BLUE HADDAWAY.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
KATHERINE "KIT" STARLING.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
MARIJOY BACALSO - COUGHLAN.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
LASZLO KOVÁCH.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
JUNIPER RIDLEY LIAO.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
CARNELIAN ST. GERMAIN.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
BABE MORI.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
AMINE SHAHZAD.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
SAIGE BEAUMONT.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
PANDORA GORE.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
GABRIEL DE LEON.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
TOSHA KISKOVA.
personal file. mirror. case study. desired.
── ( alexandra shipp. 32. cis woman. she / her. ) there’s something about hadden, man, that makes me so nostalgic. like, you see that? PANDORA GORE? yeah, they’ve been in hadden for her entire life, on and off now, and i don’t think i’ve ever seen them leave home without their VINTAGE, TOPAZ EMBEDDED AND INTRICATELY CARVED, GOLDEN POISON RING. i think they’re a FORMER BALLERINA & MODEL, an EDITOR over at HADDEN POST, and a THEATRE DIRECTOR over at LANGSTON - which makes sense since they’re so INSOUCIANT and NARCISSISTIC. i didn’t think i’d see them out in public so soon, though, ever since … y’know, she's supposedly poisoned her own grandfather to get at his inheritance sooner. yeah, it’s pretty bad - but i heard they’re also HEDONISTIC and MERCURIAL, so i guess you really never know a person … maybe it’s just a SCORPIO thing? either way, everytime they’re around i always get moonlight by kali uchis stuck in my head and it just makes me so INTRIGUED. i gotta go walk it off before i do something drastic - see ya! / as penned by ur admin!
...content warnings for... familial death ( brief mention ) and terminal illness.
common knowledge.
full name — pandora antonella gore.
nickname(s) — pand ( if friendly ). ant, nell, nellie, etc. ( family only ). various iterations of pangora, pangea, etc. ( mockingly ).
place of birth — hadden, new york.
date of birth & age — november 5th, 1992. thirty2.
gender / pronouns — cis woman, she/her.
sexuality — bisexual.
occupation — editor at hadden post; strictly for fun. former ballerina & model. amateur artist. numerous failed attempts at broadway stardom.
residence — the gore family home located deep in fellside; great and looming, old and worn despite the constant upkeep. sometimes age just shows, no matter how hard it's scrubbed at. an older, victorian - esque home, sizable yet not out of place amongst the other houses.
interests — the idea of sophistication, how she'll never perfectly replicate it - always something wrong, something unnerving. real fur, never secondhand. pendants and lockets. gold jewelry, both dainty and clunky. playing out the stories in her head that will reach no ending. being adored; adoring others - if only temporary. slinky dresses. leg warmers. expensive wine. the holidays - always a festive one. the concept of art, of creation; though it never pans out. waist chains. maintaining her appearance at all times. parties, social gatherings, anywhere she can be seen. being remembered. self - care, whatever that means for her. sinking her teeth into the skin of another. the taste of luxury. sticky - sweet pastries, over - sugared coffee; every indulgence to the extreme. stories from long ago, whether myth or fable; holds onto each word - takes each omen for herself.
aversions — professional dancing; she's lost the passion for it, has no will to continue on. begging, although she's mastered it. acknowledging her family's flaws, or their generational curse, or that it looms above her like a blinking neon sign saying she's next. poor memories; a twitch beneath the eye every time someone's forgotten her name. being called a nepo baby. being told to act her age. bland foods; needs something to remind her she's still a person. anything that bores her, really, whether it's people or activities or places. those who find themselves trapped - maybe sees herself in them a little too much. corny movies. being belittled or underestimated. not being believed in. her own artwork; pains her to look at. highly desaturated colors. synthetic anything. veganism.
quirks — is rarely seen without heels, whether kitten or stiletto; has mastered the act of walking across grates. believes that she's an untouchable target; that she's immune from all harm. has a minor god complex and it's everyone's problem. licks her teeth often, tongue prodding canines. knows how to stand still, stand tall, and doesn't fidget - is still restless, still pacing floors like she's blocking out a performance. has recently taken up gardening, particularly hedge shaping, and is terrible at it.
most played — what you waiting for? by gwen stefani.
notable features — hair that extends beneath tailbone, whether held in natural curls or braids. a long yet soft - pointed chin. a sparkle in each dark eye.
general disposition — long - limbed and lethal, disguised beneath a frivolous nature. always entertained despite a hollowness to her.
character study — allison hargreeves ( the umbrella academy ) & audrey horne ( twin peaks. ).
public record.
the gore family isn't one that often goes unnoticed - their names are engraved in history, their roots always laid deep in hadden. they're surgeons and politicians, lawyers and business moguls. at the heart of the family is gore media; a conglomerate that only knows how to control, what to control. it's not pandora's father that's their patriarch, but her grandfather - guiding the reins. holding their family's wealth in the palm of his hands. his children were born bloodthirsty, same as his siblings - same as pandora's. they all want the same thing - a taste of power, of what their family's name really means. they'll kill for it - go mad with it; their very own family curse born out of desire.
pandora is the second born, but the eldest daughter. contains her mother's whimsy, a children's novelist and outlier in the family - and her father's severity; her grandfather's hand puppet. but gore media's not destined to be hers; the claim is laid by her brother. her perfect, golden brother. the bane of her existence. the heart that will not stop beating, even beneath floorboards.
she's a bad older sister; there's no protection and no guidance. just an insatiable hunger to be something more, to be incomparable. a separate entity from the rest of them, an unseen realm. ballet is that for her - her way out; her way to be lifted from beneath her family's thumb. they let her do as she pleases; lets her ship herself out to new york city, ballet programs and private schools. only returns to hadden every summer, and only to wreck havoc where she can. like everyone else are just her playthings.
in the city, pandora rises throughout the ranks. from corps de ballet to first soloist, to principal dancer. prima ballerina. she goes international; hadden becomes something akin to a memory. makes the decision to drop from school, to keep pursuing her art. to keep pushing herself forward. and then one day, she wakes up, and the passion is gone. can't ignite itself in her anymore - can't reach the same levels she had once done with such ease before. can't bring herself to care.
familial death mention; they say lethargy is the first sign of gore's curse. it happened to her grandmother, bless her sweet soul - once a lively woman, bright and passionate. then a ghost, barely there at all except for her once lovely, now hollowed eyes. pandora refuses; remembers her grandmother in her final days. a frail body that once held a zest for life. a flame snuffed out. unrecognizable. pandora refuses; she's a star. she refuses to succumb. modelling feels natural after ballet; and she entertains it for a while - her twenties spent as the face of a luxury brand as she flip - flops between hadden and new york city, a new fiancé every summer though they never last. there's a brief stunt in broadway - or an attempt, at least. it never really pans out, becomes anything; it's like they can tell it doesn't come naturally to her anymore, that she's struggling.
terminal illness; and then her grandfather falls ill; and everything in their family's orbit ceases to move. frozen in place, in time, like everyone is holding their breath and waiting for his diagnosis. it doesn't look good; and time surges forward. pandora's not the only gore to reappear in hadden with fully packed bags, moving back into her childhood bedroom with a concerning eagerness to it. every gore wants to taste the depths of their family's power, already unthinkable. that was three years ago - and the gore patriarch is still kicking, despite all odds. yet however slowly - his time is nearing an end. all pandora has to do is wait it out.
personal details.
there's an expectation for ballerinas - current and former - to have an air around them; a certain poise. pandora doesn't have that. she's spent enough time in the city as what can be best described as a socialite, that the grace has left her. she traded in her slippers for booze - laced nights at rooftop bars and eternal vip access. her chin is still held high, but her body is languid. perpetually relaxed. unbothered, even.
she's always been insatiable. nothing she's done has ever been enough - and she's constantly in search for something that'll entertain her. keep her preoccupied. whether it's a fixation on a new hobby, or a new relationship - it's never enough. her current "passion" besides the bodies she brings home is "art" in it's vaguest form. seems to think she can just, create, and it'll be good. it's very much not.
started working at the post when she permanently moved back to hadden three years ago - purely for the gossip. for knowing things before anyone else. it's not fulfilling work - but it does intrigue her.
pandora has been engaged at least three times before, maybe more. they've all ended for a number of reasons - and she's likely the one to blame, though she's never been broken up with. currently single, if only because her eyes are currently on her sister's fiancé. has always preferred things - people - that aren't hers to have. she likes the chase. the thrill. has openly admitted to being selfish before - and it doesn't bother her, when the very nature of her family is just that: selfish. self - aggrandizing. each for their own.
a part of her lives in a different world; a sub - reality. she people watches often, makes up her own assumptions about them. will grow disinterested if they match her idea of them; and extremely intrigued when they don't. while she rarely views others as on her level - it's not something she actively shows.
has spent a brief time travelling due to her careers in the past; and has too many anecdotes from it. they're sometimes concerning, though she'll always pass it off as something to be laughed at. something fun.
she feels as if she's always performing, if only to hide the hollowness that aches at her. she comes off as excitable, dramatic - extroverted to the highest degree. always entertained, always eager. doesn't know where her façade starts, or where it ends. it's not like it's a new personality - she's always been the same; but now it just feels like an act. a mask.
if there's one thing that's always remained a constant for pandora: it's that she has no problem displaying her wealth. it's a point of pride for her family - they've built themselves up from dirt, and now it's their right to be as extravagant as they please. she's rarely humble, or humbled - gives as often as she takes, if only out of boredom.
