RUN, NEON TIGER!

a part of red ridge rp.

[dustlnds]

marr —​

even inside ,     his eyes resemble a hawk’s ,     in which pupils ,  tunneling surroundings ,     watches her carefully     from where he poses himself     to where she poses to be ,     him resting comfortably against booth ,     two seats down from the door ,    with hands busy     –     for more or less no reason besides the swivel of his wrist watch ,     the habitual twirl of a weighty ring finger against index and thumb ,     a menu     –     absentmindedly welcomed when it’s handed to him by hostess ,     which forces reason to spare a glance ,     a polite nod ,  nearly missed ,     but not dismissed upon his focus .     even then ,     he hardly seeks a picture ,     barely skims a line ,    not until he’s sure of the blonde’s whereabouts ,     certain that they’ll be heading one way     instead of the other ,     for she has every right to walk off .     it’s not like he’s going to arrest her ,     or rather can ,     for that matter . 

it’s not like he has the right to interrogate her either .     in fact ,  the word     bites into him like a tooth     or a fang     when she jokes ,     provoking him to look back up ,     acknowledge her presence as if it’s for the first time .     “ –  let this be on the record    –     this isn’t an interrogation . ”     perhaps others would defiantly disagree .     yet ,     he’s technically on break now ,  isn’t he ?     “ just a talk  …  ”     eyes soft ,  he doesn’t let the inflection of his voice run authoritative     just when it nearly does .     puts his hand out briefly ,     gestures the seat across from him      as more of an offer than a demand ,     a choice she’s entitled to ,     agree or disagree to .     “ i don’t want you to feel uncomfortable .     i’m more interested in your workplace than i am with you . ”

—

predictably, the words don’t soothe her. though the old, youth-driven instinct is to step right out and take cover (mental inventory takes her back to the dustland, points at one single piece of incriminated illegal goods sitting under the bed — not nearly enough to justify her leaping out of a cop’s attention, but would it be enough to finally make her crumble?). natalie remains tense, movements automatic in response to his suggestion. when she sits, she resembles a barbie doll — limbs straight, knees at a perfect 90 degree angle, back straightened up right. the way her mother urged her to sit — a sharp finger planted against her spine, at times she could still feel it.

distance is kept by holding her seat a couple feet away from the table, wary gaze over the man’s features. she finds hersef observing, looking for clues: points to exploit in order to slip out of this focus she never asked for to begin with. he’s controlled — she can spot some nervousness, but that might just be part of the job. that might just be part of the town. an eyebrow perks — she turns, takes a look around the diner. is that the place he’s interested in? if not for some minor laundering and the usual carelessness in handling receipts, blue hill seems hardly qualified for an inspection. it must be the other job. her smile is controlled: not appreciative, just wanting to gain some form of defensiveness. “funny. my workplace is my house, so...”. eyes narrow then in cautious curiosity. sure there would be plenty of reasons for him to wanna take a look at the dustland, and they can’t be related to the bag beneath her bed — must be the other thing. the valencia-sanctioned bullshit that comes around like clockwork, every week. “alright”. bridging the distance, natalie plants her folded arms over the edge of the table; a degree more determinate than before. “what do you want from me?”

[dustlnds]

ivan —

Her laugh, genuine and bright, didn’t go unnoticed. He didn’t look at her then, his eyes still focused on the blooming dandelion, but they were narrower now, the result of the grin against his fair features – however, he could hear the joy in her tone, real joy, even if it had been little more than usual. “You are a hippie, Nat. Have you seen where you live?” He glanced up at her now, the suns hard glare against her dirty blonde hair, highlighting golden streaks. 

Ivan nodded at her latter question, half shrugging before turning away again, his eyes settling on graffiti on the outside of a brick building across the street. “Sure, yeah. I mean, I’ve loved cooking since I was a little kid, I grew up on a farm, literally made food,” he paused, the question striking a few chords in him that he didn’t expect to ever linger on – the idea that maybe there was something else out there for him, that maybe his passions were outside of the kitchen or at least, not directly involved in it. But, regardless, he always returned to the excitement of food – the art of it, the expression; it’s colors, the way ingredients came together like a harmonious chord, a melody. 

