cherry valley forever
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Peter Solarz
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occasionally subtle
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styofa doing anything
tannertan36
Mike Driver
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Stranger Things
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hello vonnie
NASA
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@interitioxx
His sobs woke Wendy, and she sat up in bed. She was not alarmed to see a stranger crying on the nursery floor; she was only pleasantly interested. 'Boy,' she said courteously, 'why are you crying?'" 'Peter and Wendy' by J M Barrie, chapter III "Come away, come away!"
"I don't," is her immediate reply to Faolan's statement, following him, but once in the locker room, trying to look anywhere but at him, folding her arms over her chest in less impatience and more insecurity. Something about being alone in a room with a man makes Thess feel... off. Even though she's sure Faolan wouldn't do anything to her—she's heard stories about what the O'Briens do to men who touch women, or their women, at the very least—and yet there's an instinctual trepidation. She feels fourteen again in the worst of ways, desperately trying to hold onto her thirty-year-old strength and force of will.
Taking a deep breath to chase away this nasty, unwanted feeling, Thess glances over at Faolan in time to see him spit out the blood. Needless to say, the Case twins aren't strangers to a fight, they've never been ones to back down, and spending the majority of their time in the streets of Lost Angeles outside the purview of two neglecting parents, Thess has seen her share of fights, black eyes, busted knuckles, bruised ribs and cut eyebrows. And yet, she finds herself scrunching her nose.
His question is replied in part with a shrug. "Sloppy," she admits, slowly moving closer to him, the feeling of nauseating unease increasing with closing proximity, a feeling she purposefully ignores. If you ignore it, it's not there, and it can't hurt you, because it's in the past. Sitting down next to him, Thess hopes with everything she has that she doesn't come across as wooden as she feels doing it. "Not what I came here for, though." Glancing around, she grabs what she hopes is a clean towel and grabs his jaw, wiping off his mouth. "We both know you're a shithead. But you helped me, the other day. And I'm not a shithead." Yes, you are. "Okay, I am, but I was raised with manners." No, you weren't. "Regardless... I appreciate what you did. For me. Didn't have to."
There's a pause as Thess chews on the corner of her lip, the weight of how awkward she feels just about turning the floor into a grave. Turning off her mind, she leans forward and presses a kiss to his jaw, lingering for a moment before immediately jumping up as though she sat down on an electric fence. This shit is gonna fucking haunt her, she just knows it. "Anyway, that's what I wanted to say. We'll just not mention it any more or anything."
There are few people whose opinions actually matter to Faolan; his sibling tops the list, followed by the O'Briens, Morijah, and few others in between. Those people are the only ones who have some control over the madcap man, the only ones who can make him heel when it comes time. For the most part, Faolan is a wild dog, chomping at the bit for something to do. He delights in his chaos, has made it his job both inside and outside of the ring. Still, for some reason, when Thess says he fought sloppy, Faolan finds himself frowning.
His face turns from slight frustration to confusion as she wipes his chin; Thess has never been so...warm (or he would call it warmth if it didn't look like it pained her to do it). He wonders for a moment if the action was as foreign to her in giving as it was for him to receive. After all, Faolan is not a man to receive tenderness of any kind unless he is bringing it into his bed; his relationship with Thess is as far from that as could be. There's a brief question in his brain whether that might be why he cares about her: if his other relationships tend to be transactional, motivated by what pleasure or pain he can derive from them, this relationship is not. Not that the brief kiss doesn't make him question that for a moment before pushing it away inside his brain.