* ❪ 💸 ❫ : 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗿𝗮𝗽 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳𝗳 𝗻𝗲𝘄𝗹𝘆 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗸𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘀, 𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗮𝗻𝘀 being shifted around as lucky empties out the boxes piled mile high atop the island. marked cardboard that designates things that don't ever go in their proper location, distracted by the sonar of a telephone that never stops chiming, a frustrated sigh as each notification pauses the speaker's bluetooth connection. a thumbpad flicks across the screen, searching for the option that puts his phone on do not disturb. a habit that he doesn't often participate in, if not for the need to drown out the thoughts that spin on a one track mind: blue. the sentiment that had been displayed the other night stills rears its ugly head whenever they make eye contact, lucky dismissing the tension with a callous greeting and being ignored in turn. watching as the boy in azure beelines their way into their room, shutting the door with a deafening slam. he had let it slide, allowed blue to come to grips with themselves on their own accord and take the time to process what had been done. completely forgoing his own feelings on the matter; the thrum that echoes in his chest when he recalls the desperate, aching tone that had been conveyed through a simple fucking device that taunted him. blue wanted him. still. despite his attempts to dissuade them, trip them up from their desire whilst forgoing his own. therein a truth that kicks up blood to his brain in a terrorizing race. sprinting toward the finish line of a marathon only he was running. blue taking their time and merely walking behind to calmly watch, never wanting this to end. a chase that lasted eons with lucky misstepping in lieu.
he's taking a moment to grasp onto the counter in front of him, white knuckling granite that delivers a frozen blown to the furnace of large palms underneath. a sensation that only increases with the memory of blue's shaft peeking out for someone else in one ill picture. someone who appreciated the details of a body that lucky worshipped only in his dreams, waking up to the strain of fabric against leaking tip, having to take care of it himself with hurried breaths and the image of familiar locks slowly working their way up and down. a rhythm he achingly believed only blue could fulfill. a guilty pleasure shoved toward the back of his mind, throat swallowing down a choked sound that climbs as he salivates prematurely. thrown back to present reality when his phone vibrates against the counter, an action only done by way of someone proceeding to have their call pushed through his first line of defense, staring at the words mom blink white. he's ignoring it to walk forward, heels stepping against the floorboards loud enough to announce his presence, before he's rapping his knuckles against blue's door, metal rings scratching wood with a shwip. a sigh when there's no answer, instinctively reaching for the knob to jiggle it. locked. his heart sinks to his gut at the revelation, a habit of blue's that had never been practiced before. not with him, anyway. lucky's chewing at the inside of his cheek, sighing out a soft, ❝ blue. ❞ an ear pressed against the door, listening for any shift in movement. a sign that he was perhaps, sleeping, instead of refusing him attention. ❝ dude, you're not gonna stay in there all day are you ? haven't even seen you come out to piss. ❞
for the first time in blue's life - he feels forcibly anchored into place; tethered by roots that only serve to drag him further into the soft ground beneath him, earth giving way like quicksand until he's up to his neck in it - until the pressure builds against his chest and threatens to crack every frail rib beneath flesh. stuck inside a body he has no want, no business, existing inside of - his psyche wishing to be anywhere but here. here in this apartment, this town, this country. that inescapable urge to run, knowing he has nowhere else to go. that the consideration alone makes him a coward - unable to face their own reckoning. sleeping - uncharacteristically fitful, restless despite heavying eyelids - does not release him from this understanding. smoking - his room hazy in the spotted sunlight filtered between downturned blinds - does not release him from this understanding. lucky - luciano fucking suarez, the collar he all too willingly pulls against despite leather chafing against the thick of his neck - does not release him from this understanding. unable to meet the older boy's eyes, even in passive greeting - unable to exist without feeling that familiar chill crawling up their spine; the desire blue has grown tired of choking back down time after time again, the bile that burns against a words - stuck throat. they thought themselves patient, once, but now they're nothing if not aching. so he avoids - he runs - ducking his head out of every stilted conversation, excusing himself with quick, mumbled words beneath his breath, and resigns himself to his self - appointed title: coward.
it doesn't last for long - it can't - and blue haddaway knows this, even before taut knuckles rap against ivory - painted wood, lucky's softened tone slipping beneath the door - permeating their foggy thoughts and beckoning him forward. he hesitates - unlike the version of him who'd grown too desperate to exist passively within lucky's orbit, the version of them who would follow him to the ends of the earth without a single question asked. and he contemplates, thinks in abstracted shapes and bending light that always, always, finds a way to morph into familiar visage. a wall between them, and lucky is still clear in their vision. a stain - a greed - blue's never been capable of washing out. the few seconds it takes for them to cross their bedroom and unlock their door feel like hours stretched thin, just long enough for lucky to decide it isn't worth it; that blue, like always, isn't worth it. but they open the door, a small crack between frame that allows only a small sliver of worn face to be lit by the hallway light, and he's still there. waiting. marijuana wafts past their shoulder, stronger now; a sticky scent that clings to crumbled clothing, overgrown locks. blue yawns, forearm stretching overhead to lean against threshold; an act feigning casual, an attempt to keep oneself at arms' length.
"i'm not ... pissing in bottles, if that's what you're - getting at. better aim shooting right out the, uh - window." he leans into himself, the pad of his thumb swiping beneath nose; and blue feels - guilty, for a moment. holding fort within lucky's own apartment, no rent asked of him; nothing but his presence, someone to come home to - his goddamn friend. the word sours their stomach, and their gaze never reaches up to meet lucky's - focuses instead on making shapes out of nothing but their faint shadows against the flooring. "been out - y'probably just didn't ... notice, or something. it's cool, dude. i'm ... chilling. big time. probably gonna light a, uh - j. if you wanna split it. might - fuck off, later ... head back to the dorms. forgot i had a fucking, um ..." thoughts are a slow, stilted cog in their mind; rusted over with disuse. "summer project. due next semester. was gonna - get zak's opinion on it, or something." he shifts, then; a crack of discomfort that raises their skin into pinpricks, hand loosening against the door until it creaks further open - just enough to see their head craning back, glazed eyes glancing back towards a half - packed, half - strewn apart room. "if ... y'don't wanna smoke, man, i'm prob' gonna - head out, sooner, i think. probably ... better, that way."
── ( justice smith. 27. nonbinary. he/they. ) there’s something about hadden, man, that makes me so nostalgic. like, you see that? GABRIEL DE LEON? yeah, they’ve been in hadden for twenty years now, and i don’t think i’ve ever seen them leave home without their STICKER - RIDDEN, ANCIENT TELECASTER THEY KEEP ALIVE OUT OF PURE SPITE. i think they’re a BARTENDER over at WEASEL'S and a PIERCER over at PETAL & PUNCTURE - which makes sense since they’re so ENTHUSIASTIC and HAREBRAINED. i didn’t think i’d see them out in public so soon, though, ever since … y’know, they got lost in the woods during a bad acid trip and now believe they're undead. yeah, it’s pretty bad - but i heard they’re also SPITEFUL and LACKADAISICAL, so i guess you really never know a person … maybe it’s just a SCORPIO thing? either way, everytime they’re around i always get pretty handsome awkward by the used stuck in my head and it just makes me so LIVELY. i gotta go walk it off before i do something drastic - see ya! / as penned by ur admin!