“But yeah, I just never really sat myself down to ask whether or not this was it, you know? I mean it is, it has to be, it excites me, I’m passionate about it,” he looked at her again, “the homecook thing was more me wanting to avoid the stress of having a semi-famous restaurant, always having to make sure people aren’t slacking, own, manage, pay the rent, all those things. I wish I could just make money cooking, without having to worry about the rest.” He smiled and took a deep breath, bringing his elbows to rest against his knees. “So, when are you off? You have any plans later?”

—

     her laughter, evidently amused, rolled through after his words. not that she’d ever labeled herself — that implied a conscious effort to create a persona and the persona her conscious efforts would ever focus on creating would end and begin with ‘penitent sinner’. but if she did stop to think, examine the shape her life had taken after unshackling herself from the bitterness, the coils that had made her feel trapped before — yeah. that was some serious hippie shit. 

      and maybe she was a character, someone acting out a script, but perhaps that was the point. the script she’d been acting before red ridge had been a dark, lazy one: no plot, no resolution, just a vague smudge of grey and no real character development. she let her gaze focus on ivan, her attention on his words: perhaps he, too, found some comfort in building himself a character — so he wouldn’t lose the thread, so he wouldn’t let life throw him on the sidelines. 

     natalie stretched her legs out, eyes returning to her lap, relaxes and yet attentive to his words, letting them echo inside of her, spark another conversation. did she know what he was talking about? that same passion, the fervor? a gentle smile curled her lips — perhaps she didn’t. not yet. she was still picking up the pieces of whatever was left of her true, living side. “hey, if i had money i’d love to pay you to cook. guess you just gotta pick richer friends”. the smile then was more a grin, bright to display complicit playfulness — short-lived, quickly turning into a groan first, then the exhausted sigh of a tired, tired waitress. “it’s a long haul today — won’t get off ‘til like, eight”. a vague, defeated gesture of her hand, then once again back to look at him, eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. “why, you wanna talk me into trying out at steinbord?”

[dustlnds]

ivan —

–

Ivan huffed, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips as he lowered himself to sit against the curb beside her. Natalie was just about the only person who Ivan had been relatively nice to – nicest to, at that. How could anyone be mean to her? It was like she was crumbling at everything thrown her way, sympathy was all he could muster when he’d met with her. And it had been several days, nearly two weeks since he’d seen her last. 

“Suit yourself, but I mean, you get to play with flowers and little woodland ingredients like einebær and clover leaves. Imagine getting paid for what you enjoy doing. What a concept, huh?” He leaned over, bumping arms with her gently before settling his sights on a long dandelion leaf that had grown from the pavement – nature’s resistance never ceasing to amaze him. He thought of several variations of salad with that single leaf, even a coulis, maybe. “Anyway, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, I’ll be honest. Sometimes I wish I settled for being a home cook.”

—

    “oh, come on”. her laughter was genuine, louder than the usual hushed breathing she’d let out, merely a way to testify to her still being alive. it rang truer now, enjoying the gentle, unaddressed warmth of a friendly connection. sometimes she’d sit in bed and truly count her blessings: they’d have the name of damien, of rowan, ivan too — and days like this one, where the sky would take on the shade of a gloomy, watery grey, she’d tell herself it was enough. a friend sitting by her side, a flower blooming for the ground: all of that, it was enough. 

    “you make me sound like i’m some kind of hippie”, natalie chuckled, following his eyes to let her gaze focus on the dandelion. truth be told, she’d thought about asking him for a place at steinbord — sure would feel somewhat more dignifying than coming home with her hair smelling like burnt oil every day. still the usual instinct would set in: the one that said the lower fringes of society where the ones she belonged to, not out there, where things were fragile and delicate and could’ve broken at a single sight from her. but his next words, or rather the one they picked on, draw sudden interest from her: a resonating note, something she could maybe begin to understand. crossing her arms against her knees, natalie turned towards him. “what do you mean?”, eyebrows furrowed, her look somewhere between puzzled and genuinely caring. “you got your own restaurant, you’re like, famous — wasn’t that what you wanted?”

