BEAUTYQUEEN.

in the end, all questions can be distilled into one: what are you willing to give up to get the things you want?

[brooksvivian]

octavia-dawson‌:

This walk was close to being in her top three, but it still didn’t beat the random clown she met downtown late one night. Every barb spat at her brought an even wider smile at Vivian. They’d never be friends and could barely register as teammates, but she was part of the Fox sphere and that accounted for something in Octavia’s head. 

“I’m calling you that because it’s your title and your name. Gotta show you some major respect.” Throwing up another salute for the hell of it, her eyes caught the glimpse of a red cap before her head connected the lines. “Unless you don’t want someone to know you’re up and about?” Her eyes remain wide eye, but it’s tough to hide the added glints of mischief while prodding the Vixen captain. 

She was sure the Vixens were going to cop out and let it be without an inkling of revenge. To see someone step up and dole out a prank to upstage the toilet paper and egg fiasco was a true blessing. “You are allowed to walk, free country and all that. But I kinda thought someone like you would make a lackey take the walk. A leader should look spotless.” 

                                                                ♚

Now she’s just getting annoyed.

It’s already bad enough that the Foxes dominate her mornings and afternoons---her Friday nights that lead into Saturdays of disappointment and frustration; she’s had her full share of the Foxes, more than she could ever want, and drizzling an hour or so amongst her midnight walk is ... pushing it, to say the least.

So she tightens jaw, grits teeth, and bites down on tongue to prevent herself from snipping, from bearing claws and showing fangs---they’re supposed to be ... allies, in a way, and---as much as Vivian hates to admit---maybe now isn’t the best time to express her distaste for the resident group of has-been’s on campus.

“Why would I care about that?” she counters, almost a bit too eagerly, a bit too defensively. “You’re not implying something now, are you?” 

She knows the other’s not stupid; they both know that the other’s not stupid, but Vivian can’t help it---assume the worst, that is, of the Foxes. Of those dumb players clad in orange and white, whose racquets consist of tattered nets that are all too worn-out and frayed to hold a ball, to hold their dreams and goals and standards in their hands. She’s resentful, clearly, which is why she’s so unwilling to speak to the other, to spill her plans or confess to her planted seed of revenge. Instead, she sighs, stares the other straight in the eye and says,

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

[brooksvivian]

flippancies‌:

(...)

As the distance closes between them, Sienna presses her hand against her forehead in mock salute. “’Sup, cap’.”  No, Sienna, that was fucking stupid. It’s a difficult balance to make — it’s always been a difficult balance —  tiptoeing the line between wanting approval and maintaining her delicately constructed facade of nonchalance. And Vivian’s approval was not only something Sienna wanted, it was something she needed; could one survive being a Vixen if the fucking captain didn’t like you?

So she takes a breath. Feigns a smile as her body relaxes, offering Vivian a friendly-but-casual-and-not-too-stupidly-overeager expression. “Alright if I walk with you home?”

                                                                 ♚

There’s a part of her that’s glad that it’s Sienna that Vivian runs into--- because she isn’t a threat.

A recent additions to the Vixens, Vivian’s never considered Sienna to be ... dangerous, no, not like the other cheerleaders on the team with their more so conflicting personalities and questionable motivations. No, Sienna Harris is harmless, altogether forgettable and too loyal for her own good; so Vivian’ll admit that somewhere inside of her, she’s guilty, for taking advantage of the other, for arming her friendliness as her own weapon to use and pursue---for Vivian knows teamwork, has it branded on her back as the captain of such a squad, but also knows when (and how) to save herself.

So when Sienna approaches---greets her in that odd manner that she always seems to do---Vivian isn’t fazed, not even in the tiniest bit, for, at the end of the day, Sienna’s a scapegoat.

An alibi.

And as the other brunette suggests her company, Vivian just smiles in return---politely nods and feigns cordiality that mother has so taught her well---as she adjusts the bag strap on her shoulder, in a way that conveniently shifts the can of spray paint farther into its abyss. “Sienna,” she finally greets as she straightens her back. “Of course you can. Where are you coming from tonight?”

[brooksvivian]

jenbrookhart‌:

(...)

Jen leaves the Den, pajamas and all, and heads in the general direction Vivian went in. They don’t get far until they see her figure appear in the darkness and once they’re close enough, they catch the distinct scent of paint fumes and notice the bag on her shoulder. Their heart sinks to their stomach with dread. They don’t want to accuse her without justification, but they would expect her to act on what the rival team did to their house. Jen just doesn’t want an all out cheerleader war. 