...content warnings for... non - familial terminal illness, divorce, mentions of death, drugs, depression, delusions, and drugs again.
common knowledge.
full name — gabriel franklin leone.
nickname(s) — gabe. gift of gab. annoying little shit. whore ( said affectionately ).
place of birth — newark, new jersey.
date of birth & age — october 31st, 1996. twenty7.
gender / pronouns — nonbinary, they/he
sexuality — queer ( preference in the masculine ).
occupation — musician; guitarist in any band that'll allow them. bartender at weasel's. piercer at petal & puncture.
astrology — scorpio sun, cancer moon, aries rising.
residence — a small apartment on main street; discounted due to the previous tenant's unexpected demise. all brick walls and a huge, arching window. a bitch to find curtains for. comfortably cramped.
interests — the little skrrtch skrrtch feeling whenever a new tattoo is imminent. sweet coffee. vegan food and new recipes. secondhand leather. bleaching their hair; sick designs painted with dye. music, the louder the better; punk, nu metal, rock, any emo variation. steel - toed boots. lung - restricting laughter. messy make outs. house parties, even now. hardcore shows. shitty beer; slamming the can against their forehead. producing. the environment, sustainability. keeping their friends close. never spending a night alone. horror films, halloween ( obviously ). dungeons and dragons.
aversions — cleaning, it disrupts the creative process; one must live in squander. animal cruelty, but also PETA. standing still. thinking too much about anything. their anxieties. unintentionally ruining their ( or others' ) friendships. not being able to tattoo. improper piercing aftercare. vapes ( is forever a cigarettes guy ). bad acid trips. not remembering the previous night. being haunted in an un - sexy way. their step - brother. facing reality; their delusions not being humored. serious conversations. geese.
quirks — a serial nail biter and lip muncher; tries to over - balm in compensation. tattoos over their old tattoos when they're bored of them. a new piercing every week; offers stick and pokes at parties or in the bathrooms of clubs. talks too loud in too quiet of spaces. gets separation anxiety if away from their friends for too long. is extremely clingy. treasures every vinyl in their collection. still uses a walkman; makes cassettes for their friends and lovers alike.
most played — you've seen the butcher by deftones.
notable features — hair consistently buzzed short and bleached; an array of patterns that change every week. tired eyes deep - set into a muted purple.
general disposition — a shaken bottle of coke ready to shatter glass; all fizz until he lays flat. unsteady, but excited.
character study — chris miles ( skins ) & finn ( adventure time ).
public record.
grows up in the jersey suburbs with their mom and dad for the first seven years of his life. his mother sonia’s an art student-turned-struggling artist who splits her time between nj and nyc for whichever side gig she can pick up, and his father’s an old punk turned chef with a severe vendetta against bobby flay.
when money’s tight and there’s no sitter to turn to during the summer, gabe accompanies their parents into the city. occasionally the stars align and sonia picks up a waitressing shift at the restaurant his father works at, allowing gabe to sit in a tucked away booth and scribble away. sometimes his dad’s old friends stop by the diner, letting gabe color inside the lines of their tattoos as his mom finishes up for the day.
terminal illness;when gabe’s seven, sonia gets a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work with an illustrator she’s long admired and once mentored under; he’s terminal, losing control of his hands, and needs someone to finish what he no longer can. the pay isn’t the most lucrative, but the experience alone is enough for sonia to accept the offer. the only catch being that they have to relocate to hadden, new york where her old mentor resides.
around the same time, gabe’s dad gets promoted at the restaurant he’s been cooking at - he’s got it in good with the owners, could very well own the business himself if he keeps up the way he has. he loves his job, loves the restaurant and the bustle of the city. he wants to move them up to nyc.
divorce; gabe doesn’t really understand why it happens, he’s seven and doesn’t really know where hadden is - they already take the train between new jersey and new york, why couldn’t they take the train between hadden and nyc? if their parents love each other, why do they have to go separate ways? no amount of explaining could make gabe understand; and next thing he knows, his mom’s driving with him to blue harbor.
it’s tough settling in at first; gabe misses their dad and the city, and his dad’s cooking, and taking the train every other weekend between the two states - and his dad’s cooking, again. but he’s not completely alone; their dad’s old walkman left in their possession and the promise of visiting whenever he can.
days turn into years, and gabe’s older now, a teenager; he still visits the city every summer and crashes on his dad’s couch when he’s not out exploring the city or making out with a random boy from the hardcore show they’ve just attended.
minor death mention;sonia remarries, eventually - and it’s like, good. it’s really good. they met during one of sonia’s local art exhibitions, her career finally taking off after her mentor’s passing. his name’s bill, or greg - maybe craig. he makes sonia laugh like gabe’s dad did, and has a son around gabe’s age. it’s good. life is good for them.
drug mention; it’s difficult for gabe to adjust to the marriage, and the addition of a step-brother. he’s not used to family being anything other than sonia, or his dad. his friends are like a family to them, but that’s different. it just feels different. their step-brother doesn’t play dnd, or care for marching band in the way that gabe oddly does - doesn’t listen to hardcore, or appreciate horror movies. fuck, he doesn’t even smoke weed. not even a little.
gabe’s not home as often - they’re off doing better things, like smoking in someone else’s basement and trying hard to start a band that never really takes off. they do free piercings at parties in cramped bathrooms; it’s how they’ve gotten several of their own. stick and pokes on someone’s grandfather’s old leather couch, drinking shitty beer from the only gas station that doesn’t check ids just outside of town.
they don’t mean to distance themselves from their family - it just sort of happens. the only child complex; the inability to share, and minor feelings of incompetency whenever his step-brother gets praised for his ever-growing list of achievements, while gabe’s stuck with the same routine of try hard, fail, mope, then pick themself up again just to do it all over again.
eventually they graduate high school (barely but surely) and enroll in langston - most of their friends head off to better colleges in better states for better opportunities while gabe stays in the same place. they could go back to the city - but it’s expensive, and well - fuck - gabe doesn’t know. it’s hard to go anywhere once you feel stuck.
depression, death mention;they start taking anti-depressants sometime after dropping out of college, unsure of what they want to actually do with their life. gabe hits a couple low-points, but eventually takes up a job as a piercer at petal & puncture and gets an apartment for dangerously cheap on main street after the previous tenant passed unexpectedly in the home.
personal details.
currently residing in the cheapest apartment they could get. it's not, like, great - but they have at least one giant window and all brick walls, and that's enough for them.
too friendly for their own good. isn't automatically trustful but also isn't distrustful. it's easy to get on their good side, because despite all their anxiety - they're pretty laidback otherwise.
is in their head. a lot. insecure but keeps a mostly confident demeanor. tends to laugh it off a lot but they care a lot about what others think about them. at least if it's someone they care about.
clingy so clingy. loves their friends to death and is probably a little in love with them too. doesn't do well when there's miscommunication, because they'll probably assume the worst. but the worst is always, oh they don't like me anymore and they think i'm ugly and my dick's a flop and - and not like, oh they're betraying me in some way.
drugs / delusions; partier. loves loud music, loves crowds. loves feeling alive. prone to acid trips. last year they had a particularly bad trip and they still believe they're actually just a ghost and their body's buried somewhere. has gotten a little more impulsive because of it.
