parkcrss:
parker didn’t break the rules. that was her thing. she was good, ol’, reliable parker dubios––boring, maybe, but consistent, and she had learned the importance of consistency from her parents from the ripe age of eleven. she liked to think that she had just been born with an old soul, but nights like these ( moments with frankie ) made her wonder if years of tucking her mother in after a night of drunken crying and making sure that she woke up for work in the morning conditioned her into the person she was today.
still. she was feeling a little reckless, a little like she was driving on black ice, a little like she wanted to spin out of control ( or maybe spin into something cute and paint-splattered ). “i told you,” parker grinned and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, “i’m straight-up corrupt. you should quiver with fear in my presence.”
she glanced around frankie’s studio, trying to appear only mildly interested––y’know, like a normal person––but she couldn’t help but try to memorize every little detail like she was in microbiology and she analyzing a foreign species of fungi…but in a cute way. parker wrinkled her nose at herself and quickly forced her lips into a bright grin, “what about an autograph? for when you’re famous and i’m broke?”
“mm, yeah. you’re SO scary, i’m shaking,” frankie hummed, the corners of her lips curling in amusement and betraying whatever semblance of being serious she had attempted to maintain in her words. parker was probably one of the least frightening people that frankie had ever met and, somehow, also one of the scariest — for lack of a better word — relationships that frankie had ever attempted to get a handle on.
parker wasn’t scary because she was tough and corrupt, no matter how many times she tried to claim it, no. the reality of it was that parker was SOFT, and that was what frightened frankie the most. parker was fragile and frankie had never learned how to be gentle with her touches, her words, her intentions. her hands were built for having calloused palms and spending hours scraping and prying at scrap metal or concrete walls in place of canvases. and, yet, when it was parker in question, she found herself thinking about holding her hands instead of pinning her wrists above her head. her experiences with PASSION always left her feeling cold enough to have frostbite, but parker was warm.
and frankie didn’t know what to do with all of it, with ANY of it, except spend as much time as she could dodging the inevitable fact that she’d end up hurting parker. and that was what was scary.
she pulled herself from her thoughts when she heard parker’s words, scoffing lightly to herself as she returned to the wall she’d been painting, dipping her brush into her paint and slowly working streaks of teal into the cacophony of cool-toned colors that had already began melting together. “artists are never rich OR appreciated until after they’red dead, park. i highly doubt my autograph will be of any use to you,” she teased, knowing that those words were far easier to say than to admit she was almost one-hundred-percent certain she’d end up in jail before she ended up successful in anything. “but if it’s what you REALLY want... who am i to deny you?”















