Mateo had just bought his brand new Audi RS 7 a couple of weeks ago and he was enjoying feeling rich in it. While he had been saving up some money to put a hefty down payment down on the car, he wasn't rolling in money. Working as a nurse was something that helped him. His parents always had money but making money and building a life was something that Mateo wanted to do himself. When he was sitting at the red light and waiting for it to turn green, he felt another cat bump into him from behind. He muttered and swore under his breath as he tried to keep himself calm. He was ready to flip out but once he got out of the car and saw the other was already in hysterics, Mateo knew that she really didn't mean it and that it was just an accident. He moved around to the back of his car and he looked at it and saw that there wasn't really that much damage, just a scuff of the paint. "Okay, listen. It's okay. Accidents happen which is why they are called accidents." He assured her as he looked at her and then set a hand on her shoulder, "You don't need to cry, it's okay. It can be repaired. We will just swap some insurance information, alright?"
in a stark comparsion to mateo's own car; babe's is a 2011 honda civic with wheels that wobble every time they slow to a stop - like at any second, each one will fall flat and her car will visibly deflate. a sad, clown - esque vehicle. it's a bit reminiscent of frankenstein's monster, really; different parts for every time one's fallen off, bumper stickers holding it all together like glue. it's a car that needs the plug pulled on it, and babe's still sobbing - hand fanning out in front of her, as if it'll help wane the tears from her eyes. her cheeks are streaked black, blotted skin poking out from where her foundation's been disrupted. "please don't take me to jail, i'm like - way too pretty," babe sucks her breath in as mateo sets a hand over her shoulder, lip still wavering. it's the idea of going to prison, really - she looks bad in orange; it's her least favorite of the neons. only acceptable during halloween. "wait, like - health insurance?" her lashes clump as she blinks, thumbnail coming to wipe harshly beneath her eyes. "oh my god - you're not, like, hurt are you? can you like, wave your arms around? jump on one foot - oh my god, this cannot be happening again!"
"I'm sorry, kiddo... But we have to go home." He hated dragging his son away from the park, but it was like this every time. Lennox was obsessed with the outdoors and while Ares loved that he wasn't one of those kids who constantly felt the need for screen time, it had become later in the afternoon and it was time to get home to get some dinner ready. The park had become one of their favorite spots, especially since money was tight and the playground was free. Lennox's pout was cuter than it ought to be, causing Ares to attempt to keep back a smile. The kid's eyes moved and locked on a stranger further off and the four year old pointed in their direction. "But they're not going home! So why do we have to go home? It's not fair." The kid stomped his foot and Ares shook his head, trying to not laugh. "Okay... Ten more minutes," he conceded, "but you keep that hat on, bud. It's cold," Ares attempted to tell his son, who'd already set off in a run, and the older already knew that within five minutes the hat would be off. That little boy had Ares wrapped around his little finger... And it seemed that the kid knew how to exploit it. His gaze locked on the stranger his son had pointed at, and shook his head with a small chuckle. "It's your fault that my kid's schemed his way into more time on the jungle gym... So thanks for that," he jabbed playfully, looking over at the other person while dragging his hat further over his ears.
they're not used to the northern cold, not anymore, not after so many months spent down south. it's almost comical; a mound of thrifted finds upon philly's frame, stacked like cards. three different sweaters, a thick pair of pants; a bucket hat with fishing bobbles placed firm over their head. a purple shrimp glimmers in the sunlight. in their hands are binoculars - and as ares speaks to them, they lift the pair to their eyes. examine him through them. "hello sir," a monotonous sound, flat against the ground. she drops the binoculars, leaves them to hang against her neck. "the fresh air is very good for development, i find. i've spent most of my life surrounded by wilderness. it's made me very wise." her gaze lifts to the kid atop the jungle gym. "he's very spirited - you must feel very proud of that." her childhood's much of a blur - dots that refuse to connect, sentences that trail into nothingness; but they know they were happy. that it was bright. she does, however, remember the caterpillars collected. the blades of grass blown against. "that being said, i'm not very sorry for keeping him out late. do you have an inner child inside of you, sir?"