5'6" and every inch of their skin minus their face (mostly) is covered in tattoos. can't help it. has gotten re-tattooed over older tattoos because they grew tired of them. has a knuckles tattoo that just says KNUC KLES. it's actually their favorite sonic character.
was a band kid in high school. and a dnd nerd. is still a dnd nerd. and a comic book nerd. and a horror movie nerd. is like if a loser was also a whore (affectionately; loves to love, loves affection, and loves sharing a bed with two or more bodies at any given time).
still plays guitar, sometimes does their own vocal tracks but it's mostly distorted or altered in some way. is stuck in the 2000s emo scene perpetually, but also the punk scene. and the nu metal scene? there's variety.
has a lip ring. and a nose ring. and an eyebrow ring. lots of rings.
nude figure model for the local colleges' art programs because they would never say no to some extra money, and also because they love their body.
vegan n loud n proud about it. big on sustainability and animal rights.
the door to 102 blank ridge clicked shut behind them, a sound small enough to be missed under any other circumstance but tonight, it carried the weight of a full stop. inside, the house exhaled into silence, the kind that settled like fine dust over every surface. for four days, it had been an echo chamber of half-whispered conversations, restless pacing, and the sterile hum of phones that never rang with good news. even the air inside felt anxious. stale with grief and burnt coffee and the heavy, unspent tension of people waiting for something that might never come. marijoy’s presence was the one small disruption to that suffocating stillness. like a breeze through a sealed room. even when she said little, her voice seemed to reset the air around her. now, as the two of them stepped into the evening, the shift was almost physical: the outside world greeting them with the hum of crickets and the faint electric scent of impending rain. maximo fell into step beside her, his stride slower than usual, his shoulders curved with the bone deep fatigue of someone who hadn’t really slept in days. the summer air clung damply to his skin, cool but not cold, and he tugged his jacket tighter around himself anyway. a habit, an excuse. the truth was, he needed a reason to walk her out, to step away from the dense, unbreathable quiet of the house, to remind himself that there were still streets and wind and people moving through the world. behind them, through the narrow window by the entryway, a dim light still glowed.
adrien’s light. maximo didn’t need to look to know what scene he’d left behind. adrien in the same spot on the couch, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on nothing. not even despair anymore. just the vacancy that comes after it. they walked without speaking for several blocks, the only sounds their synchronized footsteps on cracked pavement and the rustle of leaves whispering secrets to the wind. the neighborhood had that suspended quality of late summer evenings. warm light in windows, a dog barking somewhere distant, the ghostly pulse of a lawn sprinkler turning rhythmically behind a fence. in the crook of his elbow, maximo carried the faint smell of her cooking. rosemary, tomatoes, a sweetness that didn’t belong to this dark stretch of grief. the containers were already tucked away in the fridge back at blank ridge, their neatness a quiet mercy amid chaos. it was the kind of kindness that didn’t ask for thanks. the practical kind, the kind that kept people alive when words failed. “ you know, ” he started finally, his voice rough, like it had rusted from disuse, “ you don’t have to keep doing that. ” she glanced at him, brows knitting. “ the food, ” he continued, shoving his hands into his pockets. “ you don’t have to. ” there was no edge to his voice, just a weary sincerity. “ he’s not gonna starve, you know, ” he went on, kicking absently at a pebble that skittered across the pavement. “ i’d make sure of it. even if i had to shove a protein bar down his throat myself. ” the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile, but something like the memory of one.
“ still, ” he added after a beat, softer now, “ it’s a hell of a lot easier when it’s your lasagna instead. means we actually eat something that didn’t come in a styrofoam box. ” he left it there. unsaid but understood because gratitude was too heavy a language. he couldn’t begin to articulate what it meant. the relief of not having to think about dinner, of knowing that while the world was unraveling, someone was still anchoring the small, human details. her showing up every day was a lifeline disguised as routine. “ adrien. . . ” his voice faltered. the name was a stone he couldn’t quite lift. he shook his head slightly, eyes fixed on the faint shimmer of streetlights ahead. “ he’ll never say it, ” maximo murmured. “ but he notices. he just— ” he exhaled, slow and uneven. “ he can’t process it right now. ” they turned the corner toward her street, where the light took on a gentler hue. porch lamps glowing like halos, moths dancing clumsily through the haze. the world was quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet now. less funereal, more alive. he walked her all the way to her doorstep, keeping just a few feet of space between them. close enough to be protective, far enough to be polite. the air smelled faintly of jasmine from the neighbor’s garden, a fragile sweetness in the dark. marijoy fumbled with her keys, the metal clinking against the lock, her movements small and human and grounding in a way that nearly undid him. maximo lingered on the sidewalk, one hand still in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side. his presence was quiet but solid, the immovable kind of comfort that didn’t demand acknowledgment. a silent line drawn in the sand.
something's sprouted inside marijoy - rooted deep in the marrow and spreading quick like something infectious, all - consuming. something like worry; fear that crystallizes against the small hollow of her chest until her diaphragm pinches with it. until it burns with every breath inhaled, diamonds reverting to their original purpose as coal to fuel the soft - purring engine of her anxious heart. each day without zee is another toll taken on her body, her psyche - exhaustion evident in the lavender blooming beneath clouded eyes, unfamiliar to skin always left untarnished and faint, still, under the light layers of concealer marijoy tries her best to hide it beneath. she's managing well enough - because she always manages, even when she doesn't want to. even when she feels like she can't. it's the least she can do, she thinks, bringing reusable tote bags filled to the brim with packed - tight tupperware each day and every night to house 102. unease the burden of a well - cooked meal, of energy that's better spent elsewhere. marijoy doesn't know what else to do. what else to be - knows she's useless out in the woods, stumbling over every root her foot hooks against, hysterics lodged at the back of her throat. the kitchen is her calm, her peace - something to focus on that isn't the repeating thoughts of what if zee doesn't come back what if they're hurt out in the woods what if their heart starts rejecting what if they die alone and afraid and nobody's there to hold her hand what if what if what if what if what if what if what if -
cooking is easier than thinking. taking care of house 102, and anyone else who needs the comfort of a home - cooked meal, is easier than thinking. in the silence stretched between them, filled only by the sounds of a summer passing all - too - quick, marijoy tries, still, not to think. focuses instead on the soft sound of their steps, distant thunder that echoes inside their cage of mountain peaks, maximo breathing beside her. when she looks at him - she sees the small splinterings of a man usually composed, unraveled only ever intentionally, hairline fractures of stress tarnishing grecian marble. "it's not just for adrien," marijoy's voice is worn soft, head craning just to watch him in her blurred peripheral, "i'm doing it for you, too." her breath holds for a second; hand rubbing against her shoulder, sore from the constant back - and - forth, from the tote bag that still digs into muscle even in its absence. like a memory. "when my mom was sick and couldn't - when she was too tired - we took turns cooking. i'd only help because i was, like, six, but - my aunts would switch off every other day. never let my dad cook, even though he wanted to - but he was always tired, too, looking after my mom ... it helped, a lot, i think. always comfort foods, like humba or pochero. savory. warm. it kept us going - think it helped her pass on easier, too. knowing we were - that we took care of each other. tried to do the same with foster when my - when his - y'know?" her tone's gone thick; and she washes down the grief that beats a pulse of its own inside her with a small, humorless yet warm, laugh. the kind that tastes like acceptance. "i think i'm doing it for myself, too."
marijoy aches for home, sometimes - not the lodge that stands tall before them now, peeled logs warped with years of rain and wear; doorway painted a bright, bright teal that's almost harsh to look at, now - but home. the philippines. when her world felt small yet comfortable - when she could still feel her mom's arms around her. she still does, sometimes, when she closes her eyes - but everything feels so faraway now, distant memories that've only faded with time. memories that only exist inside her and her dad, only a phone call away, but still - it's not the same. "i know," it's almost like reassurance, her head eventually tilting to gaze up at maximo fully. "i know, max. don't worry - i'm just glad to do something, y'know? anything. you both can't survive off of protein bars and coffee forever. and i want - to be helpful. community takes care of each other. we take care of each other." the breeze carries away her words, pollen in the air - and her smile is softer, smaller. the bags beneath her eyes look heavier in the dark. her keys drop from her hands, slinking between her fingers before they crumble to the floor in a small clink - and marijoy stares at them, for a moment, her brain catching on itself as she exhales in small defeat. she swallows back the cry she knows is imminent as soon as her door closes behind her, and looks back at max, still standing on the sidewalk. "do you wanna come inside? just - for a little. i have hot chocolate, and face masks, and a teacup pig named flapjack. adrien wouldn't mind the - alone time, i think. thirty minutes. that's all."
FOR: frankie noel ! ( @cloyingblccd ).
