies alike over the canvas of his back. The way weak rays of morning light rimmed the curtains drawn over her hotel windows, edging the thick drapery in luminous gold. It’d spilled across his still form. Across that back, tattooed and lightly marred by the crimson streaked evidence of her love. She remembered how badly she wanted to dip in and taste the ink and sunshine off his skin. How she pressed a kiss to his passion-swept hair and left him sleep, instead.

Whenever he’d woken up, be it five minutes or five hours later, she’d already been gone. Shay texted him to say she’d made it back to New York okay later that evening, or perhaps it was the next week. She never told him how hard she’d cried during take off, though. How close she’d been to coming back.

Now - roughly seven hundred and thirty days later - she never would.

The whip-snap of her mother’s voice pulled her out of the reverie, reminding Shay that manners demanded an actual response. Her throat stubbornly resisted her attempt to swallow before she managed to sink into a pretty, heart-wrenchingly impersonal smile. “Of course I remember, anne. They’ve only lived next door most of my life.”

Ignoring brittle tightening of Cemre’s mouth in response to that sprinkling of sass, she greeted his mother and step father first. It was a coward’s move - one that only granted the tiniest reprieve and chance at finding composure before she had to face him, too.

“August.” Her gaze tried to flee for the floor of its own volition, but she forced herself to look up again. Shay’s eyes honed in on him through the thick, onyx fringe of her lashes and it took every ounce of self restraint not to lean in too close. Not to ping into his arms like some long lost magnet finding home and reclaim what’d always been hers. He wasn’t. He wasn’t hers, or her home. Not in the ways he always should’ve been - the ways he deserved.

“It’s lovely to see you again.” So unremarkably neutral, so polite. She could’ve been greeting the mailman or the grocery clerk, not the only man to ever seen her naked soul. It made Shay sick, this false pretense of loose acquaintance. The way they came and went in each others lives with a self-imposed lack of permeance. Her fault, not his.

“How’ve you— how’ve you been?”

𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝, august is still pulling on his blazer as the akman’s housekeeper ushers him inside. his curls, damp from a post-work shower, hang loosely around his features, a self made partition between himself and the night taking shape around him. as he gathers them into a hasty knot at the nape of his neck, a few rogue tendrils escape in quiet rebellion of all things pomp and circumstance.

he leaves them out.

the housekeeper shepherds him through the parlor and he’s surprised to find he recognizes the stern woman. the winthrop’s went through staff like toilet paper, robbing humans of their livelihood with every crooked fork or peony out of place. at first, august assumes she doesn’t recognize him, but then she holds out a veiny arm, faces him, and loosens the tie around his neck. the look of stern fondness she gives him as transforms his lumpy knot into a perfect windsor could only be reserved for the lovelorn kid she caught attempting to climb the trellis on more than one occasion.

the house next door looks nothing like he remembers, tastefully redecorated over the years to reflect every cape cod micro-trend to limp its way down the interstate. to this particular crowd ( lake people, his mother used to put it, before becoming one of them ), appearances monopolized every aspect of one’s life, from the monogrammed towels in one’s powder room to the punctuality of your wayward offspring. judging from the merry-go-round of reproach he faces upon strolling into the sitting room, his performance left much to be desired.

and so begins the ceremonial tango of firm handshakes and kisses against la mer slathered cheeks. as he makes the rounds, he catches his stepsister’s eye over cemre akman’s dignified shoulder. beyond the delightfully bland veneer, august could detect a hint of smugness beneath her narrowed lashes. she had been on time.

after fixing himself a heavy-handed gimlet, he settles in beside valentina on a couch far too stiff to be considered a viable seating option. this, august had discovered, was a rite of passage among the rich -- entire rooms filled with imported furniture that had no intention of ever being used. years ago, in a last ditch attempt to unite their fractured families, jonathan ( rather, jonathan’s eagle-eyed assistant ) had sent him a 19th century credenza as a belated housewarming gift. an antique shop a few towns over had happily taken it off his hands, and the profits from the sale covered his share of the rent for almost a year.