“Whoa, hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” Dahlia reassured the girl in front of her, her hands hovering up in the space between them, hesitant to actually touch the other. The last thing she’d expected on her way home from work was to have her car get bumped by a car that frankly looked like it was just being held together by bumper stickers. The flood of apologies and tear-streaked confession were so chaotic it was almost endearing. “It’s just a scratch, and lucky for me, my dad’s a mechanic. He’s had to deal with worse messes from me.” Her eyes glanced down at the other’s fingers smudged with mascara yet her eyeliner still intact. “Sidebar, that eyeliner of yours is really good. All these tears and it’s still perfect – what’s your secret?” Dahlia asked with a teasing grin, hoping to lighten the mood. She leaned back against her car and her eyes flickering between the cars and the other. “I can give you a ride to work if you want? Or at least help get your car out of the way so you’re not totally stranded.” She wasn’t one to hold a grudge and it really was just a scratch. Lia was honestly just relieved that no one was hurt.
with a big, wavering breath - babe does the next course of logic in her brain: and holds it in, as if it'll stop the tears from flowing. when she was a kid, she used to hold her breath whenever she was angry, whenever she was sad - anything to hold it in, anything to contain it. always pink - faced, differing shades of red; an impressive purple. dots don't line her vision, but her cheeks swell with pressure - eyes still rapidly blinking back tears. it's only when dahlia compliments babe that she releases her breath, a stream flowing out, "ohmygod, really? i was trying, like, sooo hard, it's so not funny." her mouth contorts from eternal frown to the brightest smile, lipstick sticking to her front teeth, "i do like, a combination of setting spray and then nyx epic wear and then more setting spray," she also sleeps in it; hasn't washed it off in ages. just reapplies to the same place, over and over and over again. it'd almost be gross if it didn't look so nice. it's still gross. "wait, seriously?" fingers wiping across her pajama pants - gir staring back with their big, weird eyes - the tears had vanished as quick as they came. typical babe behavior. "oh, that'd be like - so sweet, and so cool - and like, i'll totally owe you. d'you know that noodle place in cardinal? i'll get you, like - free udon for life. for life!" she's already rolling across the hood of her car - still barely a scratch on it - to fling open her passenger seat. four cans of monster fall out as she rummages for her duffel bag, all neon pink and cheetah - a bra half flung out from where the zipper's unzipped. flings it across her shoulder. sisyphus couldn't get on her level. "oh, shit - should i move her? like, i have one of those little car wheel prison things people put on cars to stop them from moving, d'you think if i do it to my own car the tow truck won't come? 'cos, like - i have the money, but like, it's such a hassle to get it back. it'll be, like, the fifth time this month."
"Are you asking me to vote for you Gabriel?" Hudson asks between a swig of his longneck, always opting to call Gabe by their full name for the fun of it. He casts a glance up and down, trying to decipher what he's looking at. "What even is your costume anyway? And who the fuck is Alec?" Now his brain is doing mental gymnastics to try and remember someone named Alec. That could be fucking anyone. "Alec who?" He presses, hung up on this one detail, like an itch that must be scratched for no other reason than never having to consider it again. "Is the costume contest like, a big fuckin' thing or something? Now I wanna win just to piss this Alec guy off. Will you vote for me?"
"i mean, i'm not asking you not to vote for me - but i'm a man of honor! i'd never sway votes, or skew bets - not even by like, offering a drink of like, mid - shelf liquor, or like - the joint in my pocket -" gabe rambles on; only pausing to narrow their eyes at hudson. gabriel. only his step family calls him gabriel. as if gabe isn't enough. as if they have to soil everything. that expression leaves within a few seconds, however, instead replaced with raised eyebrows and a disbelieving jaw drop, "dude, i'm like - fucking, cerberus. like, the big ass dog that guards the underworld? hade's golden retriever? is the dog collar not doing anything for you, or?" a finger loops around the metal loop at the base of their neck, a subtle tug. "i swear you're like, not a real person. you got only marbles up in that pretty head of yours?" they reach up to prod at hudson's forehead; once, twice. "alec is like - god, how does one describe alec flynn? his hair's full of secrets, or whatever. dad invented toaster strudel. he's in the victoria secret lingerie with fucking - clem and shambles? i don't like, actually know their costume - but like, they're all hot, so -" one of the plushies on gabe's shoulders lets out a squeak as they tilt their head to far to the side. "- i'll vote for you if you give me, like, twenty dollars. maybe - i've got like, debt, dude. massive amounts of debt. i don't think i've paid my taxes in like, three years - oh christ, am i going to go to jail?"
FOR: everyone! it's open!.
DETAILS: one of the roads... we have a bit of a fender bender situation here... harmless! but annoying...