[dustlnds]

ivan —

–

“Is she around, or?” Ivan’s six-foot-four and a half frame leaned against the counter of the diner, his elbows resting against the hard…plastic top? Or maybe it was wood. Or that sort of weird plastic from the 80s that corporations liked to make look like it was wood – the same wood-looking plastic on the outside of those ugly station wagons everyone in Red Ridge thought was cool to bring back. Blue hues scanned the tables of the diner, a few onlookers staring at him, probably having known who he was. Ivan’s fame was barely remembered, truth be told. He could care less about it but others always had a way of reminding him.

“She’s on her break, probably outside smoking or something,” the woman in front of him sighed, wiping the soda tap with a half-dirty rag. Really fucking sanitary, this place. “You guys don’t even know where your employees are? Wonderful dedication to your staff –” the words left him as he made his way out, spotting Natalie a few feet away on the curb. He smirked as he approached – “I told you that if you wanted to work at my place, you can. Better salary, better food, clean – unlike this dump.”

—

      the familliar voice, despite the heavy clouds hovering around her gaze, was met with a genuine smile. bright despite the darkness, or trying to be so — always needing to meet a friendly disposition with buckets of sunshine, believing so fervently that her own sun was a moon instead, shining with reflected light. as if it was required to shed the gloom of the moment directly preceding his arrival, natalie threw her cigarette to the ground; cinders over the asphalt, it would’ve been a beautiful metaphor for letting go of a burnt past. she couldn’t, but she could turn away from it instead: turn her face to what was good in this patched up, makeshift life of hers.

    “hey. i like this dump”. as she turned, head angled up to meet his gaze, natalie squinted her eyes against the glare of the sunlight. the furrow of her eyebrows was mainly for show: ivan’s appearances at blue hill were always met with genuine appreciation, perhaps one of the very few people in red ridge she could call a friend without feeling, somehow, that that was a privilege she hadn’t earned. “nah, your place is too fancy”, nat chuckled, placing both hands on the curb, propping her back up. “truck drivers and snot-covered children are more my crowd, you know?”

[dustlnds]

elvis​ —

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Soliciting at this point, honestly. When he was in the good graces of the music world, he didn’t put a second thought into her. But now with all this time to think, he knew just how horribly he treated her. Not that he’d apologize, it was the thought that counts, right? He then scoffed at her statement. “Ouch, babe. Don’t you know by now that you can’t get rid of me that easily?” 

only now she was seeing him. ah, it made sense: how the mighty fall, or something like that. a sick kind of pleasure was found in seeing him down on his luck, but the fear was still there — that he could get in again, taint her the way he had once before. her laughter was cruel, bitter: her anger heightened by how unaffected he looked, while she was desperate for a way to hurt him and pay him back in kind. “is that supposed to make me feel sorry? to say i’m sorry, babe, come back, i missed you?” half-shocked, natalie shook her head. “you’re pathetic”. and then, suddenly, the irony subsided, the anger turning sharper: she took a step forward, an index menacing towards him. “i have a good life here, i fucking fought for it. you’re not gonna ruin it. you’re not gonna fuck me up again”.

[dustlnds]

axel —

-

“Not completely filled in yet, darlin’ but between you and the other guy. I’m sure I’ll get there eventually.” His only limit being face tattoos. Axel had purposely left a few spots open for bigger pieces he planned to get in the future but there were still small patches between other tattoos that could be filled with something. Detail could be added to existing tattoos. The potential was unlimited. Most of the time he was in it for the feeling, just like fighting. Except he could fall asleep getting a tattoo and he obviously couldn’t sleep while he was punching someone in the face. He rested his chin on his palm when she sat down across from him, getting a closer look at the waitress. She looked tired, a little on edge and tense. His eyebrows knit together and he wondered if it was him, but pushed off the thought. She wouldn’t have sat down if it was him doing it. 

He licked his lips and sat back in the booth. “Eight should work, I don’t have to fight tonight so I am free to do whatever.” Which he didn’t mind for once, his knuckles were scraped and bruised from the night before and he had a decent sized cut on his face from the asshole trying to fight back. When he was younger, his body was much more resilient and he hardly had to do any kind of aftercare or upkeep to jump back in the ring. As he aged, however, he had methods like ice baths and heat packs, to combat the soreness between fights. “You good, Nat?” He slipped in before he gave her his order, knowing she probably didn’t have long before she had to leave and finish her shift.