he liked to think that the grossly underpaid venetian carpenter who crafted it two hundred years ago would understand.

from then on out, he successfully fades into the background, an extra in the real housewives episode that was his mother’s life. idle chatter resumes, and august feels his eyes start to glaze over, lids drooping ever so slightly as he studies the cubes in his glass.

for the second time that night, the housekeeper comes to his rescue, appearing over his shoulder to announce that dinner is ready. they’re escorted through a set of double doors and into a lavish dining room. the akmans had pulled out all the stops -- satin tablecloths and fine china, each place adorned with an embossed placard declaring its intended inhabitant. it was suspiciously upscale for a business dinner ( was that what this was ? he’d been four hours into a back piece when valentina called, and his phone’s speaker was notoriously dicey ), but who was he to question how the other half lived ?

as he finds his seat, august counts four forks and suppresses a groan -- so it was going to be that kind of night. from her perch at the head of the table, cemre crooks a manicured talon at the housekeeper and utters the words that make his blood run cold :

“ tell adrian to hold the soup course. şeyda should be here any minute. ”

shay ?

his gaze flickers to the setting beside his own to find his greatest hopes and worst fears etched in gilded script -- şeyda. şeyda, who had consumed his every waking thought for the better part of a decade. şeyda, who had left him in her bed two years ago, reaching across the rumpled sheets for a warmth that wasn’t there. şeyda, who should be 800 miles away in new york city, not arriving any minute at her childhood home where he currently sat, waiting to scarf down a bowl of lobster bisque.

shay was back. and she hadn’t told him.

it was one thing to be at her house. shay wasn’t this, a lakeside fortress that did nothing but crush her spirit and take, take, take. the walls of her family’s manor were cold, oppressive -- a museum of prestige designed to make even its own inhabitants feel unworthy. he could separate the two because they weren’t the same. the akman estate, despite its never-ending attempts to prove otherwise, was just a place. to august, shay was everywhere.

turns out, when cemre akman says any minute, she means any minute. he barely has time to toss back the rest of his gimlet before those massive doors swing open, artist’s fingers still clutching the stem of his glass as she slips inside. their eyes lock, as inevitable as the day they met. the end of a grand driveway after dark, silhouetted by streetlamps in a halo of gold. he remembers thinking she looked like a fallen angel, something not made for this world. he remembers thinking she was hot.

he’d loved her half his life. and fourteen years later, she still took his breath away.

introductions are made. cemre is speaking but his eyes are hers, trailing her figure as she greets his mother, jonathan, the twins. he finds himself rising from his seat, driven to his feet by some immense force that overrode his free will. an errant curl falls over his eyes. he’s still clutching his glass.

“ shay. ” valentina and jonathan exchange dubious looks. her mother had introduced her as şeyda, not shay. august can’t find it within himself to care. he pushes forward, closing the distance between them. his lips brush her cheek in greeting -- once, twice -- and it’s innocent enough, save for the insatiable pounding inside his ribcage. “ i’m . . . ” he misplaces the rest of his thought, because her hair is shorter and he wants to press his lips to the exact place it sweeps against her collarbone.

“ when did you get back ? ”

#scydakman #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.

ft . 𝐤𝐢𝐭

“Oh god.” Kit rolled her eyes at his joke and smacked his arm gently. She tossed the oily rag into the trunk of her 93 Volkswagen Golf that was backed into the garage. Kit appreciated his deep and hearty laugh. “Well I’d still swipe right.” She said with a playful wink as she gathered the tools she brought over. “But just because you’re so charming. -would there be somewhere safe to store my tools here or should I bring my Milwaukee?” She asked, pointing her thumb at the toolbox in her trunk.

“Whenever Thai is on the table then it’s an obvious winner. That place off of Abbot street is so good, it’s my go to for spicy noodles.” Kit beamed. “If I were to start tonight I would definitely need food, and probably a coffee.” She smirked. It wasn’t too late to hang out but it was too late to get started on a project without a little caffeination help. “This was basically the only plans I had made tonight - so it’s pretty much up to you. Or we could grab dinner tonight and I can start tomorrow, I have the next few days off anyway since we are having our plumbing fixed at Industry.”

“ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧. i had no idea you were such a philanthropist ! ” his eyes crinkle at their corners as he sends a boyish grin her way. just when he thought he’d met every cool person in heartsdale, kit had happily proved him wrong. even without the bike of it all, august was glad he sought her out. “ you’re all good to leave your stuff. i have a lock. ” he lifts the hem of his ratty t-shirt, just enough to offer a glimpse of the old school padlock secured to his beltloop. “ besides, no one’s used this place in years. up until now, it was basically a final destination for old tattoo machines and busted up equipment. ” august hoped that in making it their workshop, he’d given the shed a new lease on life.

“ little bangkok, right ? their red curry changed my life. ” as someone with exactly three recipes in rotation, he was well-acquainted with every burger joint, noodle house, and burrito place within a ten mile radius. “ let’s do it -- grab dinner, rest up for tomorrow. i have a feeling we’ve got our work cut out for us with this thing. ” after a parting glance towards their soon-to-be passion project, he shrugs into his jacket and hangs back while kit stashes her tools. “ besides, i’m dying to hear all about industry’s plumbing issues. ”

#kitjameson #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.#we can end it here !! or do a skiparoo to dinner #ur call <3

closed : @goncgirl location : august’s apartment

𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐞 lay in a clash of color on the floor, like the picked-over rejects of a spirit halloween. from his perch by the window, august takes inventory of last night’s damage : one pinstriped jacket ( his ), a singular purple boot ( hers ), a pair of tights ripped beyond recognition. he doesn’t have to reach far for the memory -- their laughter as he struggled to coax them over her thighs, knocking over a thrifted lamp in the process. the image brings the faintest of smiles to his lips. they had fun together, didn’t they ? easy. uncomplicated. within the walls of this apartment, they could stay that way.

as if she’d somehow caught him in the act, bell’s sleeping figure stirs to consciousness. one eye pops open, then the other. he always liked how she looked in the morning -- cocooned in his sheets like the best-dressed person at a toga party, blonde hair tousled into a makeshift crown. “ you sleep like the dead, ” he remarks, rolling towards the side of the bed, the wheels of his drafting stool clacking noisily against the floorboards. could she feel the way his gaze lingered as she slept ? did she know that, despite the stack of commissions piled high on his desk, the only thing he’d sketched in the two hours he’d been awake was a single vivid green eye ? “ the guy upstairs spent, like, forty-five minutes playing his bagpipes and you didn’t move an inch. it was actually kind of terrifying. ”

#goncgirl #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.#for the vibes #lets pretend this didnt take forever

ft . 𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞

It had been a calm night on the L&D floor, and - thankfully - Ellie’s last night on call for a while. Calm being a relative term anyway. There were no car babies this time. She had a few things to do downtown that had to get done before she could go home, though, which meant she needed to stop by Legal Grounds for coffee if she wanted to survive. She had been waiting a while, even though it was only 8AM, doom scrolling through social media when she finally heard her name called to pick up her coffee from the counter. Head in the clouds, she barely even noticed that she bumped into someone as she tried to hurry to the counter. “I am so sorry, excuse me… Night shift, you know?”

𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 is written all over his features -- dark circles under his eyes, curls matted to one side of his head and stood up in peaks on the other from when he’d dozed off over his tablet. at least he was off today, giving him ample time to recover from all those long, sordid hours of drawing. “ i get it. my friend’s a nurse at grant general and she’s basically a zombie before noon. ” two seemingly identical cups sit on the counter and his eyes go wide as he catches a glimpse of the word ageist scrawled in black sharpie. ageist. how many years had he been coming to this coffee shop ? he’d tattooed at least three of the baristas. “ not that one. unless you’re a fan of hazelnut and not sleeping for the next week. ”

#elliexashworth #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.