"Thess, you know I didn't do it for a thank you, right? I mean I love one, don't get me wrong," he jokes, that impish grin spreading across his face for a moment before he reminds himself to be serious. "I just...look there aren't many people who are straight shooters around here, but you...you've never tried to fluff me or get something from me and I don't know...I guess I respect that. you. So, if you ever need someone to have your back, I'm there...if only because you call me out on my shit...and I need that sometimes, I think." He shrugged and rubbed a hand through his hair.
bothersome to many would've been the spiking uprise in allegiance to the idolized mothman, a being of mystical creation many vowed to have witnessed, while others vehemently doubted under suspicious scrutiny. to sloan? she was neither particularly perturbed or engrossed by the subject at hand. flocks of fanatics deemed typically easier traverses more difficult now, sure, but she didn't have any intense perspectives surrounding the entity. perhaps the future and what it beheld could've swayed the young woman differently but as of currently, circumstances remained but a concealed anomaly.
between her trek from burnington's local tavern to seemingly anywhere at that point in time, the soft shimmer of a nearby lantern's glow accompanied by a splay of various, vibrant color swatches joining together to create a brilliant piece of workmanship managed to halt sloan in her tracks. irises briefly shift over to catch a small glimpse of them, their question eliciting a number of terms to jumble within her brain for what'd be considered an acceptable response, paying little to no mind regarding their earlier statement. "captivated... fascinated. you did an incredible job," she responded to them after a couple of silent beats of musing, combined with continuous admiration. sloan always considered herself a zealot to the arts, endlessly finding herself amazed by the means of what artists would do in order to construe their precious work. this specific time of adherence also proved no different.
Divinity made for the most eternal muse and The Dread Father was generous with His inspiration. There was never a time or place where Leni could not feel His presence. She had never understood how her twin was able to shrug Him off so easily, turn away from the light and dive into the darkness and senselessness that so many in town seemed to flounder in day after day. How could so many wander around without purpose or hope? They existed in the moment and that was all. It was an unfathomable prospect to Leni so she sought to bring them the hope, the light of the Father.
"Thank you...it's hard to capture the ideas. Nothing ever looks as good when it's real as when it's in my head. The execution is always just a little different than the vision," Leni admitted softly, putting a hand to her chin as she tried to decide what would make it perfect. "Is it missing something?" It was a curious question to ask a stranger, or it would have been if Leni had people skills to speak of (she didn't), but Leni needed to know how an audience would react to her work. "You can stand closer, if you want. The berries add a sweetness to the paint. I like to include more for the senses into my work because I think it encapsulates His presence more."
Archer was more his mother's son than he liked to admit. The woman never rejected the existence of The Mothman; there were enough strange creatures walking around the earth, after all, and there were proofs of people exhibiting various mutations to say there couldn't be a winged man, too. However, she often mocked the whole cult revolving around Him. While Archer wasn't as bold as her, he knew better than to fall in the trap of false beliefs. He believed in nothing but his own capability and the things that had hard proof behind them. Not things that needed vision dust shimmering in the air to induce fake reality.
"Not gonna lie, it's looking rather cool." He couldn't twist his heart when he'd always had a thing for the grotesque. But still, he perceived the painting as nothing more than that; a beautifully grotesque painting of a creature. Dark and twisted, meant to evoke utter fear and admiration at the same time.
It was an oddity for Leni to have someone watch her work. Even amongst her family, Leni had always kept art separate, only showing her work when the piece was more or less finished and out of her hands. It was strange for her now to have someone looking at her mural while she was still working. She wondered if this was what it felt like for people who performed; she did not find comfort in the feeling. Still, despite her awkward questioning, she was somewhat pleased by the answer. She touched the still wet crimson color lightly, and rubbed it between her middle finger and her thumb. She had no power in a pulpit, she knew, but she could at least make people look up.
"I am afraid it will loose some of its luster in the morning light, but in the night, maybe it will inspire some thoughts," she mused. Her eyes rose, searching the sky for signs of rain. She whispered a prayer, a hope that some vision of her work would someday reach Him, even if she would never know. "It's somewhat comforting to know, with all that has changed in this world, that darkness and light can be so intertwined with beauty. It is the duality that creates the magic, I think...speaks to the duality in us all."
hc + 🌄 for an outdoor-themed headcanon ( leni )
Leni is her happiest when she is outside at night. She used to pretend, when she was a child that the moon was a friend of hers and she would talk to the moon. When she is out and the moon shines above her, she will still whisper conversation to the great glowing orb, often appearing as if she is talking to herself. Sometimes, she lays out and will talk to the moon all night.