"oh my god i'm, like, so sorry -" it's the third time babe's apologized in the span of three minutes, a whopping apology per minute. a new record, surely; her words are watery and drowned out by her own tears, mascara streaking down her face as if it's not just a scratch that adorns both of their cars now. "- i didn't mean to! i swear, i mean like, once i put sugar in someone's gas tank but that was like - an accident! someone told me that it helps the car run faster, and like, they were a mechanic so i thought they'd be like, totally impressed by my car prowess, but apparently that like, ruins the car? ugh -" somehow, her eyeliner is perfectly intact. it's kind of impressive; her fingers stained black as she wipes away her tears. "- i'm sorry -" four in four minutes. "- i was trying to finish my makeup, because i'm like, totally late to my shift and like, the dressing room always smells kind of weird on monday nights anyways -"
Dark hues scanned her surroundings and instantaneously lit up when the night provided a means of escape for her. “Merhaba,” she spoke in unison with the remnants of a small laugh trickling behind her words. “I'm having an interesting time, are you? There might be too many people here for me, though,” Esra commented with a fall of her shoulders while her body angled itself so she could hear the other above the heavy music, leaning into them slightly. Heavily crowded places got to her after a while. The older she got the more she cherish quiet spaces. “If you're leaving... please take me with you. Apart from the drinks I don't think this is my scene anymore tonight.”
heat radiates from babe's skin, sheened with sweat and glitter and spilt liquor, all pinched - red from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. clubbing is her element, her lifeline; when she's not dancing at work, she's dancing elsewhere. stvtic is just one of those places, familiarity in a cramped room where there's the constant threat of being crushed against another body. babe likes the feeling; likes knowing what suffocation feels like. there's a look akin to bliss on her face as esra talks to her, and her lips split into a wide grin. "are you kidding me? i'm like, having the best time ever." she says this every time she goes clubbing; and somehow it's always true. "it feels like i'm, like, in a sea of quicksand but the sand are all the people and like, instead of suffocating i'm just like, getting really drunk." it's true now - and maybe something more, her pupils the size of saucers. barely noticeable in her already - dark eyes, anyways. babe casts her gaze away from the people surrounding her and back towards esra, "oh! are you, like, not vibing? do you wanna bar hop instead? it's kinda pricy here, anyways - i've just been stealing shots while people aren't looking - do you wanna like, share an uber to cardinal instead? i don't think i'm like, banned from the labyrinth anymore, and they have fun holiday themed drinks!"
When November came, a chill fully settled in, bringing with it winds and rains, the taste of winter, like it always did. And as always, things seemed a bit more harsh in Weaver Ridge, the rotten root that kills the whole tree. While other neighborhoods were getting a start on pie competitions and Christmas lights, a knock-off inflatable zombie Snoopy with eyes too humanoid blew in front of Freya like a tumbleweed. Fitting. She stopped to watch despite the way her wet clothes clung to her skin like sharp icicles, traveling deeper into bone. She kind of liked the way it made her feel – both the fucked-up Snoopy and the cold. As if on purpose, the sky split open with thunder as the inflatable finally hit and flattened against the outside of The Pour House. R.I.P. zombie dog. She shrugged and followed heed – Freya’s own version of what she considered divine intervention. A fan of bars aplenty, she didn’t venture into The Pour House often. If Blue Harbor was a radioactive map of the most-fucked-up-reminders-of-your-life, Freya’s internal Geiger scale was always off the charts there, even if she’d never admit it. Besides, rum could help warm things up – warm her up. She didn’t go for the rum first, though. Instead, Freya veered towards the bar stool on the far left. Years ago, at that spot, she had discovered her parents’ initials carved into the table, surrounded by a heart and all. It had unsettled her then, so Freya ignored it until now. Now she dug her keys out of her pockets and scratched at the engraved wood because it didn’t deserve to exist if they didn’t exist. She felt the presence of someone else before they made themselves known. “I’m helping re-decorate. This place is a shithole,” she said, expecting admonishment.