closed : @nisayar location : nisa’s apartment

“ 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 is officially upon us ! ” balancing two heaping mugs of cocoa, august inches towards the sofa with all the grace of a trapeze artist on roller skates. carefully ( carefully ! ) he deposits their drinks -- a splash of baileys in his, extra marshmallows and a dash of cinnamon in hers -- on the coffee table and sinks into the well-worn cushions, pleased with himself for only sloshing liquid on to the carpet once. “ tonight, we answer the age old question -- can one career-driven woman returning to her hometown after ten years really have it all ? and will her childhood crush turned barista who also happens to be secretly loaded be able free the town’s beloved christmas tree farm from the jaws of capitalism ? ” a pensive expression crosses his features, but he quickly casts it aside. as per the bylaws, bad hallmark movie night was a strictly thought-free zone. soon enough, their heads would be filled with nothing but marshmallows and holiday cheer. “ i guess that’s two questions, but alas ! we will answer them. ”

#nisayar #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.#bestie fluff from me to u <3

closed : @ollieblairhd location : ollie’s studio

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 has his head spinning ( or maybe it’s the dizzying notes of paint and turpentine in the air ) as he bounces from foot to foot, the floorboards creaking along with each shift in weight. brush in hand, it takes every ounce of restraint not to attack the wall with reckless abandon, splattering it in every shade of the rainbow until not a hint of white remained. this is ollie’s studio, he reminds himself, cutting a sideward glance towards his friend as she rummages through enough art supplies to keep heartsdale elementary in finger paint for years to come. “ okay, you know i have no impulse control around this stuff. ” he shatters their cone of silence with a flourish of his brush. over her shoulder, pinks melt into oranges above the downtown skyline, reminding him of sherbet on a hot, summer day. at sunset, their speck of a town felt larger than life. “ please tell me what we’re painting before i go full banksy on this wall. ”

#ollieblairhd #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.#o yes i loves them sm

📱: Natalie⇄ August

nat: yeah, i know 😜

nat: Ouija board at the cemetery?

august: u know i'd do anything for u

august: but i don't fuck with spirits

august: don't tell me u forgot about one-eyed jerry from the overpass ? dude still haunts my nightmares

#natcdavis #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ sms.

ft . 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐚

─── starter for @augustortiz

GHOUL’S NIGHT, THE PUMPKIN PATCH — “You couldn’t have at least tried for something a bit sexier? …for my viewing pleasure?” Dark, russet eyes were sharply eyeing August’s costume. Under normal circumstances he’d get an A for effort and praise for how fitting it was for the festivities, but things were rarely normal with Lucia. Scantily clad in a Poison Ivy costume, complete with wig and makeup, she was always a bit more hedonistic in approach. Halloween wasn’t a holiday she cared much for yet was often obligated to go to this party or that, so when it came to what to wear she treated it as she did most events — whatever it took to gain favor. “Are you trying to win the contest or… what?” He certainly wasn’t out collecting hearts. Not dressed like that. “Either way, I think you owe me a drink for your lack of shirtlessness.”

“ 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠? gomez addams is peak sexy. who else could so effortlessly rock the pencil ‘stache ? ” artist’s fingers reach up to mime twirling the well-groomed strip of hair on his upper lip. it was, of course, too short to actually twirl, but he manages to get the point across. “ he also owns a crocodile farm -- way more badass than horses. ” if anyone could outsmart a crocodile and live to tell the tale, it was lucia socarras. hell, it wouldn’t surprise him if she already had. their surroundings seemed to bend at her will, even the drunkest of attendees gawking out of fear or adoration. “ besides -- you look hot enough for the both of us. mega-powerful plant goddess who brings men to their knees with a single glance ? little on the nose, don’t you think ? ” a parting wink and he turns to procure two spiked ciders, cramming a few bills in the vendor’s skull-shaped tip jar. after pressing a solo cup into her palm, he lifts his own. “ what should we toast to ? ”