“Hi,” They greet with her with a forced smile. “I saw you leave. I thought you were a robber at first. Is everything okay?”

                                                                  ♚

They know.

---Or, at least, she thinks they know, and that in itself is enough, is scary enough to have her biting lower lip and pressing manicured nails into leather bag strap. 

Vivian isn’t one to point fingers, but she can guess as educatedly enough; she assumes that they followed her, probably, with the louder-than-often creaks in the Vixen Den that echoed behind her every step down the stairs, out the door. And she really only has herself to blame for that, for such a tiny mistake, because now they’re an accomplice in a crime that they didn’t even want to commit, that they didn’t even want her to commit ... probably.

And so that smile on their face---with its twitching edges and forced upturn of lip---has her relenting, seething with an unforeseen anger that’s been festering in the pit of her stomach longer than she likes to recognize. Obliges herself to calm down, to stand down, for they’re teammates---they’re a Vixen, and she is their captain; and that’s a dynamic that she’s never willing to compromise, at least not this soon. Not this way.

So she sighs, vacant hand reaching up to massage her temple as she averts their gaze (and questioning) in the process. “What are you doing out here, Jen?” she presses out through gritted teeth---doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t dare tread on the line between criticism and hypocrisy. 

“I’m fine, just fine.” Or so she says.

[brooksvivian]

octavia-dawson‌:

(...)

It was complete instinct–her hand went straight into a salute and uttered a simple “captain” for the girl who earned the title. Her brain caught up and stalled her movements. What exactly was the Vixen Captain doing out here in a hoodie, desperately not wanting to be seen? 

“Hey captain Vivi. I almost thought you were a ghost for a hot second,” she said, skipping over with a renewed vibrancy. “Didn’t take you as a walker this time of night.” 

                                                                  ♚

Vivian’s never been the biggest fan of the Foxes---whether it be during the daytime or night, she can’t bring herself to like them, any of them, to appreciate them for the lackluster stars that they’ve seemed to coin themselves as in the Southeastern District. And even now, with the pale moonlight and flickering streetlight illuminating both of their faces, she still can’t---enjoy their presence, that is. To not have the urge to kick and scream and claw at each of their face’s donned with white and orange on every game day, on every Friday filled with two hours of frustration and disappointment.

And so she tsk’s, a bit louder than she anticipates but still does so nonetheless, at the other’s greeting; and then she’s rolling her eyes, mentally debating whether or not she should entertain the Fox’s shenanigans even at this time of night.

“Don’t call me that,” is all she manages to hiss out, voice hoarse after breathing so heavy from a journey over hill lines and weight of delayed guilty weighing down her shoulders. Eyes form into narrow slits as the other whose name has conveniently slipped from mind, hands readjusting the bag strap’s position atop of her.

“What? Am I not allowed to walk out during the night or something?” she attacks with a scoff, another roll of the eyes and no hint of remorse in her words---even though she understands that maybe, just maybe, she’s a bit more belligerent than needed.

[brooksvivian]

nico-ramirez‌:

(...)

He’s tired enough that he doesn’t quite register that Vivian’s even there until she’s close enough to touch, and he feels like it would be less weird if he just said something, a way of diffusing the fact he’s just out here at the middle of the night for no real reason.

“Shit, hey, Viv,” Nico says, and his voice is a little gravelly after being silent for hours, he’s pretty sure he sounds as tired as he feels,and doesn’t doubt that he looks it too, “Did you hear that noise too? I thought I imagined it.” It’s a poor excuse, but as far as reasons for coming outside in the middle of the night, it’s as good as any.

                                                                 ♚

She’s so sure that she had left when the rest of the team was sleeping, when the all the lights were off and when the house was engulfed in its own kind of darkness. So she’s cursing under her breath, mentally scolding herself for not being more cognizant of her actions---and hoping, praying that Nico won’t interrogate; it’s already too stressful of a night as is.

But a part of her is thankful---grateful, even---that he’s just as embarrassed (if you could call it that) about his midnight appearance as she is; and then she’s approaching him, slowly, hearing the crunching of grass blades under rubber soles echo in the empty evening air. “Y---yeah, I did,” she surmises, clears her throat because an hour or so of silence hasn’t exactly prepped her for this, for a string of lies to lace through teeth and chapped lips.