there's a constant loneliness that clings to babe - not inherited, but earned - her trailing shadow, the figure in her doorway. she's always felt it, felt where it was sewn to her - felt it's pull on her hair like a bully's playground teasing. maybe it began when her grandfather died - when she realized that death wasn't just an intangible thought, or a presence to be felt in an empty room. it was - palpable, with real hands and real claws and real, white - hot, ice - cold pain that shot up and down her nerves. like fucking sciatica. it wasn't even something she could admire, like the taxidermy she'd always been so eager to learn; there was no art to her mourning. in her grief - in her uncle's, her brothers'. just an emptiness. babe had to fill that space herself; had to find a meaning in - anything, really. anything she could get. she's always been over - indulgent; but now she's just plain gluttonous. taking anything, everything, she can get her hands on - whether it's people, or drugs, or reckless entertainment. takes it in and consumes it; nothing left but marrowless bone. maybe that's why her boyfriend cheated on her - she took too much. was too much, even for him. the thought makes her sick; makes her want to shed her skin and metamorphize into something else. somebody else. someone who could handle the loneliness, who didn't consume everything in her path. instead - she goes to the pour house. a classic, really; there for all of her breakups, and all of her get back togethers. she's blacked out inside that bar too many times to count; but the warmth is familiar, sheds the late - fall chill from her shoulders as she steps inside and, as if by instinct, bounds over to freya. "well, yeah - but like, it's our shithole," babe's grin is wide, instant - like the thoughts that swirl around her mind like the eye of a cartoon lollipop aren't present anymore, "it's like - ugly cute! cozy ugly, or whatever. we should call hgtv, surprise the owner with like, a totally - super - epic bar makeover. like, when they would take a kid's interest in, like, horses - and create an entire stable in their bedroom and be like, surprise! you have a horse now! it can't go down stairs so good luck!" she hops onto the bar stool next to the blonde, all jangling jewelry. "it could be, like - twilight themed! bring the pnw to the, like - whatever region we are! honestly, can i tell you a secret?" leans in close, a faux whisper on her breath, "i think the owner - calahan? - is a vampire. like, i swear it! i've definitely seen his skin sparkle and gleam before, and like, i totally had to cover my eyes because i was like, woah, am i the volturi right now? are we in italy? should i call bella?"
From an outside view, the two of them as a duo were an eyesore. Currently, at least - they'd looked put together at some point. Fun, cute even, or Dottie had thought so. She'd worked hard putting together an outfit worthy of her Starfire costume, Gabe's extra Cerberus heads lovingly hand stitched to perfection. Now, the temporary red hair dye streaked across her forehead - she looked like she'd just lost a violent fight - as she pinched a bobby pin between her teeth, attempting to reattach a lose dog head. "Gaaaaabe." She whined, slotting the bobby pin carefully into place. "I told you no manhandling tonight! It's barely been an hour, you can't have people groping you for at least a few more - I want you to win this contest, but it's a bit hard if you're falling apart!" Wiping at her sweaty hairline, Dottie stood back with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowing as she took in her handiwork. "Okay, I think it'll stay - gimme a shoulder shimmy, just in case."
pressed into a corner where there was a less likely chance of them being bumped into - and thus, one of gabe's heads falling to the floor - their shoulder squirmed beneath dottie's touch, eyes wide as they glanced between her hands and her gash - adorned face, "it was barely manhandling! i'm gentle! i can't help that i'm just, like, sooo tiny and delicate -" gabe stood at a brave 5'6"; but their build wasn't half - bad. a bit limp, maybe. and out of shape, but - " - anyways, it's not like i can help that i'm grope - able! i'm the people's fucking - princess, dottie. i should've been - princess diana, or something - may she rest in, like, peace." they took a step back, rolling their shoulders out as per dottie's instructions; a test - drive, really, before they really god to shimmying. "how do they look? do they look ferocious? like they're like - shaking with the anger of like, a thousand souls or some shit? do you think they're sturdy enough? we should've just, like, hot - glued them to my skin. it would've been, like - metal as shit, dude."
WE'RE MAKING OUT INSIDE CRASHED CARS / WE'RE SLEEPING THROUGH ALL OUR MEMORIES / I USED TO WASTE MY TIME DREAMING OF BEING ALIVE / ( NOW I ONLY WASTE IT DREAMING OF YOU ) — MEET BABE MORI.
...content warnings for... parental & familial death, mentions of a car accident, night terrors, stalking, harassment, implied gun violence, and drugs.
profile.
full name — paloma mori.
nickname(s) — babe! that chick over there. friend :)
place of birth — blue harbor, illinois.
date of birth & age — august 13th, 1997. twenty7.
gender / pronouns — demi woman, she / they.
sexuality — bisexual.
occupation — stripper at tba. amateur taxidermist. scene queen. professional raver. PLUR princess.
astrology — leo sun, leo moon, leo rising.
residence — her family's apartment above their beer & noodle shop in cardinal hill. the apartment is a mix of fratboyisms ( liquor bottles as decor, beer boxes as wallpaper, led strip lights half - falling off the walls ) and babe's... everything ( random crystals and band posters, cheetah print, loose plastic beads in every corner because none of them vacuum enough... so many taxidermy projects ).
interests — stick and poke tattoos; giving and receiving. edm. "scenecore". bright, neon colors. never washing her eyeliner off. pop punk. whiny vocals. nostalgic cartoons. fun and silly taxidermy. cooking for her friends; cooking as a release. dancing, in all forms. candy. glittery stickers. cheetah print. sex and love, and sex without love. skateboarding. reacting impulsively. demonias. fishnets. graffiti and vandalism. adrenaline rushes and cheap thrills. doing what she's told not to do. living her best life even if it's doomed. beer. her grandfather's recipes. mdma. loud, crunchy, static.