DETAILS: way too early in the morning. like. between 4 - 5am. frankie's bedroom.
rusted metal creaks beneath their weight; the single echo in a soundless night, void of crickets and breeze - leaves at a standstill, like the entirety of hadden's gone silent. a collective breath held, waiting for the return of one of their own. waiting for the woods to spit zahara visser back up, whole and alive and safe. juniper's always been impatient. a gaze flittering between fingers in rounds of hide - and - seek, coat left forgotten in the wintertime as she barrels out the creaking front door; she's always hated waiting - suspense, the idea of not knowing. of change, in any form. for someone who considered themselves unpredictable, a loose wire, juniper hates change the most. their head feels as if it's going to split into two clean halves; anxiety feeling more like a ringing in their ears, and the ringing in their ears sounding more like the sticky footprints of finch pacing around the kitchen of apartment 12b into all hours of the night, worse than usual. the stuttering slam of cupboards. a restlessness that travels over the red yarned string connecting them at the pinkies and collects in her spine until june can't sleep either, because of course she can't. not there, not in that apartment - not surrounded by a nervous, unspoken buzz that still trembles in their fingertips as she pries frankie's bedroom window open.
their bedroom's never fully dark - an aquarium backlit in a soft light that stretches over the piles of clothes strewn across their floor; reptilian cages casting an orange glow over every darkened corner until the shadows themselves are dulled at the edges. until frankie is glowing beneath the light, too, bare skin illuminated in the barely - there darkness like the last glimpse of the sun before it dips beyond the horizon. familiarity wrapping itself around her ribcage, the ache in her bones almost comforting as she allows it to tug her through the window, closing it with a soft thud behind her. sneakers abandoned amongst miniature peaks of crumbled corduroy, pried off by the heel, a slight stumble in her step through difficult, worth - it terrain. the collapse against their bed is soft, mattress shifting beneath her weight as she crawls into the june - shaped imprint besides them, chin hooking gentle against the back of frankie's shoulder as her arm snakes around maroon - sheathed torso. they stir, just light enough that she's murmuring against their skin, "it's just me, frankie -" her nose nudging the back of their neck, small inhale, forehead pressing itself against mussed hair that catches onto each eyelash. juniper doesn't remember when frankie had started to feel like home, when they became the picture definition, exhibit c, but they had - they had, and it infuriated her and terrified her all the same. a mass that refused to dislodge itself from her chest - instead burrowing inside her and becoming a mess of a nest, memories nestled into the twigs of a porchlight always switched on, soft feathered clumps of hair pressed into the inside of a locket wound taut against the hollow of her neck, visible only to her. they're always with her, always in the forefront of her mind, even when she tries to will it away. june thinks she doesn't know how to exist without it, without them, with the small reminder - someone thinks you are good. someone thinks you are enough as you are.
juniper wishes it was enough to soothe every wrung - tight nerve in her body, the muscle memory that flinches her away from the flicker of falling ash, the echo in her mind that sounds equal part her father and equal part herself - you're a fucking rot. right down to the foundation, fucking up every single good thing life has to offer. a demolition site. her arm tightens against frankie, instinctually, voice a vibration down their spine as she mutters out, again," - it's just me, frank ... y'can go back to sleep. i just wanna ... have a good dream, for once. can't sleep without you." she wants to melt into the mattress; become the memory of something that's never existed, an open gape of misplaced cognizance that they'll call deja vu, linger on for too long before it's just another passing thought. she wishes it was her, lost in the woods, instead of zee - let it be someone who deserves to be lost, maybe afraid. definitely afraid. june thinks she'd be afraid. when isn't she? sometimes, that's all june feels like she's made of - fear in the form of a snarling maw and frothing canines, tearing the meat off of every hand that dares try to feed her in calculated frenzy. destruction of her own making. "miss you, like ... all the time," a half - lucid thought, groggy rasp fighting off the sleep that immediately wants to claim her, knowing now she can finally fucking rest, "don't wanna ... bite you, too."
there's always been something wrong with juniper. something deep inside them; something intrinsic, inherent - innate. she doesn't know when it began; just that they've always felt it. neurons misfired. chemical wires crossed. a singular match lit in an already burning room with no windows and no door out; just smoke collecting, caliginous and billowing against a ceiling on the verge of collapse until oxygen itself learns how to burn. until it snuffs itself out, leaves nothing but carbon dioxide and the vague realization that she's suffocating in it. a slow death, twenty four years and counting. maybe that's why she's confused - why they confuse the simple act of wanting for a pain that feels as if it's hollowing them out. carving into her chest, unmindful of the ribs that live there, of the lungs that stutter out smoke and carbon dioxide and words she wants to say but knows she can't - a taste in her mouth that's warm and sour, like beer left to sit out in the sun. yet she still craves it, the taste, the lukewarm burn down her throat. they feel flayed - the deep well of her heart left exposed for anyone to stare down into and know, just know, that her echoes have gone unanswered. no matter how long she's spent screaming down it - waiting for another, better version of herself to scream back and tell her what to say, what to do - how to be a fucking person. the column of wrapped sheet metal is cold against skin gone clammy, the kind of cold that leaves juniper shivering in a room filled with overheating bodies and the buzzing of neon floodlights overhead that she can hear, now, just beneath the crackling bass. speakers amped into overdrive, blowing themselves out until everything's white noise. a useless distraction from the brightly lit screen she doesn't look away from, not until her eyes sting and her throat feels as if it's closing in on itself. an anaphylactic reaction to the very thought of being - something. something she's never been taught. something greater than she knows how to be.
they feel the shift in slaughterhouse's energy before they see it; the slight parting of rippled crowd, the evasive yet perverted curiosity of eyes that've never learned to stray away from the ugly. her gaze, red - rimmed with a high that isn't enough, flickers towards the center of it all; a moth drawn to flame until its wings are engulfed in them - and adrien is a beacon burning bright. features contorted into sharp, angular lines of brimmed frustration, neons passing overhead until each shadowed contour of his profile twists itself into a new knife to drive the point home with, and juniper can't hear the words he mutters low against his breath - but she can feel them, the unfurling intent, the crosshairs dotting along darla's skin. his mark to maim. something splinters inside june, hairline fractures in a dam that threatens not waterflow, but molten lava. their spine unravels from its own want to fold into itself, the chill that had pressed itself against their frame thawed out by a rage almost comforting in its childhood familiarity - and they're alert, now, awake and laser - focused on the scene unfolding away from her. on shocked, doe - like eyes that dig out the worry from where it's buried beneath her flesh like a gravesite violated. on a hound whose heels spark hellfire, a seventh sin left in his wake as he dissipates back into the crowd and seemingly disappears. juniper's well - like heart echoes out it's only demand of her, it's only response, a single - worded divine prophecy from a god she doesn't believe in: defend. a command that comes too late, that doesn't direct her towards the bleeding martyr laid out against dancefloor but towards the hellhound who seeps damnation, fleeing from his own destruction. from the immaculate corpse he's left behind, a statue left only as a reminder of his capabilities.
juniper doesn't see cerberus as she trails behind him - red lights refracting off his leathered back like a warning signal as they both step into decayed hallway - just a damned dog. a good for nothing canine. "hey -" a voice gone rugged, low and unassuming beneath the magma crawling its way to the surface of her skin. "- fuckin', hey! adrien!" her hand latch onto his forearm, the soft scratch of leather as her nails grip into it - as she tugs him back to face her; an ugly snarl carved into their countenance like it's always belonged there. "what'd the fuck you say to darla, huh? what'd she ever fuckin' do to you? fuckin' - leaving her there looking fuckin' - stupid, like you held a gun to her head and told her she's fuckin' nothing -" the rave fades away, leaving only them and the untapped fury trying to pry itself out of her. "- d'you fuckin', get off on it or what? making everyone around you fuckin' miserable 'cos you're nothing but a fuckin' crybaby bitch? is that it? did you not get your milk yet? your fuckin' diaper changed? burped? fuckin' - held? 'cos god fuckin' knows your parents probably never fuckin' did -" there's no spark in her eyes, just a pooling, unending blackness that bleeds into his gaze as she holds tight onto it. an unwavering force that demands attention, that demands to be fucking heard, "- you're a fuckin' cunt, y'know that?" her fingers nudge themselves beneath the warm metal sheathed against a body otherwise bare, skin gone hot with infuriation, until a dime bag is pinched between index and middle - pried out from where its been laid against her. two little pills, yellow smiley faces etched into them, look up at them before she's crumbling the plastic in her palm and throwing them against adrien's chest. they catch against the metal chains adorning him before fluttering onto the sticky ground beneath them in a slow, sad descent. feather light. "happy fuckin' birthday, adrien. spent a good thirty fuckin' minutes hanging around nate's decrepit ass trying to snatch those for you 'cos i thought it'd be fuckin' nice - 'cos i wanted us to have some fuckin' fun. go ahead, pick them up. maybe your asshole will fuckin' - loosen up juuust enough so you can pull out whatever fuckin' stick you've got lodged up there and i don't gotta fuckin' worry about you going for darla's jugular next. you a big boy, adrien? can you handle that? or do you still need to throw a fuckin' fit?"