#luciasocarras #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.#hdhalloween

ft . 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧

STARTER FOR @augustortiz

LOCATED AT MAYNARD MANOR

her dress hugs her figure and despite the length catching in her heels, she considers keeping it. at least until she steps on it again. luckily for her, the manor is covered in levelled hard wood floor that, paired with slow movements, keeps her upright for the most part. morticia would love an injury, though. the drinks in hand are for herself and her other half; the ever so deadly and handsome gomez. august took the role as only an artist cam and embodies his character all the way down to the thin moustache and accent. “here you go, mon cher.”

she hands him the drink and presses a kiss to his cheek. “every night we’re together is halloween.” a line refurbished from the movie she’d watched a few nights before putting her costume together. they are the infamous romantic albeit deadly couple and their costumes were only half the show. “tell me you’re having a horrible time, gomez. torturing you is my job.”

𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 as he awaits the return of his bewitching bride, greeting every couple to dance past with a wave of his decorative cane. he’d pulled out all the stops for the spookiest day of the year, throwing together an ensemble that would make gomez himself quake with envy. but the addams family patriarch was nothing without his better half, and he couldn’t picture a better morticia than selin, currently teetering his way with two promised drinks in tow. a toothy grin threatens to scratch the surface, but he suppresses it for the sake of aesthetic -- a near impossible task on a night like this.

“ i’ve never been unhappier, querida. ” he plays along theatrically, raising the glass to his lips. it was some kind of themed concoction, an appealing shade of green that tasted of rum and orange zest. a man after his own heart, the late, great victor maynard seemed to appreciate a heavy pour. “ the sun shone every second you were gone -- only in death shall we part again. ”

#hdhalloween #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.#selinturan

ft . 𝐣𝐚𝐤𝐞

CLOSED STARTER - @augustortiz LOCATION - ghouls night

Wandering around with his best friend, the person he’d first started getting into trouble with back in the day, Jake was having a great time. Freedom was one thing that simply could not be replicated. It was a feeling unlike anything else. He wasn’t totally free to do anything he wanted, the ankle monitor and regular visits from his parole officer making that much clear, but he was enjoying himself none the less. “My sister said this costume was stupid and cliche but I don’t know what she’s talking about because I’ve gotten three girls’ phone numbers tonight. Chicks definitely are still into firefighters.” He stated, tapping the firefighter insignia on his chest.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 without jake whitman -- well, except for last year, but even then there was a gaping hole in the holiday where his best friend ought to be. he had over a decade of nights like this under his belt, strolling around the pumpkin patch with jake at his side, collecting phone numbers and sneaking cups of spiked cider long before either of them came of age. of course, tonight he was drinking for two. “ i still think you should’ve gone with the orange jumpsuit. milk the bad boy thing for all it’s worth before the jewelry comes off. ” he throws a pointed glance towards jake’s ankle, where an electronic monitor tracked his every move, breath, thought; as someone currently harboring a few secrets of his own, august didn’t know how he could stand it. which brings him to . . . “ where is the bell and chain tonight ? i’m surprised she let you out of her sight. ”

#jakewhitman #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.#hdhalloween

closed : @jacksonhendry location : the pumpkin patch

𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 on the pencil mustache he’d sprouted just for the occasion, august scans the grounds for his runaway bride, path lit only by crescent moon and the soft glow of orange string lights. his fingertips run along the hay bales as he wanders towards the entrance, cane dragging in the dirt behind him, and when recognition flashes across his features, it’s not for morticia but the familiar sight of denim overalls and -- nothing else. “ glad to see sexy farmer’s making a comeback for . . . is it the tenth year in a row ? ” while august liked to mix it up ( mad hatter last year, zombie bob ross the year before ), jack’s fit was tried and true, a scantily-clad beacon at halloween parties across town. but there was something new this year. his gaze falls upon the bunch of flowers clutched in his grasp and he grins, bemused. “ for me ? i don’t think the wife’s gonna be too happy about that, but i guess what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. ”

#jacksonhendry #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ script.#hdhalloween

📱: Natalie⇄ August

Nat: Trick or treat?

august: hearing from u is always a treat 😁

august: but now i kinda wanna pick trick just to see what happens

#natcdavis #* 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ╱ sms.

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