Thematic Headcanons. A series of subject-specific headcanons you can ask your favorite blog and muse.
hc + 🤝 for a headcanon about a connection with one of the receiver's mutual
hc + 👪 for a family-themed headcanon
hc + 🧡 for a friendship-themed headcanon
hc + 💌 for a romance-themed headcanon
hc + 💕 for a loved-themed headcanon
hc + 💔 for a headcanon about a sad experience
hc + 🤥 for a lie-themed headcanon
hc + 😶 for a headcanon about a secret they know of / keep
hc + 😴 for a sleep-themed headcanon
hc + 🌇 for a headcanon about morning- or evening rituals
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hc + 😨 for a fear-themed headcanon
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hc + 👍 for a headcanon about things they like
hc + 👎 for a headcanon about things they dislike
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hc + 🔞 for a nsfw-headcanon
hc + ❓ for a headcanon of the receiver's choice
GLIMPSES OF THE PAST: a headcanon / prompt collection because sometimes it's not enough to write about your muse's past and how it affects them, you just gotta write a little scene. these prompts are designed to be a little writing prompt related to your character's past, essentially!
send FORGED for a scene from my muse's past that they think made them stronger in the long run
send REMINDED for a scene from my muse's past in which they encountered something that reminded them of a difficult experience / trauma
send CONFESSED for a scene from my muse's past in which they revealed a secret about themselves to someone
send TRICKED for a scene from my muse's past in which they misled, tricked, or lied to someone
send IMPRESSED for a scene from my muse's past in which they tried to impress someone, successfully or not
send ACHIEVED for a scene from my muse's past in which they completed / achieved something they were proud of
send CHANGED for a scene from my muse's past that represented a turning point in their life
send DIFFERENT for a scene from my muse's past that they feel changed their outlook / personality / etc, for the better or worse
send CRITICAL for a scene from my muse's past in which they thought about / were reminded of something they're insecure about
send SCOLDED for a scene from my muse's past in which someone told them off, justifiably or not
send STRAINED for a scene from my muse's past in which they interact with someone they have a difficult relationship with
send SOBBED for a scene from my muse's past in which they broke down in tears
send LOST for a scene from my muse's past in which they felt lost, literally or figuratively
send BLINDSIDED for a scene from my muse's past in which they were betrayed or shocked by what someone did
send INJURED for a scene from my muse's past in which they sustained a significant injury
send AFRAID for a scene from my muse's past in which they were scared / under threat
send HELPED for a scene from my muse's past in which someone helped / saved them
send CAUGHT for a scene from my muse's past in which they were caught doing something they shouldn't
send BLUSHED for a scene from my muse's past in which they received a compliment that really got to them
send VICIOUS for a scene from my muse's past in which someone said something cruel that really got to them
send SWOONED for a scene from my muse's past in which they were infatuated with someone
send PINNED for a scene from my muse's past in which they were stuck somewhere, literally or figuratively
send GRIEVED for a scene from my muse's past in which they had recently lost someone / something
send MORTAL for a scene from my muse's past in which they had a brush with death, either themselves or someone close to them
located : hell's gate ・ time : post spring awakening ・ @interitioxx
She's been sitting on this awful, gnawing feeling in her stomach for days now. Every moment that she's not actively doing something, her mind goes back to what happened a few days ago, and the stubborn tug-o-war of refusing to owe anything and a feeling of... gratitude. This goddamn asshole. It's all his fault, of course, she could've been content going about it by herself, as always, but he had to go and be helpful. Who the fuck asked him to be nice?
Glad Skylar is out working so they can't point out Thess' frustrated glare at the far wall in their darkened living room, as passive as she may seem sitting there, there's a war being waged inside of her. On the one hand, she wants to go thank Faolan, at the very least, for being there when no one else—aside from Skylar—had been there; on the other hand, there's resentment, because she hadn't asked for his help, he just assumed she needed it, or maybe just trying to be nice, but how the fuck dare he be nice? No, he's always been annoyingly charming and cheeky, but he's never been nice in such a sincere way, and it's that part—the sincerity of it—that puts Thess in such an awful position.