FT: juniper liao. @distortedblurs
INT: ancient toilets @ slaughterhouse rave.
One thing had lead to another, and Dexter had wound up hemmed into a tiny cubicle with a headless Minotaur who had some of the most impeccable winged eyeliner he'd ever seen, if he could bring his eyes to focus enough to notice; it was difficult, lines off the back of the toilet considered, which then transgressed into a rather furious make-out session. In a demonstration of what Dexter could only discern as fucking inhuman strength, said Minotaur spun him around and pinned him to the cubicle door. Clearly, hinges rusted beyond comprehension, the structure wasn't sufficient enough to account for a fucking beast from another dimension thrashing Dexter about like a mere Polly Pocket, and it buckled beneath the force, disjointing entirely. A loud slam of the fallen door saw Dexter lay beneath the Minotaur, who promptly picked themselves up, dusted down and disappeared into the crowd without a single word. It was all Dexter could do to roll onto his side with a grunt, prop his cheek up with his palm and lounge on the broken cubicle door leisurely as if it was his personally designated chaise longue. His beetle antenna had gone crooked. "Enchanté, good sir." It was June who had been unfortunate enough to witness the entire spectacle. Inevitably, she was waiting for a cubicle to free up, a good neck crane upwards to get a look at her. "I'm, uh... yeah, the toilet man, just got on duty." Another soft grunt. Fucking hell, had that Minotaur cracked a fucking rib? "Would you care for a fuckin'... mint, before your tinkle?"
the bathroom smells distinctly of piss and beer - the cracked, tiled floor beneath their boots sticky with one or the other, or probably - definitely - both, and it's almost funny how familiar it feels. ammonic nostalgia for a home only a few blocks away, one she's only left a few hours prior - and yet, juniper swears she can hear the breathy groans of beefcake kiefer. the same breath she hears almost every night, muffled beneath a pillow as she tries to smother him to death during one of his roidmares - an auditory hallucination june's considering turning herself in for when the stall door bursts open. collapses in on itself. dexter thrown to the ground, iridescent - scales? - shimmering with each flex of their back, and an all - too - familiar minotaur running from the scene of the crime. "jesus fuckin' christ -" her voice is hoarse, smoke still curled tight in her throat from a garden fairy's stolen joint, plucked from right between two stained - green fingers in passing. "- that's what those sounds were? thought you were fuckin' - constipated. moaning out in sheer fuckin' agony." the toe of her boot nudges against the expanse of his ribcage; a soft press, like june's yet to decide if she's going to crush them beneath her sole. "i'm about to piss myself, and you're asking if i'd like a fuckin' mint? how about a fuckin' - new door, first? like, am i supposed to just piss out in the open, for all to fuckin' see? do i look like a fuckin' exhibitionist to you, dex? like i got a goddamn piss kink? huh?" there's a split - second hesitation, a decision made silently in her mind - before june's bending over dexter, the longest link of chainmail adorning their body giving his cheek a firm little tap as she grasps their arm and yanks them upright. "c'mon, piss boy, it's your lucky fuckin' day - you're getting a promotion! toilet man to fuckin' - stall door. your parents must be so proud - can practically fuckin' ... hear them cheering for you now. ooooh, aaaah, yay dex, yaaay! is this everything they ever fuckin' imagined for you, or what?"
budapest still lingers on him like a chokehold, bruising the tender flesh of a neck hung low in an iron - like grip and threatening to wring him breathless. a pup held up by its scruff in the maws of uncontrollable grief - of a guilt that lights up each nerve ending until laszlo is nothing but a constellation of it, skin illuminated beneath the black leather that panels his chest and protects what little left of his heart that he has left to give. the week plays out in a blur of split vision; one version of laszlo kovach here, lost in a crowd of moss - wreathed creatures and feather - fell angels whose touch he pushes away from like it burns too much for him to bare, and the other - there. in a hospital room with the curtains drawn shut, lending the shadow of oszvald kovach just enough space to linger in without the scorch of sunlight to drive him away. one version of him seeking out, always seeking out, the one constant on his mind, the one thread that keeps his sanity tethered together and keeps him placated; the other frayed at the seams, calloused fingers brushing against the strings of a cello like it weren't just second nature, but instinct that's always existed inside him. a singular, desperate beg to be remembered, knowing that that his anger - his retaliation - would all be for fucking nothing if oszvald kovach didn't remember the hurt he wrought. if his own father couldn't recognize him, not out of refusal, but because his own mind had betrayed him; rendered him into the shell of the man laszlo once knew and still feared. he had always existed like this - like a trail of crumbs left behind something - someone - great, like the remnants of a legacy he'd always been destined to falter beneath. good, but never great - great, but never overpowering the one who had begun it all, who had seared their name into musical history and left laszlo to ultimately disappoint. it'd been the first word his father had uttered to him, voice rumbling out from concaved chest and slowly splitting each string of laszlo's cello with each death - defying croak. i'm disappointed. végre visszajöttél hozzám, és még mindig nem tanultál semmit. még mindig csak egy vicc vagy, egy álság, egy hamis isten. you never deserved the love i gave you.
the words are still ignited inside him - a low, careful flame running the candle's wick short, until his lungs are blackened and burned. reducing him to short, stuttering breaths and spat up tar - leftover rot. a stickiness in his throat that he's not sure is from his own, nauseating regret, or the week - long high he's yet to come down from. a salve meant to soothe his wounds, both physical and emotional. both the crescentic scabs burrowed deep into the meat of his palms - the same that reflect on smaller, softer hands - and the secondhand knowledge of the destruction he left in the wake of his absence, shepherd devi's unraveling a shot heard around the world and aimed directly for laszlo's already marred chest. a foreign object lodging into the fibrous tissue of his too - human heart and embedding itself there with the sole purpose of ruining him. the week away from shepherd had done just that, had left him stripped raw and searching for the familiarity in a limb turned phantom, knowing full well he had severed it himself and had been bleeding out since; double - taking each corner turned in deluded hope that shepherd devi would fucking be there despite it. laszlo knew better; could still hear the mirror shattering underneath shepherd's curled fist, the honesty that threatened to splinter his voice as he told laszlo you're the only one who's seen me, you fucking cunt. you're the only one i let see me. and he had left - laszlo had fucking left, anyways, memory warping its thin grasp on the texts exchanged between him and leona: leaving just makes it seem like you're running away. shepherd devi had shown laszlo every part of himself - and he had ran away from him. abandoned him when he needed him. an action with no foreseeable redemption. love something unspoken, something laszlo had never cared to know, not from his father or the adoring fans who cooed over a boy too young to understand just how fucking heavy the weight of fame would be. love something he never cared to crave, to want, another uncomfortable constriction against a chest finally freed -
until shepherd. if he demanded it, if he asked it of him, laszlo would pry himself open. it wouldn't be a second thought, a moment's hesitation - laszlo would flay himself on his own knife, all too willing - all too wanting. hands imprecise yet confident beneath the tremble of pain, eyes not drawn to his own operation but to the man overseeing it. if shepherd wanted it from him - he'd extract his ribs one by one, each small, fragile bone pressed firmly into the calloused palms of someone incapable of holding something so delicate without crushing it to fine powder inside his clenched fist. if loving him meant dying - meant choking on chlorine and terror, meant being carved into and hollowed out - laszlo wouldn't hesitate. he needed it, to be loved by shepherd - needed him, and needed to see him now; desperation seeping into his bones as the realization strikes him hard - body weaving in between crooked elbows and antlered heads thrown back in mirth, rings carelessly scratching against exposed flesh as he pushes his way through the tight - packed crowd and towards the head of bottle fucking blonde his gaze had hooked onto since the moment he'd stepped into the slaughterhouse. "szívem -" he hadn't spoken it since their fight, a word too holy to belong to anyone else, to be anyone else - and it feels like swallowing back his own blood, like something metallic and frantic permanently staining itself against his tongue. coating every word he says, "- finally fucking found you. fucking - cunt." fond and erratic, his palm splayed flat against shepherd's back as he comes up from behind him, chest brushing against a concert black shoulder. knowing full well that shepherd has all the right, all the will, to shove him away - their last conversation not forgotten, but willingly ignored beneath the drug haze and his own fucking relief - shepherd devi in front of him again, tangible and real. alive, alive, alive. "mindenhol láttalak - like a fucking apparition. death knocking on my fucking - door." laszlo's voice lowers against his ear, a taunt he's unable to stop from spilling out from his lips - pupils blown beyond recognition, "heard from a little fucking - birdie, you've been causing trouble. miss me that bad, yeah? couldn't even try to keep your fucking - hands clean. what else have i fucking ... missed, then?"