aversions — admitting that she has a god complex. taking responsibility for her actions. the way she can't stop when she cries. being dismissed. not being adored and loved. being alone for too long; long periods of silence. people who take themselves too seriously. being shamed. taking her medication. sleeping; her night terrors. thunderstorms, though she says she loves them. muted colors. art museums. bras. when she's not the one to end the relationship. being confronted with the truth, or reality.
quirks — falls in love and/or lust too easily, and will spend weeks fantasizing and obsessing over one person at a time. never lasts long in relationships except for one that's constantly on the frays. has no volume control in public and speaks without thinking. can be insensitive at times. loves convincing others to get matching tattoos with her. kicks in her sleep ( when it occurs ). always says she can handle her liquor but is always the first one drunk. is minorly allergic to alcohol but it will not stop her.
most played — IN MY MOUTH by black dresses.
notable features — straight black bangs and even straighter hair that's always tangled in the wind. a collection of glitter that never leaves her face. a few lovingly placed beauty marks and a full bottom lip that's always bitten raw.
general disposition — electric, energetic; a nonstop force until she's simply not.
character study — ilana wexler ( broad city ) & juliet starling ( lollipop chainsaw ).
background.
parental death / car accident; she's raised by her maternal grandfather and uncle, smack dab between her two brothers - their parents died in a car crash when her younger brother was just a baby, babe still too young to remember them much, or the accident that took place.
they live in a small apartment atop their grandfather's restaurant - a small noodle & beer shop that welds just enough profit for them to get by.
has been called babe her entire life - sometimes her grandfather says its because after her older brother had watched the movie of the same name, he thought she looked so pink and pig - like.
night terrors; is diagnosed with night terrors at a very young age - her cries and screams wake their household nightly, tiny limbs thrashing about like undergoing an exorcism. every night, on repeat - again and again. sleep paralysis becomes common - strange figures always lurking in her doorway, fingers curling over her doorframe - insomnia after that, because babe can no longer stand to sleep.
as a kid there's only so many explanations to her diagnosis - none feel right, a girl always in denial - settles on the belief that maybe she's a medium. that maybe what she sees are just spirits reaching out for her - wanting her help. she's so young, her family just thinks she'll grow out of the belief - but she never does. it's better than acknowledging the truth - of the deaths she's tethered to.
grows up the weird girl - the girl who talks to nothing, the girl who says she's really seen bloody mary in the mirror - the girl who's always bruised from taking a fall from her skateboard, over and over again - the girl who never learns. the girl who set the robotics club room on fire, and was banned from competitions from there on. always plenty smart - but terrible at utilizing it.
death; her grandfather dies shortly after babe's high school graduation - and college seems like a distant memory. she'd been serious about it, once - but now she needs to help out where she can. her uncle's taking over the restaurant with her oldest brother in tow - her youngest already picking up jobs when he should be studying. babe hates to see them struggle - hates how palpable the grief is in the air, how thick it is - how she can barely breathe.
she gets a job at the strip club as a dancer - she's young and charismatic, muscle built from years of roughhousing - it reels in plenty money, enough to help out her household and have some leftover. she picks up taxidermy classes, because college still seems so far away - babe knows how to move forward, but not how to pick up the pieces and continue where she's left off - dozens of projects left half - finished, plenty of relationships dropped without warning. the only constants are her best friend since diapers, practically, and the boyfriend she breaks up with, but never truly leaves. she's known him for so long - it feels impossible to ever really part.
stalking / harassment / gun violence; years later - babe's a known face at the club with a plethora of regulars, customers who adore not just her body, but her personality, who respect her - who pay her plenty. a new customer begins to get a bit too - affectionate towards babe. too close, too interested. the club's good about discomfort - and he's escorted off premises after he tries to follow her into the dressing rooms. it doesn't end after that - an obsession that carries outside of the club, that follows her - he follows her, to and 'fro - the police useless, because he hasn't touched her - and when her oldest brother finds out, he decides to take matters into his own hands. the man doesn't die - but he comes close to it, and when the police come knocking this time 'round - it's babe's uncle who steps up; who confesses to the crime. a crime he hasn't committed - but will protect his family from.
it's been a year since then; her oldest brother's taken over their family's restaurant - and the guilt swallows babe daily. she's only semi - recently gone back to work, much to the protest of her brothers; her oldest brother still upset about her decision, and still not talking to her.
facts & temperaments.