She's not a bad person. She's not mean, or incapable of decency. If that were the case, she wouldn't be having this shitty dilemma now.
"I'm gonna fuckin' kill him," Thess mutters under her breath, and perhaps that's how she convinces herself to finally end this stalemate. Sitting here until the end of time isn't really productive use of her time anyway. Pulling on her boots and putting her mane of hair up into a loose bun, Thess leaves the place she shares with her twin and heads to the one place she knows she's bound to find him, sooner or later.
And it doesn't take too long. Perhaps in watching Lena fight as often as she does, she'd subconsciously learned Faolan's schedules as well. Thess is a stranger to Hell's Gate per se, but it also isn't really a place she prefers to linger for longer than she has to, promptly leaving after any fight she wants to actually see, and certainly not sticking around to trade any sort of words with its fighters. But there she is now, in the cheering and yelling crowd, watching Faolan throw hit after hit at whatever unfortunate is sharing the pit with him.
Towards the end of it, Thess can't help but find herself oddly invested, the glare changing into something more than frustration. Perhaps it's the energy of the crowd, perhaps it's the fact that it's nice to watch someone be good at what they do, perhaps it's just wanting to get it over with... whatever has her shouting by the end of it, Thess can't—and won't—put a name to it.
"C'mon now, Faolan, you're just gonna take that, you shithead? Hit him!"
Once the fight ends, Thess is clapping along with the crowd before she remembers why she came here in the first place. Ducking and weaving between bodies, she worms her way through to where the man stepped out, just to pop up in front of him. "You look like shit. Can we talk or whatever? You don't get to say no."
If there is a life after this one, Faolan is pretty sure that he isn't going to be heading up to the pearly gates. St. Peter or whoever is the guard dog would take one look at him and send him straight back to the pit, after all, hell is probably closer to home. Faolan won't even complain; he isn't a good guy. He has read stories from near and far, the epic poems of the world. He knows that he is no King Arthur, nor a Robin Hood. He is certainly no Superman. If he were to seek his literary counterpart, he would find himself more easily in Achilles' anger or Heathcliff's cruelty. It is not in his wheelhouse to lend a helping hand.
If anyone would ask him about why he insisted on helping Thess that night, he probably still could not tell them. In his own mind, there were justifications, reasoning that she had been upset, that her worry had prompted something in him. Of course, he could not for the life of him explain why that was. He hurt people for a living. Empathy was not among his strongest of characteristics; he had and has regularly been accused of not having a heart at all. Helping Thess had not been a thought, it had been instinct. He had gone with her and when they'd found him, he'd disappeared just as quickly.
It had been one good moment in a litany of bad ones, brutal ones, and violent ones. And when he was done with it, he'd gone back to what he was good at, beating the shit out of people. In the following days, he fought hard, maybe to clean the good out of his book. Tonight's opponent plays a bit dirty and Faolan gets caught in the eye with an elbow and then has a heel jabbed into his foot. The pain is immediate and he hisses before being punched in the side of the jaw. Through the ringing, he thinks he can hear Thess, but he is still surprised after he rallies and finishes the fight to see her show up and ask to talk to him. He spits out his mouthpiece and nods for her to follow him into the locker room before he sat on the bench and began unwrapping his hands. "I didn't know you came to see the fights. What did you think about tonight?" he asks before he drinks some water and spits a little blood out and into a bowl.
“yeah i’m sure she is, i ain't goin’ to assess that statement, though. archer already gives me the evil eye whenever he comes around.” as if jonah would date anyone he employs, it wasn't good business. especially not artists as good as salem. “my lips are sealed,” he smirked with some pride knowing he still had people who considered him their favorite. his art meant a lot to him, as did those wearing it. jonah nodded and chuckled at his idea. “they don't already know all that the minute they see them angry eyes of yours?” he pulled out his drawing pad to start working on something that matched what faolan was talking about.