the gods and monsters rave bled neon into the sleepy bones of hadden. a little americana town whose only claim to the otherworldly was a single, a long decommissioned railway tunnel and a stubborn local legend about some virgin eating cryptid. it had no business hosting a bacchanal that throbbed with a bassline felt in the marrow, a pulse that seemed to vibrate the very foundations of the town. but here, in the cathedral of manufactured smoke and fractured light, ophie had shed her skin and remade herself. she was a creature of exquisite paradox. chains of raw, unpolished crystal dripped from her wrists and throat, catching the light not with a gem’s sparkle, but with the cold, ancient gleam of stolen starlight. her hair, a constellation of intricate braids, was coiled and studded with baroque pearls that glowed like a string of drowned moons in the dark tide of it all. she was nu incarnate. not the egyptian sky, but the older, deeper concept. a primordial chaos, the endless abyss, the dark water before the first breath of creation. and she wore the void not as a shroud, but as a dare, her distant smile a scythe. wading through the press of writhing bodies and the fog machine mist that smelled of ozone and cheap perfume, she moved with an unnerving grace, a shark in a school of glittering fish. then, she nearly collided with something towering, impossibly soft, and utterly surreal.
a rabbit. or the specter of one, inhabited by some brave or foolish soul. the costume was a masterpiece of absurdity, a giant of plush dull fur with long ears that swayed like pendulums beneath the epileptic strobe lights, its glassy eyes reflecting the chaos. for a heartbeat, ophie simply stared, the universe’s inherent weirdness clicking into perfect, beautiful place. then she laughed, a low, delighted chime that somehow cut through the thunderous wall of music. “ you, ” she said, her voice a melodic murmur designed to lure listeners closer into her orbit. she tilted her head, the pearls in her hair catching a sweep of violet laser light, gleaming like malevolent eyes. “ an anthropomorphic omen in a sea of lazy zeus costumes and bare chested werewolves. you’ve simply got to tell me what forgotten deity or beautiful catastrophe you’re supposed to be. the jade hare of the moon, presiding over lunacy and impossible choices? the leporid trickster who gnaws at the edges of reality until it unravels? or maybe— ” her grin widened, becoming something sharp and conspiratorial, “ just an avatar of the walk of shame, rendered in plush. ” her eyes, kohl rimmed and dark as old ink, glittered with the same strange, captured light as the crystals on her skin. unlike most, who would have scoffed or shrunk from the sheer absurdity of the giant rabbit, she only leaned closer, her voice dropping into a register thick with genuine intrigue and a flicker of dark amusement. “ whatever it is, i like it. you look like divine trouble. ”
it's warm inside the furred suit that adorns cain's long, awkward body - years of isolation leading to skin stretched across bone, meat that resisted to cling onto him no matter what'd been consumed - and he should feel overheated, suffocated, and he knows this - but instead it's only comforting. a security blanket from the neon - washed world pulsating around them, attention given in wild looks of bemusement than the steady gaze of morbid curiosity and pity. he can watch without being watched - fool himself into thinking that he's living again, that the last eight years of their life was a trick of the eye. that the cult was something nonexistent, a nightmare he'd confused for reality. that his psyche wasn't a pliable plaything, easily molded beneath hands that promised sweet release but instead crushed him underneath their palms. a cage of a thousand fingers digging into sallow flesh, tugging at his limbs with distraught pleas for salvation until he felt sinew threaten to snap, tear, shred. sometimes, it's all cain remembers. they wont let it consume them tonight, choosing to be lulled into a false sense of security in the erraticity that entrances him, an unmovable force in a wave of unstopping bodies. the mesh hindering their vision leaves the floodlights showering over them dotted and blurred, each person leaving a darting line of exposure in their wake - but ophelia, ophelia he sees.
crystalline and fragmented, a beacon that clings onto neon and spits it back out, shards that threaten to slice into every body she glides past with ethereal ease. it feels like he's been gifted with an audience for something beyond comprehension, beyond human. a concept of beginnings, something so intangible he almost wants to reach out and test it for himself. see if his hand would brush into her, or if her skin would shroud over him like a waterfall parted. maybe she would dissolve into mist; become a memory they jot down with the desperation of a man veering towards insanity, until pen runs free of ink and his veins become well. there's a flicker of a smile, sheathed beneath the rabbit mask, its own sharp and unflinching. "i'm ... you've g-iven me t-too much credit, i'm afraid ... feels like i'm under threat of d-disappointing." their words are slow, practiced, and his joints creak beneath the pressure of her presence as they tower over her, ear bending as his head tilts to the side. "nothing as imaginative ... i'm afraid i've never been a ... pioneer of creativity. t-trickster, however ... feels fitting. maybe i'll cloak beneath it. say i'm s-something eldritch and ancient ... unforgiving." he chuckles low and sheepish, all too willing to reveal the cards up his sleeves, "it's ... from a book ... movie, too. think if i had to d-describe it ... i'm a paradox. that ... thin veil b-between parallels, a f-fork in a road that only leads to ... tragedy. up to you to d-decide what's more ... palatable. but maybe ... you like the t-taste of it. the worse the better." cain straightens, his eyes still caught against her every glittering edge - wonders if she can feel it, the heaviness - the weariness, "nothing d-divine about it ... you, however ... feel like the beginning of every end. the snake that eats it-itself. just ... lacking the scales."
FOR: nate averescu ! ( @rhythmicals ).
DETAILS: slaughterhouse rave. the dancefloor. around 11:11pm.
eden is a woman possessed. the night pulses through her, leaving her near - breathless and untethered by reality, hips rolling against a body that only serves to hold her steady. a name had been uttered, some flimsy introduction or rather - reminder - of who they'd been, but it had floated away from her consciousness, a careless laugh bubbling out of her before she untangles herself free from the crowd. she feels undone in a way she so rarely is, like floating, like fucking flying - a small stumble in her step as she reaches the edge of the dancefloor and grasps onto nate's shoulders with a splintering grin, "hey thief," animosity a dull knife replaced by something sharper, a glinting mischievousness that dances in her trailing gaze - like she could find something solid in nate, like he could anchor her and reel her back to shore. "you've got such a pout on you, you know that? all work and no play makes jack a very, very dull boy." the golden ribcage wrapped tight round her torso, like fingers against a throat stretched thin, glitters beneath the flickering lights - treasure chest left ajar, left for the taking. "i know amine doesn't have you working tonight - it'd disrupt his very hard work of oogling at abel from behind the bar all night, so why are you here? prowling the, the - perimeter and lingering all about - can't tell if you're a wallflower or just some kind of pervert."
FOR: river maheswaran ! ( @collegiatesins ).