has unironically called herself an empath and in her defense she sort of is. feels emotions so so deeply that they hurt. a big crier, can't help it. tends to let them get the best of her - an irrational thinker who always jumps to conclusions, whether it's about you loving or hating her.
a little performative, dramatic - feels like she needs to be, like if she's not a caricature of sunshine then she's just the girl with a should - be - dead stalker and an incarcerated uncle. the girl with the dead animals, and the profuse swearing of mediumship.
a big - time partier, a known raver; self - proclaimed scene queen. always wearing rave attire, even in the cold - loves big, bold colors, the more neon the better, her arms consistently covered in kandi that she gives out like candy to her most favorite people of the week, sometimes the hour.
drugs; big big big on psychedelics and like. party drugs. loves poppers. will never admit that she has a problem - thinks she can always just reel it in.
has probably said rawr :3 in the past 24 hours.
loud and bold and talkative - isn't afraid to point out things that others may not; doesn't get the hint when to shut up. a bit of a blabbermouth, but she can't help it.
needs to be validated often that she's still liked and loved and adored, it's a bit of a problem. tends to latch onto others and form the occasional obsessive attachment. it's no big deal. sometimes it lasts for days, sometimes months. she finds most people interesting, and sometimes the most random things draw her in. thinks there's more beneath every person and she wants to know Every Layer.
a little hypersexual - a coping mechanism to deal with. Everything. but also just loves love! will also get incredibly jealous at times, but it's almost as a joke? but only babe finds it funny, and only after everyone's like babe wtf? then she's like omg jk haha im not that possessive :3 (kind of is)
once again, a big crier - at minor inconveniences, at sad movies, at misunderstandings; even when angry, it's just more tears. purposefully wears mascara that runs for the aesthetic. has probably never taken her eyeliner off.
big on adrenaline - seeking and cheap thrills. loves the idea of overcoming danger. believes in ghosts and cryptids and probably wants to fuck mothman, experiences medium revelations like several times a day.
has several tattoos that are just the @'s of people she's fucked whether it's their instagram or twitch or what. she thinks it's funny. and it's like, girl? kind of matches how her shitty little honda civic that's always falling apart is covered in bumper stickers on the outside and like. actual stickers on the inside. like she's just vomited lisa frank.
downs several monsters or various other energy drinks a day. aforementioned car's floor is littered with the crushed cans and general. gross shit ngl. we love her though.<3
Murph stood frozen first in his embarrassment and then in slightly amused confusion. "Okay, well that's a little much—" He said under his breath. Not too loud because Murph wasn't prepared to actually fight about it. He was more likely to lose against a strong gust of wind and he certainly wasn't prepared to defend his honor over a little bit of cigarette smoke. But then his attention was drawn back to the cigarette he'd stomped out, eyes ping ponging between that and Gabe. Slowly, he slipped a hand into his pocket, fishing out the crushed pack of Lucky Strikes. He held them out in offering. "You can just... have these? And we can call it even?"
gabe stared at murph like he had just turned water into wine; eyes still glistening, though tears no longer threatened to spill from his eyes. "wait, really? for me?" they reached forward and snatched the case from murph; like they were worth gold. really - the cigarettes were as cheap as you could get. still weren't camels, but fuck - did gabe really have a choice? they got back up onto their feet; a struggle, considering the guitar case on their back. "shit, dude, do you want me to like - repay you back? i can - i can sing you a song. like that guy that sings to celebrities. i can do adele." gabe couldn't do adele. "i - uh, wonderwall? i'm really good at wonderwall." they could - play guitar ridiculously well, actually - but the thought of wasting their potential on joke songs and acoustic renditions was just - the funnier option, really. "how about, uh - i walk a lonely road, the only one that i have ever known - you look like the type! not - lonely, but, like - you walk. you're walking right now."
Clementine’s not even sure how Gabe managed to follow her in here — but she’s far too busy to kick him out, so she lets his drunk ass spew whatever bullshit he wants while she finishes counting some stock, scowling down at the clipboard in her hands. “Would you—” she huffs, having lost count of the tonic waters. Glancing over at him with a glare, she says, “I’m not calling out sick. I’m literally already here, you fuck,” she turns back to the stock and starts counting again.
When she’s done, she adds, “Besides, I wouldn’t do that to David.” Or, fuck, Leon, whatever. Same shit. She won’t do it. She owes this place, in a convoluted sort of way. It’s probably the only reason she’d never ended up dead on the streets. “There’s gotta be better people you can invite out,” she raises an eyebrow at Gabe for a second before focusing her attention back on the clipboard, recording the number she’d just finished counting. “Or you could be normal and wait three more hours for my shift to end.”