“you know what’s better than one wolf? three.” he started on a concept sketch, encouraging the other to give his input or just talk. “how much longer do you think you’ll be fighting?” the age of fighter retirement wasn’t something jonah knew too much about but he had to figure it wasn’t something you did into your fifties or sixties. after some time went by he had a basic idea and turned the pad so faolan could get a better look at it. “so what about this with reddish brown fur. we could make the eyes green and yellow?”
"Eh, he needs to get it together and let the cat outta the bag. Salem is hotter than hell and if he doesn't make his move, someone is going to. Who wouldn't want someone who is gorgeous and is one of the best artists in town? You two just dress the fishery right up," Faolan said with a teasing grin. He wasn't completely kidding, though. It was true, however, that the piece that he had hovering around his mind was one that he'd saved just for Jonah. Faolan knew the part that appearances played in his job; fighting wasn't just about strength but also stage presence. Opponents and audiences alike judged by appearance and he wanted to give them something to look at. "You would think they'd get the gist, but all they see is the size." After all, he wasn't the largest fighter, not by a long shot. Many saw his 5 feet and 8 inches and thought they could push him around the ring...they usually regretted it.
Faolan watched as Jonah's pencils darted across the paper, bringing his tumbled description to life, but better than he could have imagined it. Jonah was right, of course, that three wolves were better than one. The effect was to present Faolan as one of a pack. Three wolves, three leaves on the Shamrocks already on his body; the number was fortuitous. Faolan nodded as he watched, more focused than he ever seemed otherwise. He almost didn't hear Jonah's question, but when he did, he barked a laugh.
"Till I can't. I mean it's not like I have a lot of other marketable skills, man. I'm a fighter. It's who I am. My old man was a fighter. It's what we do." There was nothing after that, was there? Faolan could not imagine himself old, in any case. When Jonah finished the sketch, he let out a whistle. "Exactly like that. You just tell me when we can start."
"see? there you go again, making my head inflate; soon enough i'll be toppling over because it'll be too heavy, and then you'll have to carry me around everywhere because it'll be your fault." though she was smiling, cole put a hand on her hip as she watched faolan, taking the time to observe every little cut, scrape, or ding that the other guy had managed to inflict him with. her instinct was to take care of him, but considering what the two of them tended to get up to when they were together, she knew he'd be perfectly fine. "next time you have a fight you should consider inviting me. i've been told that i make a wonderful cheerleader, and god knows you could use someone on your side." cole's lips tugged into a smile as she teased him. if anyone could take it, it was faolan.
her brows shot up with his suggestion, her fingers now tapping slowly where they rested on her hip. the offer was tempting, and while she was technically supposed to be behind the bar, the mad scientist wasn't exactly busy right now. not many people took the time to dance in that particular space, but maybe that needed to change. "fine," she sighed, already reaching to take his hand as she stepped out from behind the bar. "you cracking the code and figuring out i can't say no to you is gonna cause problems one day." the words came out muttered as cole clung her arms around faolan's neck, fully ready to give into anything he asked.
Faolan grinned impishly. "Don't say that like I wouldn't carry you around for no reason at all. If you weren't working, I would just hoist you up over my shoulder right now...I might still. You never know." He winked at her and wiped a bit of the liquid from the corner of his lip. He had looked rougher, of course, but he was sure he probably wasn't a pretty sight. He had learned, over the years, to patch himself up; admittedly, his stitches were always a little wonky and he had more scars than tattoos at this point, but the pain was almost addictive in its own way. Almost as addictive as Cole's teasing. "I think you would make a wonderful cheerleader for the audience, but it will be hard to focus on the ugly mug in the ring with me when I have you on the sides yelling my name. I'd wager it would be worth it though."
Faolan's grin widened even further when she said she'd dance. Her arms wrapped around his neck and he slid his hands to her hips. Honestly, the music didn't matter in the slightest, just her and the moment. "Hey, you act like this isn't a two way street hon. You think that I could say no to you either?" he chuckled, close enough to her that she probably could feel him laugh as well as hear him. "Plus, we know we love problems." He slid one hand into hers and spun her around before pulling her close once again.