—

good was a stretch, at best, but he didn’t have to know that. as much as his company could be enjoyed, she still had to keep her guard up — remind herself and him that there had to be a safety distance between her and valencia, it was the single comfort she could get despite the way she was regrettably tied to them. sometimes she felt that, had they met under different circumstances, she would’ve been able to appreciate axel far more than she could do now. might have even called him a friend, at some point — right now, all he was to her amounted to a question mark, someone whose role in her life she hadn’t quite figured out yet. perhaps valencia only had a little to do with it. perhaps the biggest problem was her, and the way she didn’t feel like she belonged into the more or less functional section of society anymore — as if every interaction with another human being had to be accompanied with the sudden realization that hey, look, i can speak too. natalie attempted a smile, though it was barely a hint and it faded off right away, leaving room for a stern, wary look on her face instead. “yeah. i’m good”. 

while matters of a deep nature left her uneasy, she let her mind drift off to the practical essence of art instead. a quick glance back at the kitchen told her perhaps she had ten, fifteen minutes left on her break — and her mind, as usual, had picked up on that little spark of inspiration he’d offered and was building off of it already, demanding her hands to move. natalie dug out the tiny notepad and the pen she used for writing down orders, but didn’t ask him what he’d like to eat. she set them out on the table instead, and began sketching thin, broken lines around a concept slowly forming in her head. thick vines entangling, hiding some sort of creature behind them. “what’s around this patch you want filled?”, a rapid glance shot his way, before she went back to sketching. “i think i might have something”.

[maurawrites]

Blake Lively in Savages

[dustlnds]

ro —

–

Something about the look of Nat as she took a mouthful of a cupcake that she’d made eased Rowan, her nerves falling to a rhythm that didn’t combat that of a nightclub.  “You couldn’t deny me even if I came empty handed.” Rowan teased, a hapless smirk on her face. “But there’s two new flavors in there.  I want you to guess what they are.”

At her friend’s invitation, Rowan fell face first into the plush surface of the mattress, taking pause there with her face pressed to the comforter for but a moment, her hand reaching out for Nat’s.  “Nothing..” she sighed out, turning her head to the side so she could look at the blonde.  “Literally fucking nothing is wrong with me but my brain won’t stop so it’s taking me 4 business days to fall asleep and i’m tired.” Okay so maybe that was partially a lie, but the young brunette refused to believe she could still be affected by Lev or the idea of seeing that man’s face at one of her publisher’s meetings.  She had to be stronger than that.  

—

natalie could sense the heavier weight of an unspecified unsaid, something trapped between the curtain of a still somewhat controlled small talk. half of her was saddened by the notion that rowan had to hide, still — with her, of all people, withdrawing the truth (as morbid as it could be, as shameful even) to the one person who’d never think of her as anything other than a blessing. but she knew, also, that the issue would float to the surface eventually, coaxed out by the gentle warmth of the bond they shared. the unsaid didn’t really worry her — at times it felt like the two of them could communicate by thought alone.

natalie reciprocated her touch, and as her hand met rowan’s, palm against palm, she let her concerned take the shape of a sorrowful glance, and silence meeting her words. taking advantage of the pause, natalie stared at the cupcake in her hand, bringing it to her nose lightly: “smells like flowers”. a smirk then, a fading shade over her lips before she let her hand leave rowan’s and reach for her hair instead, delicately brushing through a strand of dark locks. “well, if it’s not letting you sleep — guess something’s up. so you could either let it out or we could get a sugar high and binge watch something idiotic, but i don’t think that’s gonna make you fall asleep any easier”. the smirk turned apologetic, head tilted in an unthreatening stance. “it’s your call, babe”.

[dustlnds]

marr —​

the lunch rush is self - condemnation ,     for fooderies at this hour     aren’t as quite gratifying as they are     during a late night ,     aren’t as quite pleasant     as when the appeal gleams     just beneath buzzing lights ,     illuminating the loneliness of darkness .     but all curiosities lead him to here ,     while he fails to grant himself a sparing     for time ,     for lack of it makes his schedule impossible ,     and causes a personal lead ,     kept away to himself ,    all the more compelling .

anyway ,     he figures ,     i’ll kill two birds with one stone ,     and be able to teeter between essential affairs     and essentials of his own .     when he approaches an obscure place ,     one he hasn’t visited solo before ,     he doesn’t expect     for suspect to be sitting there ,     forlorn ,     in the mess of all her stress ,     onus ,     as she welcomes fresh air and innocently sits there .     blonde head of hair absorbing sun ,     glowing like a halo without its crown .     in this town ,  some need it to blend in ,     but when he comes to a halt ,     just feet away ,     he recognizes that not all     sprout the same way .     indifferent ,     albeit slight empathy ,     he decides to tend closer to personal priorities     and leave her alone     for now .     