"so? i call out sick all the time when i'm at work!" really, it happens twice a month; like gabe's some sort of fucked up werewolf. he's following a cycle - the cycle of his heart. the cycle of his wellbeing. mostly the cycle of when they get too hungover and can't imagine dragging their limp, decrepit body across town for work. "there's fucking, uh - seventeen tonics, by the way. i was fucking - great in math." notoriously untrue. "hey - i'm helpful! let me fucking - help, and then maybe you can just, like, leave." the labyrinth hasn't had the right amount of stock in years and gabe's constantly on the edge of being booted out. if only it weren't for their personality. it makes people want to just - drink more. whether for better or for worse.
gabe doesn't understand clem's unwavering loyalty; their ways of surviving have always been different. maybe it's gabe's sense of failed grandiosity; meant for something better, but making no strides to get there. maybe clem's just - a better person, than they are. "leo's with their partner, stuart's being weird, seb's -" gabe pauses, making a scale gesture with their hands - drink threatening to spill over. "- i'm trying to be good! or, like, better - maybe." the idea of waiting causes gabe to snort as they take another sip; sputtering out liquor as they cough. "three hours? that's - like -" cough, sputter, spit, etc. "- torture. you're torturing me here, clem, please -"
"who do you think's gonna win the contest? i'm placing bets - i can't place 'em on me, 'cos that'd be fucking - cheating, i think, but have you seen alec in the fucking - y'know?" gabe's off - kilter, attempting to swing their hips as if that'd gesture to exactly what they were implying - which was the costume itself. the two dog heads on either side of them waver as they move about; like they could either snap to life or fall off their shoulders completely. "that one's fucking - good. i think he's a fucking, shoe - in. i should've been more naked, fuck."
— halloween rave, phantom manor. open
( @bluestarters — cap at 2/3 )
CJ didn’t get scared. Not really. He fully believed in the afterlife, and monsters. He had seen Bigfoot in the flesh and no one would be able to take that from him. However, he didn’t like people jumping out at him. And on the way to the rave, may have flailed his hands a bit too wildly as he rounded the corner, and smacked one of the actors right in the jaw. So there he was, by the entrance door to the party, perking up similar to that of a puppy hearing the ‘W’ word and hovering in anticipation, messing with his Batman mask — the hard, dark plastic a stark contrast to his bare chest — as he tried to ease the foreign feeling of anxiety in his gut.
“Dude, hey! D’y’know if the dude in the Jason mask is alright? Like from the corner?” He jumped to ask maybe the seventh or eighth person who came in through the door, as if they had any news or knew of the context of the situation at all.
on the other side of the spectrum; it took a lot to truly scare philly. they remained adamant, in fact, that they've never been scared in their life. it rung true thus far; through medical procedures and getaway chases. philomena remained stoic - though they wouldn't call it brave. just a natural survival's instinct; fear was only meant to cloud the mind - and there was enough in her head for that. they trudged through the haunted house, gazing up at each of the actors with morbid curiosity and mild eagerness to get inside the rave - only pausing once cj had stopped them.
"oh, corner jason?" philly remarked, a tilt of their head. "no, i don't believe so. you have to be incredibly unwell to off a dozen camp - goers." their hands were full of their skirt, hiked up as to not trip over it. "although, i did see a man in a jason mask who seemed to be in fetal position on the ground, a short while ago. he looked to be crying, but it was very hard to tell with the mask on - so i asked him to take it off. and he was, in fact, crying."
Murph was easily made uncomfortable. Having grown up in the periphery, he was used to feeling misshapen in any situation. But as they blinked at him and stared for far longer than felt necessary before launching into what began as a— honestly helpful— suggestion and ended up some bizarre story about an insane amount of Warheads, Murph lost the thread. "Oh," he said after a long beat of silence. "That's— that's— wow. Fifteen in thirty seconds? Did you swallow them? How does that work?" Murph seemed to ponder that for a moment more, but then they'd somehow brought the conversation right back around to where it had started.
The whiplash found him in silence, both impressed by the ability to sandwich that information between suggestions and horrified by the visuals. Which was about when he thought maybe they were messing with him. Now he was invested. "That really happen?"
philly hummed - although it sounded more guttural, like a growl, like they've never learned to hum before - as murph seemed to go through a crisis. it wasn't their business, really, if he was. it wouldn't have been the first time someone had a crisis around them. it felt inevitable, at that point. like perhaps philly brought a round of madness wherever she went. the thought is a bit pleasing, enough for the corners of their lips to turn into a small smile. "typically, the warheads melt away in your mouth, but i prefer to chew my food. they had to give me gold caps on my molars." they turned back towards murph, mouth widened as they used a finger to tug at their lip - showing off something glinting at the back of her mouth. maybe gold teeth. maybe not; her mouth quickly snapped shut again - almost like a spring trap. "i'm not often a liar, and being insinuated as one is very offensive. i'm going to require half a dozen donuts for my emotional wellbeing. compensation - are you familiar with the concept?"