Her mind feels like buzzing, not knowing what to expect when she steps out there, not knowing where Skylar might be, or in what condition. The fool, the fucking fool, most likely out there thinking of others before they think of themself—left to their fate, Skylar would sacrifice themself for any one of these fucking people and while it was all noble and shit and certainly made them a much better person than her, it's also the one thing she fucking hates about them. Because if they left her, where would she be? What would her purpose be?
The thoughts fly through her mind like flies, drowning out just about all sound and all other instincts—when Faolan places a hand on her shoulder, Thess almost jumps out of her skin, and her attention immediately snaps to him, shoulder lurching away out of instinct like a wounded, prior-abused animal. It takes her a few seconds to realise who it is that invaded her space, not a threat, not a threat, not a threat. Well, maybe a little, slightly a threat to himself and everyone around him, but not in the specific way that quietly terrifies Thess.
"My sibling, my twin, they're—fuck, that stupid fool," she breathes, cursing as she pulls a hand through thick, messy hair. "They never think about themself, it's always helping other people, but fuck other people!" People closest to them glance over at her roar, the confession that has always sat quiet but firm in her mind. Thess has never been a people-person, sure, but she's also never admitted out loud to anyone but Skylar just how much she didn't fucking care about anyone but the two of them.
"We're not going anywhere," she grounds out, grabbing onto her jacket that he took from her. Fucking Faolan. God, fuck him and his annoying charm, this harbinger of fucking chaos. "I can look after myself." He can't come, he can't come, because Thess realises if something happened to him, she'd actually feel responsible.
People can be so stupid, and while Thess has a job to protect, Faolan has no such obligations to the patrons of the Mad Scientist so when they turn to look at Thess when she roars, he holds a certain finger high in the air and returns with a "Fuck off!" She is stressed enough already and Thess does not need the added weight of nosy patrons bringing her down. He understands her fear, the type that keeps you up at night when the person you care for, the one who has carved their way into your heart, your sibling, is in danger. Faolan rarely talks about his (he made too many enemies) but they have his heart nonetheless. If they were in danger, he'd upend the world to save them.
"Thess, cut the shit. You need to find someone and you seem to want to do this quickly. Two pairs of eyes are better than one. I'm not looking after you. I'm helping you look after them. I have...well, I just get the worry," he shrugged and shook his head, grabbing and yanking on his jacket. "Stop being stubborn and just tell me what areas we need to cover so that you can bring them back here and I can get my next drink, yeah?"
He doesn't bother waiting for her argument; she's stubborn, but he is too, and she doesn't have time to waste. When he goes to the door and holds it open for her, his eyes flash defiantly. He knows he is not Thess' favorite person, but in spite of or maybe because of her ascerbic wit, she is one of his. He wouoldn't have just anyone's back, but for this night, he'd have hers.
Afterglow researchers, Devan has found, come in a few flavours; confident to the point of arrogance, borderline cruel and sadistic, or so awkward you wonder how they get through their daily social life. Nelle seems to fall into the latter category, and it's the category Devan finds the most endearing, the easiest to tolerate. They give her a grin and a chuckle as she apologises, patting her shoulder gently before returning her personal space to her.
"A fungus?" He can't help the smirk that crosses his face, tilting his head slight. "My, you say we were gonna be adventurous." Gesturing for her to lead on, Devan bows his head slightly. "Your will is my command, miss."
Admittedly, Nelle knows that most people do not get overjoyed when discussing fungi. Her passion borders on intense and somewhat obsessive, but she has always been focused, driving herself to find an answer before she can possibly move onto something else, even rest. Plus, this fungus was a idiosyncracy, a living thing that defied the previous rules set for its species. She could not help but wish to know why. "It's pretty spectacular...unique. Most fungi work within the ecosystem to break down other organisms that are dead; they aid in the decay and fertilization of the forest, but this fungus...it wants to break down living tissue. It almost seeks it." She begins walking to her lab to get her equipment, talking over her shoulder to Devan. Then, a thought hits her. "Oh, you're probably going to want some decent ppe. This stuff can be nasty if it makes contact with an open wound."