“Why are you the only one awake? Don’t you know we have morning practice tomorrow?” she almost berates, and then internally takes a step back, realizes that she’s probably (or most definitely) projecting; they’re both awake at odd hours of the night, their only difference? His decisions that led him to now probably aren’t as bad as hers.

So she gulps. Hard. And looks off---to the side, to the sky; whatever it is, as long as it’s not him. “Go to bed. Don’t worry about the sound or whatever it is that’s eating at you.” And then a pause, one that seems to settle deeper in her stomach than she anticipates. “I took care of it.”

[brooksvivian]

lgntrask‌:

I couldn’t sleep.

Wishing that his voice could come out more convincing than how it sounded in his imagination didn’t make the truth any less real: that Logan had trudged the distance from the Fox Tower to the Vixen Den with only those three words in his head for an introduction to his sudden presence, nothing more, nothing less. What had prompted such a late night excursion was beyond him, even more so the reason/s why Vivian Brooks, of all the damn people in this damn university, was the first person to pop in his head as a potential commiserator for this unexpected surge of cynicism… and yet he wasn’t really surprised, didn’t really make an effort to turn on his heel and go back, change his mind. Maybe she was just that good of a companion… or maybe he could do with someone who would give him shit - willingly, gladly, and nonstop - as a distraction.

Switching his phone back and forth between his hands, weighing it for a second or two until it teetered at the edge of his fingertips, just at the point of drop and ruin, the striker took a moment to process the facts that showed it was way too late for his actions to be speedily and rationally justified: he knew he had class in the morning, practice through the afternoon and into the night, he could’ve gone to Cameron who would be much more sympathetic, and oh, not to mention that the Vixen captain hated his guts, why the hell in a million years would she want to see him at this hour? 

He paused his tinkering to pull up her number, briefly considering texting her instead as a compromise until, like a summons, he was watching her walk out of the building without even spotting him (he couldn’t blame her, he did decide to hide behind a tree… you know, as if he didn’t look sketchy enough). For a beat he thought she was going to meet someone, but it’s her body language, more than anything, that settled into recognition first. How could he not be familiar with it when every stance he’d ever held, every expression he ever carried since he moved to Palmetto was the very same? An odd mixture of pride and indignation, determination but blind…

And before long he was watching her graffiti, stifling a laugh at some of the more delicate ones, wondering how safe his own cojones were in angry Vivian Brooks’ presence (one knee from her to him and he could vividly see how he’d crumple to the ground faster than he could annoyingly call her Viv). It never once crossed his mind to try and stop her because, well, why ruin someone’s fun? And he wasn’t a narc, he wasn’t a good guy either. Only until she was done (though far from looking satisfied, he noted, not remorseful either) did he step out from the shadows, having to pick up his pace to catch up to her with her quick and long strides, close enough that he could reach a hand over, finger extended, and push the spray paint can deeper down into her bag. “Couldn’t sleep?” he said innocently, a little too much, making it clear he was being coy. “What, you couldn’t call or text a guy? Invite him on a little trip? And I thought we were friends, Brooks… we could’ve covered more ground together. You know, red really does become you.”

                                                                  ♚

She gasps.

Not from shock or anything, but from his sudden appearance, from the unexpected downward force on her bag that has her eyes widening and body turning to face its source; and she’s whipping her head around, face a bit too close for comfort to his own---and for a second, she relaxes, embraces herself in the relief of knowing that it’s just Logan Trask before her expression sours (as it so automatically does in his presence) and her figure takes heap full of steps back. She ignores the burning sensation creeping across her cheeks, the redness that thankfully dulls in the moonlight, disregards the speeding up of heartbeat (discredits it is as merely a byproduct of surprise) as she glares at him---for he knows.

And of all the fucking people at this university, he’s the last person that she wants to know.

So she tenses, hands balling into fists and nails digging into soft flesh of palms as she stares at him, pays no mind (at least, not anymore) to the bright red cap of spray can that distinguishes itself from the rest of the belongings in her bag. “Trask---” she starts yet stops herself, hesitates for a second upon realizing that, in some sort of way, he has her wrapped around his finger, capable of making her do whatever he could imagine with this over her head---with her reputation and respect as captain on the line. “Logan---” softer, gentler now; for she’s desperate, and though Vivian’s never been one to beg, she does know how to play nice ... when needed. “Don’t. Just don’t ... please. Or I’ll actually kill you.”