His faith in Philly is rightfully placed, it seems, as they slide beside Sebastian to fight against the clear injustice he's currently facing at the hands of the disgruntled arcade staff. There's many people in town that he presumes would go against the fighter's objectively ridiculous antics — on account of him being so, well, him — but Philly, not one of 'em! And thank fucking God, because there's a crochet octopus calling his name in a claw machine mere feet away, and he finds it to be utterly ridiculous that he's barred from retrieving it all because of a little property damage. Pffft, as if it's not fixed up now, anyway.
He nods in obvious agreement to all of their statements and the bushy mustache that adorns his features hides his desire to burst out laughing well. Because what the fuck, Bartamus? They couldn't pick a hotter name than that? The employee in front of them sighs, deeply — as if from within their very soul — and says nothing. That's when Sebastian perks up and replies, “Yes, yes! Uhhh — I’m Bartamus, and I’m very fuckin’ dismayed—” Whatever that means, he thinks, “—It’s, y’know, it’s ridiculous. You do so much for this town, for this community, and you get squat. You get confused for this poor, beautiful gentlemen whose done nothin' wrong, probably, but is banned for life from this place. You can't even enjoy local delicacies like an arcade! Ain't that some shit, my friend? I saved a life!”
His ramblings hang in the air for an uncomfortably long amount of time and he stands, hand on his hip, maintaining eye contact with the employee. They turn away without another word — and instead of assuming that they're going to get their manager or something, which he probably should assume, he turns to Philly and whispers, “Dude, you think we're in the clear or what?”
philly nods along as sebastian takes his cue to speak; their face very still, and very stern - it's a bit like staring into the eyes of a displeased victorian spirit. like if one was to disagree; philly would appear at the foot of their bed. haunt them a little. she likes to think that this factor alone is very convincing. their eyes flicker from the poster, to sebastian again. oh. perhaps he isn't bartamus. their hands, curled around sebastian's arms, slowly drop to their sides - a small interjection in between his words, "i do believe bartamus is more pleasing to the eye than this outlaw - it's the mustache, it's very full, so full it's almost impossible to upkeep it seems."
even if sebastian isn't bartamus ( it's still up in the air whether philly did receive organs from a bartamus ); they can tell that he's a soul in need of help. something akin to real recognizes real. it's not something she's expected today - but nonetheless, it's something philly is ( minimally ) amused by. as the employee walks away, she turns her attention back to sebastian. "you're wasting very precious time by asking, bartamus." grabbing onto him again, if only to pull him along - philly pushes through the arcade doors. "although, i do expect a reward for my help - as you know, no good deed goes unrewarded." their eyes scan the arcade as they walk, pausing and landing on the claw machine. "that octopus - it's very noble looking. plenty of legs. i desire it, bartamus. i need the octoupus."
FOR: leo again i'm sorry i took so long i owe u two </3 ( @eclvpses ).
DETAILS: phantom manor, makeshift coat room.
within an hour of being inside the rave; philly has knocked over twelve people with the mass of their skirt; all heavy beading and tulle and love and labor - but too much of it, perhaps. it's a beautiful thing, the dress; composed of hours of her and marjorie bumping heads for hours on end as they repurposed her old wedding dress. there'd never be a daughter to wear it; but philly's enough; as family as she could be. a beautiful, meaningful thing; and terribly heavy.
"leo, could you hold my sleeves?" they're firmly above ground, now, in a part of the manor that's been turned into a coat room of sorts - discarded costume pieces all around them. it's eerily quiet despite the rave ongoing below them. under ordinary circumstances, philly would discard of her costume where they stood down below; but there's sentiment with the dress. with the sleeves discarded into leo's hands; philly works on detaching her skirt from the corset. "i met a very peculiar man downstairs, with the head of a donkey and twice as many legs as he should have." whether it's a costume, or how they perceive the person - is left unknown. they shimmy out of the skirt, revealing equally bejeweled shorts and a pair of hoof - shaped shoes that she'd stolen early into the night for their own. "he's offered to part with his tranquilizers if i bring back a pair of bug antennas, glass slippers, and a red cloak - we should start searching. i'm much more agile and capable, now."
titsay
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ellievsbear
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