Her own equipment was on her desk and she pulled on the suit and grabbed her mask and cooler before she turned back around. Speaking about her fungus was easy, but she tried not to be too awkward. "Do you want me to bring any snacks or coffee or tea or hot chocolate...?" she asked, tapping her fingers as she thought of what to offer. Her mother had always taught her that a good host offers food. She gave Devan a weak smile. "Do we need to stop anywhere to get anything you'll need or do you need me to do any paperwork for you to come with me?"
Open starter: Phalène and open
Phalène worked in a rhythm that was all her own, oblivious to the world around her, the world remade -at least for now- in His Image. She has been His for so long now that the scent of blood and rot barely tickles her nose and the fine mist that hangs in the air is but a whisper. The naive panicked in the streets, crying and worried, but birth was painful and awakening into the light was not supposed to be easy. Let them see how the Dread Father watched their world, let the naive finally feel His presence. They would be better for it, even if they would balk it at first.
Leni's hands scanned over her brushes and she picked a thick one for the first coat, a mixture of iron and strawberries to create a red paint that she used to create the eyes. The liquid dripped like fresh blood down the stone work of the building. It was dark outside and the lantern-light made the scene a picture of grotesque beauty. She added in black and silver, painting wings filled with their prophecies and scripture. Then, at the bottom of the wall, she painted a lantern, glowing gold. "Follow the Light and you'll find Him." The script was flowing, painstaking until a sound behind her made her jump on the last letter and she spun around with a look of fury. No words passed her lips as she turned around and fixed the letters before finally acknowledging the guest. "Well, how does it make you feel?"
✱ affiliated with CHILDREN OF MOTHMAN ( INITIATE ) ✱ working as SEAMSTRESS ( THE SEWING ROOM ) ✱ has taken up residence in MOTHMAN RANCH ✱ born on MARCH 20TH ( 30 ) ✱ identifying as CIS WOMAN ( SHE / HER ) ✱ known to be DEVOUT, QUIXOTIC, EMPASSIONED ✱ also know to be CONTRADICTORY, DOGMATIC, OBSESSIVE ✱ portrayed by TAYLOR RUSSELL
the remnants of the vision dust were still lingering behind odette’s eyes. supposedly duck had gone to go find some miracle solution in the hospital wing of the compound. however, odette was enjoying the effects now that it knew it was in a safe place. not many places felt very safe when its mind was the thing that caused the most consistent damage to it but fefe always made odd feel protected. almost like her father had, but not exactly the same. she wished she could see him again, even for a second. it had been so long she wondered if they'd recognize each other if their paths were to ever cross, it had been so long. the knock at the door of fefe’s office broke it from its thoughts and they crawled out from under the desk where they’d been lying.
dot wasn’t sure who she expected to find on the other side of the door but nelle had not been it. “you’re not duck or dad, you’re a you.” it hummed and moved a few steps back so the new visitor could come in if she so wished. odd shook its head to the question posed, but looked around just in case it missed the triumphant return of the duck. but he wasn’t there, still out doing what he does. “duck went to get medicine type things for odd’s unfortunate moth dust consumption. but he should be back soon if you want to—” it paused when the papers fell and moved to go help her pick them up. “what is this?” it held up one of the sheets, not making much sense of anything at surface value despite its nearly two decades in close proximity to dr. estrada. it only absorbed some things and all that was auditory, it hardly knew how to read a lab report or test results.
The surprise that filled the face of the figure in front of Nelle was then reflected on her own face; she had not known that the doctor was sharing his office, though she wondered if she had seen the face around the building before, or maybe in town, she couldn't quite place it. Still, the speech patterns of the figure added a layer of intrigue and Nelle was almost never one to leave a question alone. "I am a me...Me is named Nelle. What are you called?" she asked in what she hoped was a politely understandable way before she ducked down to try and pick up the mess of graphs and spreadsheets that she'd brought to demonstrate the team's findings.