“ take a seat with me inside ,     when you’re ready . ”     barely a beat .     what needs to be said is said ,     and to dwell on it is not a must .     and for that ,      he simply walks in .

the voice comes through to her like an echo — dulled by invisible cotton, half filtered. it loses itself, it turns into another’s voice. she remembers henry valentine, standing outside the school gates in second grade, so bitter at the thought of having to pick his daughter from school. is it the same memory? is she in trouble? she turns, catches barely a glimpse of the captain as he walks in. in a way, this feels expected: this feeling that’s been crawling along her skin, like dizzy ants, misplaced insects — this must have to do with all the buzzing. her panic is gentle, the fluttering of butterfly’s wings not in the stomach, like lovers’ would, but up above, where the blood is supposed to run and prompt oxygen around, flow symmetrically in gentle spirals, and hers instead is spiking, cuts itself off in floods and sudden downpours, and it’s never constant, and it’s a bit like drowning. 

treading water is self-taught: either way she has no excuse. stares at the cigarette between her fingers instead, finds a strange kind of resemblance with it: when it falls to the ground, mercilessly stomped upon by the heel of her foot, she finds herself thinking of voodoo. could she stomp herself out, too — stop the crawling over her skin? inside, she keeps her distance from his seat. two safe steps away, the tray in her hands resting against her thighs, like perhaps a shield. she doesn’t know why he should need her presence, of all — can’t imagine he’s looking for some ink, anyway. the meek, self-canceling attitude is set aside in favor of a safety mechanism: an eyebrow perked, she’s warily curious. “how can i help you, captain?”. it lacks the chirp in her voice, the silvery note of a sing-song quality. it’s just spiky. “— hardly looks like a good setting for an interrogation”.

[dustlnds]

[text] If you bring me coffee and a greasy breakfast sandwich, I’ll love you forever. [Rowan, clearly]

[text] So you wouldn’t love me forever otherwise? [text] Wow. I’m wounded, Ro. [text] I’ll be there in a sec, you’re lucky I’m incredibly selfless and kind.

[dustlnds]

[text] I feel like I could have been bitchier and missed an opportunity.

[text] Honestly? There was plenty of bitching already. [text] Like I don’t think I could’ve handled any more bitching, tbh.

[dustlnds]

Who would you turn to if you were in desperate need of help?

“damien and rowan”. comes out of her in a breath, such vibrant determination barely ever witnessed in her words. there is the shade of a smile on her features too, for she can appreciate this feeling of home as something precious, something she never believed she would deserve — a support system of sorts, perhaps the belief that if she fell, someone would catch her. perhaps. sometimes she feels herself slipping and knows the fall is just around the corner, waiting for a crooked step, for her to trip. her smile falters then, eyes falling downward and back up again, but almost as if they’ve shed some of their brightness, a cloud suddenly hiding the sun. “i think they’d be there if i needed them. like — they’ve had to handle a lot of my shit already, i know, but they — they’re sort of family, you know? i think they’d have my back. ”

@damiensking, @rowankingsley

[dustlnds]

elvis —

“I’m not a figment of your imagination, darlin’,” He ensured as he looked at her, “I’m right here.” Part of him couldn’t help but smirk at her, knowing that this was probably a bit of a shock for her. His eyes looked her up and down, taking in the sight in front of him. She looked different for some reason to him, maybe it was because they were older. Honestly, he wasn’t sure. “I’m sure it’s good to see me, isn’t it?”