DETAILS: slaughterhouse rave. makeshift bar again. around 10:32pm.
the rave feels more like punishment than revelry - community service he's sentenced himself to for the simple crime of caring too much. when he had come back home - permanent this time - and when he stepped back down onto the sun - fried, yellowing grass of hadden and breathed in the morning fog, amine had been convinced that he could do it alone. that three is always lucky, always the charm, and he could survive it this time. alone, like he had designated himself to being, convinced that he'd been no one else's burden but his own. he'd been wrong - like so many times before - because he wasn't. he wasn't alone, and he wasn't his own burden. he was someone else's, too. a rogue figure in the crowd, tentacles brushing against bare arms and naked torsos and parting through the crowd like it were nothing more but salted water. he knows it's river before he slips the mask off, tanned arms holding it awkward against his bare chest; a curling intuition in his gut that tells him - there he is. the boy you ruined. the boy you left for dead.
amine still remembers river as that, as the boy from all those years ago, whose eyes shone bright and eager as he strapped a guitar case across his back and stepped into salvation row's tour bus. looked as if the world was spun out right in front of him, like he could reach out a hand and encapsulate an entire star inside his palm. like he could swallow it whole and become one himself. a star. amine had always wanted it, too - a desperation to leave hadden and everyone in it behind, to prove himself bigger than fucking life. but now memory cloaks itself as nightmare each time he closes his eyes, paralysis rendering heavy limbs useless as a younger, shinier river twitches against the sticky floor of a too - small bathroom, pupils blown beyond recognition, beyond pleasure. panic is a phantom that presses against his throat, now, heartbeat too slow and too quick and too faint and too fucking loud in his ears - just like then. but they're not there, on the tour bus, and river's older, now, too. his eyes carry the same worn look that amine's do, sleep - deprived lavender a permanent etch against waterline, but he's alive. looks better than amine does, sweat a cold sheen against the back of his neck as the panic eases itself back down into temporary restraints, and amine is reminded, again, that river is alive.
"water?" an offer laced with an exhaustion that cannot be cured by sleep alone, lips curling into a small, almost sheepish smile, as he busies his hands with the cooler behind him. fingers dipping into icy water and shocking his system back into something functioning, something he can fucking use, before producing a water bottle. amine slides it against the makeshift bar, an conveyer belt whose service was no longer needed, wetted hands pressing against the surface. "you pull that fucking ... creature out from the shores of mumbai itself?" his chin juts out in a small gesture towards the tentacled mask, head tilting to the side with a curiosity better kept to himself. "always thought you were gonna get fucking ... whisked away by a rogue wave, back then. glad to see it didn't happen. how're you doing, kid?"
It’d been a while since Abel had been a bartender, but serving drinks and flashing pleasant smiles feels like muscle memory. Most people passerbys, a quick conversation, some even making Abel chuckle and feel at ease despite how overstimulated he’d been throughout the entirety of the rave. It’s a bit easier to handle, with Amine by his side - a familiar face that gives him constant comfortability, sharing gentle grins with each other, a passing clutch of Abel’s hand into his - squeezing, reassuring, flushed and giddy over it. He’s not even sure when it happens, the sudden shift in Amine, but he hears it. Glancing over quickly when Abel hears him snap, watching as a young woman flinches back, startled - the guilt that passes over Amine’s features at his own incapability to reel himself in. Not that he usually needed it, always responsible when it comes to his needs towards sobriety. But it’s a different atmosphere, and Abel can recognize when he’s needed. Sharing eye contact with Amine and jumping into action before he even has a chance to utter Abel’s name. “Okay - you’re okay,” He soothes, gently, hand wrapping around Amine’s waist and pulling him back, forcing him onto the stool at the back of their makeshift bar. “Breathe - give me a second. Don’t move.” Demanding, stern - a rare form for Abel, when he wasn’t at work, especially with Amine, but he knows how important his sobriety is to him, how desperate he must feel to call out for Abel amongst the crowd. “I’ll come back for you. Okay?” he whispers, making sure they properly lock eyes, that Amine registers that Abel isn’t leaving him to deal with this turmoil on his own while attempting to tend to the audience building.
“Robin!” Abel remembers when she used to work at Weasel’s, how close she is to Amine - gossiping wildly beside the bar with Nate and raising a brow at Abel, obviously annoyed at being interrupted. “Please - guys, take over? For just… a bit,” Nate’s a bit clueless, but Abel jerks his head back when he makes eye contact with Robin, watching as she takes in Amine’s hunched form resting on the stool Abel had left him on. “Move,” A fast quip - feverish protection that only family can feel for each other as she rushes past Abel to hunch at the knees, check in on Amine. The two of them speaking softly, before she nods, helps him to a stand to pass him off to Abel like she’s walking him down the aisle. Trusting the doctor to take care of someone she clearly cared about enough that it made her jaw set, give him a warning glance, before uttering, “Take as long as you need. But you take care of him, I’m serious.” And Abel gets it - he understands their bond, their connection, that this isn’t easy for Robin to give him the reigns. All he can do is nod and hold Amine close again at the hip, murmuring into his ear as he guides them slowly down an abandoned hallway behind the makeshift bar. “Here,” There’s an onslaught of rooms that clearly haven’t been touched in ages at the back of the Slaughterhouse, dusty and muggy, when Abel pulls them into the first one he sees, but it feels like the least of his concerns. “Okay - it’s just us. Tell me what you need.” There’s a clatter as Abel allows his cane to simply drop to the ground so that he can scoop up Amine’s wrist, lift it and press it to his own chest. Where his heart must be pattering erratically, in need of space and time and care to settle it again. An attempt to get him to return to his body completely. “You’ve been doing good all night. Really good. Breathe. You haven’t done anything wrong at all. And you won’t - okay? We have all the time in the world.”
it's hard not to feel like the same kid from twenty years ago, the broken man from not even a decade back. the same, impulsive amine. the amine who thought godhood was a crowd chanting his name like mantra, like worship, like someone to be fucking revered. the amine who wouldn't stop - couldn't stop - scared that if he weren't in perpetual movement, he'd be forgotten. discarded like an old toy, a string with no pull and nothing more to say. that he'd be hadden's amine, again. the boy who belonged to no one but a town that never wanted him to begin with. that he'd be salvation row's amine, again. the man who wanted to be remembered, no matter the price. what a fucking joke. his throat burns with bile that refuses to rise, to corrode scar tissue into new wounds, but he still can't speak. the words stick to the roof of his mouth, tangle against his tongue. all he can do is nod, once, and allow himself to be pulled into abel's orbit. something safe. something that reminds him that he's different, now, that everything is different now. he watches beneath fluttering eyelids and a gaze that can't focus on just one thing, hopping between abel and the gathering crowd and their wandering eyes and robin and his constricted breathing and the pounding behind his eyes and nate and the strobe lights and how he needs them to fucking stop, how he needs to fucking get out of here, how he can't fucking do this he can't fucking do this he can't fucking do this -
when amine looks at robin, he only sees what he's afraid she'll become if he gives in. if he collapses into himself like a dying star - the beginnings of a blackhole that'll consume everything he's come to care for. she'll be alone. she'll be like him. she'll become him, and everything he wishes he wasn't. it's hard to look her in the eyes - the murmur of her voice, the soft soothing tone he wished she'd never have to use on him, lost to the ringing in his ears that drowns out everything around him and leaves him feeling isolated, despite robin and her hands lifting him back up onto his own feet. and despite abel, who he tries not to press all his weight against as he guides him to dust - swept salvation. his voice catches on cobwebs and humid embarrassment, a crackling that catches on the stale air and tries to render him speechless again. "i need ..." amine forces in a breath, long and struggling against what feels so fucking heavy in his chest, "... a fucking drink." the admission feels like humiliation, like a ritual he keeps setting himself up for time after time again despite knowing he's the lamb, the slaughter, the sacrifice. his laugh, small and humorless, staggers out of him like uneven steps on a too - steep staircase, leaving him a bit more breathless than before, but the ringing dulls, and his vision clears, and he can feel abel's heartbeat thrumming against his own in mismatched synchrony. "jesus christ," is murmured out next, quiet beneath the stifling weight of the air around them, his fingers flexing out against abel's chest, feeling for the warmth he already knows is there. "was s'ppose to fucking ... hit on you all night. make you fucking ... squirm." there's an ounce of self - pity to his voice that he's lost the energy to contain, the corners of his mouth twisting up into a worn smile that doesn't reach his eyes. that can't, not yet. his breath staggers again as he inhales, and he can still feel it, the want, crawling slow against his skin as it searches for the most malleable parts of him to burrow into. "i don't want to go back." an unspoken but i will follows, but he doesn't know what for. whether it's the rave he can still hear in the greater distance, or the addiction he's inherited alongside dark brown eyes and thick, furrowed brows - amine doesn't know. he never knows.