She crammed paper after paper into her arms, only looking up to Dot when she heard the question. "That's a report on radiation in the blood over a period of time and it is supposed to go with a report on white blood cell activity," Nelle sighed, noticing that she had the papers all out of order , not that it was the end of the world, yet. Then, her brain circled back to what should have been the first question. "Moth dust consumption? Are they still spreading that stuff out there? Are you okay? Do you need some water or anything?" Nelle picked her papers up and plopped them on a chair in Dr. Estrada's office before turning back to Dot with concern. "If there's anything I can do, let me know."
they stood there for a second longer than they needed to, her hand still loosely in his, the night pressing in around them like it was waiting to see who would move first. the air was thick—sweet and rotten at the same time—and somewhere way off down the street another pyre crackled loud enough to cut through the silence.
inés didn’t pull away, not right away. she just let it sit between them, her thumb brushing slow against the back of his hand like she wasn’t quite ready to let him go either. then finally, she shifted, fingers slipping free, and reached for the door. but she didn’t open it.
instead, she turned her head just enough to catch his eye, a small tilt of her chin like she was weighing something—and deciding it was worth saying. “you don’t have to go just yet,” she said, voice low, almost a little rough from the dust in the air—or maybe just from the weight of everything unsaid between them.
her hand rested on the door handle, casual, like she wasn’t holding her breath even though she kind of was.
“if you want,” she added, a little softer, “you can come in.”
she didn’t smile when she said it—there was something too raw about the night for that—but there was a gentleness in her face, something quieter than words. not a test. not a trap. just…a truth, laid bare between them.
the kind of offer you didn’t make unless you meant it.
behind her, the apartment had a faint sliver of light bleeding out from under the door like it had been waiting too.
she stayed where she was, hand still on the handle, giving him the choice—like she always did.
whether he stayed or went, she wasn’t going to shut the door on him.
not now.
maybe not ever.
A warning sat on the tip of Owen's tongue, but words would not form. The alarm is not for some external danger; it warns of him, of what he did to the love he was given, and how broken it had left him. But, no matter how he tried to phrase the warning, all words seemed cheap. How could he warn Inés of this danger when she knew him so completely? She held no fear of him; it was he who held all the fear: fear that he would get too close, that she would begin to mean too much to him, and that he would ruin it.
His fear dissipated, though, the moment his eyes found hers. Green with a center of honeyed brown, they were the calmest eyes he'd ever seen. In a world of turmoil and directives, she was the safe harbor in the storm. So, though his chest tightened with the question of what it would mean for them if he stepped inside, he nodded. "I'd like that." His other hand, the one not already holding hers, met her other hand on the door handle and he smiled back at her. It was small and filled with uncertainty, the kind of smile that made him feel younger than his age, but it was genuine and hopeful.
They went in together and Owen tried to resist the urge to scan the apartment for little bits of information; he did not wish her to feel like he was gawking or judging when he just wanted to know as much as he could about her, just wanted to know her. "It's a nice place," he mentioned. "I mean, sure, take that with a grain of salt since I've lived in some form of barracks for most of my life, but I will say that it's a hell of a lot homier and smells better too."
It almost felt like walking into another world, one where the EAA didn't have any jurisdiction. It was a place where he could be more than First Sergeant Westfall. He could even feel it as Inés shut the door on the outside world, there was peace still in this place and maybe, just maybe, he could stay in it for awhile, as long as she would have him.
THE WILD & WONDERFUL APPALACHIA WELCOMES... phalène 'leni' toule as written by b ( she / her ).
✱ affiliated with CHILDREN OF MOTHMAN ( INITIATE ) ✱ working as SEAMSTRESS ( THE SEWING ROOM ) ✱ has taken up residence in MOTHMAN RANCH ✱ born on MARCH 20TH ( 30 ) ✱ identifying as CIS WOMAN ( SHE / HER ) ✱ known to be DEVOUT, QUIXOTIC, EMPASSIONED ✱ also know to be CONTRADICTORY, DOGMATIC, OBSESSIVE ✱ portrayed by TAYLOR RUSSELL