—

her gaze, once blue and now, somehow, devoid of its color, was sharp in her stare. a thousand thoughts racing through her mind, enough to press against the corner of her eyes, stinging around her nose, tiny childish tears poking, begging to be left out in the sudden anger boiling over her. she still didn’t believe this wasn’t a hallucination. “yeah. right”. a half scoff, then natalie got up, headed for the door. halfway through she turned, half-stunned, enraged. arms quickly folded against her chest, for fear she might do something — anything, anything just to push him away, shove him back into the nightmare he’d crawled out of . “what the fuck are you doing here, anyway? no, it fucking sucks to see you, el. i’d started to think you were dead, and honestly — i was fine with that”. 

[dustlnds]

Nat: hey man, can you be literally the best pal in the world and come take a look at my car later?

Nat: it's been making noises that I can only describe as Kate Bush under acids, so...

[dustlnds]

Nat: not saying you HAVE to, but if you ever found yourself really, passionately desiring a tattoo...

Nat: I think I just had the most brilliant idea for you.

[dustlnds]

where: the dustland, 12:07 pm. status: closed, @frvnkic​

“hey —”, the greeting comes spontaneous, a smile blooming on her lips the second frankie’s silhouette is spotted. not really surprised to see her, but glad either way: frankie’s incursions around her garage weren’t a daily occurrence, sure, but natalie still expected them with eager anticipation. something about her somehow made her stuck from the crowds of various characters swarming the city — something about her, perhaps, spoke to a familiar part of herself. as if they recognized each other, battered animals of the same species. natalie was crouching by a vase of basil, beginning to yellow in the summer heat but somehow still surviving — a handful of leaves in her hands, she’d been enjoying the freedom of a day off by giving herself to the pleasure of cooking. somehow, that just spoke to her of perfect timing. “what are you doing around here, stranger?”, she got up, tucking the leaves in the front pocket of her worn down overalls, then rushed to wrap a quick embrace around the other. she couldn’t help the chipper, perhaps too chipper, note in her voice: the past weeks had been heavy, as if any moment now she expected a storm to break out. she couldn’t help but be ecstatic at the unexpected moment of sunshine, now. smiling, natalie chirped: “i was just making lunch, care to join me?”

[dustlnds]

ro —

STATUS: closed LOCATION: the dustlands TAGGED: @dustlnds​

Rowan sighed, lifting the metal frames of her aviator sunglasses to a perch at her crown as she approached the curtained door of the dustlands, a perfectly packaged box of cupcakes nestled between her hip and her hand.  She needed this.  She needed her best friend, and the prospect of turning the words spinning that were so quickly in her head she couldn’t seem to reach out and grab them to put them in order into something pretty was all to appealing to the young brunette.  “Knock, knock..” She called out, not bothering to wait before walking through the beaded entrance, immediately stretching the hand holding the box of cupcakes out to the woman, her other hand supporting the other side as it moved.  “All new flavors.  Can I rattle off the stupid shit playing pin ball in my brain while you draw what comes to mind?  You can pick the spot.”  The green eyed beauty gave her friend the puppy dog face, head falling back into a pout as she offered Nat the cupcakes.  

—

    a pot of herbal tea was brewing by the stove. perhaps a weak attempt at preserving the impression of a healthy, functional life — a clean life. if that wasn’t enough, the scent of tangerine bath gel had to make it work, as she stepped out of the bathroom with her hair still damp, her general cleaning day clothes (ragged shorts from five years ago, a top that barely held on to her shoulders) — only reserved for special audiences, which amounted to rowan and no one else. “hey —”, the smile on her lips was genuine, if a little surprised to see her. but grateful, always: very few people on earth felt like family to her, and when it came to rowan it wasn’t just because of the way her brother had helped her. there was concern on her features, a natural response at the downward note she could sense in rowan’s words (her mind automatically scanning through possible reasons, suspects, motivations for the blue shade on her), but her smile was honest: of all her pastimes, drawing on rowan’s skin just had to take the cake. natalie leaned in for a quick, yet firm hug, and swiftly stole the box from rowan’s hands to place it on the kitchen table. “i mean, when can i refuse when you keep feeding me for free?” a wink, as she quickly stole a cupcake from the box and got into it with a loud, appreciative mmm. as if the cupcake itself had managed to melt away whatever resistance was keeping her up still, natalie let herself fall heavily against her bed, right hand moving to pat against the mattress, inviting her friend to do the same. “come on, fpill it”, muttered through the bites. “what’s up?”