And then there’s a sudden turn of heel, a restart in her steps back home because she knows, full and well, that he’ll just follow behind her stride; and as much as she hates it, as much as she despises it, a tiny part of her is thankful---that it’s him, that is. That he’s the one who found her, caught her in the act and has her bound with invisible handcuffs of teasing and sarcasm, and not of guilt, not of shame; for she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Though, he’s still his annoying self; he’s still Logan Trask, and she’s still Vivian Brooks---and so, she rolls her eyes, scoffs under her breath at his remarks and laments because god, has he always been this insufferable? “You really think that I’d choose you to be my partner-in-crime, Trask?” she muses, a chuckle following the curl of her tongue before she’s shooting him a gaze and shrugging her shoulders. “Don’t flatter yourself---besides, since when were we friends?” she counters.

“And what about you? Couldn’t sleep?” she lightheartedly mocks, eyebrows raising at the question. “Or are you just stalking me now?”

[brooksvivian]

paxridley‌:

(...)

         With how late it was, Pax wasn’t expecting to run into anyone that they knew. It was far too late – or early, depending on how someone looked at it. But they were mistaken when they saw Vivian walking down the street. Pax didn’t know if they wanted to talk to her, but when she walked by, they couldn’t help the words that came of their mouth before they could stop themself. “What are you doing up this late?”  

                                                                   ♚

She’s seen their face around---maybe once, twice, but definitely not three times ... that is, until now of course. And so, when they stop her, she halts in her steps as if forcibly so, a dramatic freeze and a curse under her breath and then she’s turning around to face them, hand unconsciously (yet automatically) tightening its grip on her bag.

And then she realizes, who in the hell do they think they are?

Maybe it’s the fact that she’s helplessly grumpy, frustrated to the gods as she stares them down, figuring out every which way to both escape from this situation and insult them without drawing suspicious to why she happens to also be out so late. And so she sighs, clears her throat and straighten her backs as weight shifts onto left foot and shoulders roll out upon realizing how far she’s walked this evening.

“Why do you care?” she retorts, as hostile as she anticipates as she mentally dares them to question her again---besides, what’s their name again? Payton? Paxton? She’s not sure anymore, and honestly, she doesn’t even bother to care at this point to know, to learn. “I could ask you the same thing, you know.”

[brooksvivian]

    > during her walk back after ‘visiting’ the football cheerleaders’ house / sept 11 : 3:04a <                     an open starter in which vivian (accidentally?) resorts to vandalism

                                                                    ♚

Being envious is not a pretty trait, does not embody the personality of most beautiful women---but Vivian Brooks has never been most. Vines as green as envy lace themselves around her lungs, constrict her airway and have her catching her breath, snake across tan skin as she burdens the walk across campus, across town to stand in front of a house haunted with hatred and disdain---for only ghosts seem to live inside, with their empty threats and heartless bodies.

They creep behind her in her sleep, in the shadows, constantly reminding her of her failures, of how she’s the captain of cheerleading team for a bunch of misfits who have, time and time again, reassured her they’re not anywhere near worth cheering for; and she laments, knows she shouldn’t give into such teasing or taunting, but this last game---their first game of the season, their first game to showcase their potential---winds up ending in disappointment, in pulling the trigger of pent-up resentment and frustration.

Vivian Brooks hates the Foxes ... but it’s not like she can just tell them that.

So she resorts to the next best thing, finds herself suddenly searching the nooks and crannies of the Vixen Den for cans of spray paint and the most inconspicuous hoodie she owns, walks through the breeze and nightly brisk to their rivalry cheerleading squad’s own home base as if on a casual midnight stroll. And then she’s writing insults, whatever expletives she can think of in the moment, on their wall paneling and cement driveway---tosses used-up spray can into her bag and shoves red-stained hands into pockets of a jacket that reeked of paint and malice before she’s on her way.

An incognito mission, she likes to call it, as in she’s not expecting to run into a familiar face on her walk (of shame) back to the Vixen Den. Don’t talk to me, she recites her in head as the distance closes, adjusts the bag strap on her shoulder and prays the other doesn’t notice the vibrant red cap of spray paint threatening to peek out over the top.

[greyingshepherd]

[novebmer]

[paperlilie-blog]

if I had a dollar for everytime someone called me ugly I’d be broke cause I’m perfect lol later losers

[whatwouldcarriesay]

[wnq-writers]

“drink me, i’m poison,” she said with a grin.

Leilah Ali (via wnq-writers)

[3mptiness]

[ruinedchildhood]

[letalestrange-deactivated201905]

[chuckandblairdaily]