The Stonewall Inn
$LAYYYTER
ellievsbear
gracie abrams
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Product Placement
Game of Thrones Daily
trying on a metaphor
No title available
No title available
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
roma★
One Nice Bug Per Day
Discoholic 🪩
Keni
Show & Tell
Cosmic Funnies
will byers stan first human second
Claire Keane
The Bowery Presents
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from Spain
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Canada
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Sweden
seen from Spain
@psychescape
psyche ∙ scape — a multi-muse by luca ( 30; he/him ). see carrd for guidelines + muse bios!
on hiatus as of 07/07/2025 — hope to return with more regularity once i've figured out how to juggle work/uni properly!
mobile muse list ➘
hi pals, promise i'm still alive! it's just been THE craziest month and a bit. the move went pretty awfully ( involving having to leave part of my belongings in fucking switzerland + paying a hefty fine because dad and i were Convinced we didn't cross the weight threshold, and 2.5 hours later a fucking car accident on the german highway (nobody was harmed!!! just the truck was ruined) ). i'll spare the other horrible details but uh. on top of the stress and all this basically financially ruining me, the new job is also a Lot to handle.
so i'm!!! stretched a little thin rn ngl. i DO want to come back but it's all just taking a lot longer than anticipated. i'll do my best, but you can catch me on discord in the meantime ( i'm finally getting around to catching up to old messages jdgisj sorry ). sending you all my love 💞
hi pals, excuse the silence on my end the past week or 2; i'm afraid it'll persist until sometime in august because i'm moving back to the netherlands and it's taking a lot of preparation and giving me major anxiety LMAO. so i'm probably going to hoard drafts and get back to them when i feel a little calmer / settled in and have gotten used to my new job over there as well. it's a lot all at once and i'm horribly resistant to change so i'm just kinda suffering atm ngl lol
“The kings?!” the question comes as a whisper though far louder than she would have liked otherwise. The surprise bare in her tone of voice - it made sense given Brasidas’ position and standing with the kings - that he would be made aware of what the woman he had agreed to marry was doing.
Whether it was to allow him a first seat row to realise his regret to not having married a true spartan woman or to confirm that it had been a good choice - well, Maxima could not know for sure. For now, she was satisfied to have shown herself worthy. It would help the soreness and bruises.
The comment about her name earns him a flash of surprise, a crook of a brow as long fingers brush the long hair away from her face. Maxima smiles openly, easily - it feels too vulnerable, too open, too honest. Slowly, uncovering her shoulders, she pulls the red shawl she had there - pulling it up with both hands and straightening the fabric as to cover the back of her head. The starting of the process to cover her head with it like a veil.
“I think the kings are, indeed, very wise.” head tilted, Maxima stops in her step, turning to look and give Brasidas her full attention.
The way he looked at her now. She could live in that, to be looked at like that by Brasidas in the middle of these Spartan streets in early spring. This was divinity. Dark eyes, dark in an unknown colour when shadowed by the red shawl fall to his lips for a moment.
“Are you happy that you got to witness it?” she asks and now that her smile is covered between the two layers of the red fabric that would eventually come to rest on top of her head like a veil, she allows it to grow into the knowing tone it begged to carry.
Eventually, but not quite yet, she held it between the sides of her head, making her already flushed face now take the deeper tones from the sun-warmed red “Or perhaps it turned out to be far more…”
With the ways that Brasidas eyes danced on the soft shadows on her face, down her body but keeping his distance. She hums, biting the lower lip as her hands pull down the fabric to cover the auburn hair with the fabric and her shoulders too.
Pressing her teeth into her lips, Maxima has half the mind to lean into it, push to see where and how sweet this tension could become. Perhaps, but there are a lot of voices around them. Another time, another place. She gives Brasidas a long flance before continuing to walk once more, chuckling “distracting to your duties for the day than initially anticipated?”
Brasidas foregoes answering her her astonishment, figuring the astonishment will fade and settle into understanding — and, indeed, it does. He may have joked about the logistics of his presence here, but at the core lies some degree of severity: those wise kings indeed wanted Brasidas to see how his betrothed would fare in some of the oldest – perhaps even most sacred – practices of their people. The kings looked on to assess the degree to which she belonged here, like so many of the other ephors present; Brasidas was invited to consider her readiness to marry into Sparta, and to him, at that.
Outsiders might call it cold; he cares little when the bloodlines of his people are on the line.
More invigorating than merely the sight of her just now, however, is the flame she has fanned into wildfire within him. Perhaps he can indeed come to appreciate her as she is — no Spartan born-and-raised, but an outsider with the commitment and courage of one all the same.
“Oh, I was very happy to witness you as I did. I still am,” he murmurs when her seconds question lands, this one less rhetorical than the last. It is perhaps for the better that she decides to start walking. It would serve no one for him to continue leering where the dissipating crowds could see.
He remains close, just barely brushing shoulders with her. “Though I will admit the distraction was greater than foreseen. But we Spartans pride ourselves on discipline — I will recover before I return to the syssition,” he bluffs. “But I have time until then, should you want to spend it together. Then again,” he trails off, “I would not want to rob you of a well-deserved, private bath.”
🌕💙⚜️💙Stars and the Moon💙⚜️💙🌕
The merc groans, both from the headache and from having to get back to this fucking topic - now with headache that was this (imagine a pinching hand) close to ripping her a new one. Did they really have to start this shit again? Now with more salt into the fucking wound? Fuck.
“I still don’t like it, think it’s a terrible fucking plan.” if it could even be considered a plan to begin with - sound and looked like the reality: them graspin’ at straws. V. looks up to Vince with a grimace, throwing her hands up, pointer fingers circling around the barely bones appartment they found themselves calling base of operations “Don’t mean I’m about to leave you here in this God forsaken shithole.”
Though it did make her fuckin’ wonder if he would do the same. Viv wouldn’t have questioned it but maybe things were nearin’ the usual end: loyalty only went so far and they were all worn fuckin’ elastics bein’ pulled until they sung the opera.
“Someone’s gotta have your back when shit goes sideways, and it will” she turns, grabbing at the material that Reed and Alex had deemed that they could afford to leave for the Vs to get ready. She fights the urge to scratch her face as she glances up her shoulder “and it ain’t even to tell you’re a fuckhead and that I told you so,” because that fuckin’ point they’d both be smoked anyway “just don’t want you to end up dead just ‘cause you have the heart in the right place just not for this place.”
Clicking one of the guns, she takes stock of it, before taking the one she had strapped to her hip and comparing it. She drops the guns provided by Reed. Of course the streets had better shit, jesus fucking christ.
“’less y’d rather I go and if that’s so,” a pause, and she shifts the weight from one leg to another, arms crossing and head tossing back with her eyes narrowing. She tries to keep the bitter bite off her lips, but she doesn’t fucking care “just say it.”
There's some good to be spotted in all of Viv's vitriol, and that's the obvious concern she has for him. She gives a damn — quite the silver lining, that. It takes the sting out of the implication that he's guiding them both to a swift death.
At length, Vince sighs and joins her at the table full of arms; all stuff the agents could miss, though there'll undoubtedly be more – and better – below ground in Longshore Stacks. Call him set in his ways, but he likes what he's got. It works. Why change the winning team? ( Well, unless that FIA safehouse harbours some particularly interesting gear ... But that's besides the current point. )
There's not even a chance of him getting swept up in that far less important stream of thought. That'd be too easy. Instead, he's made to swallow a dose of vitriol he hadn't particularly seen coming. Stupid, that, given that he himself is stuck in a permanent thought-loop of "they'd be better off without me."
It's not like he can always be prepared for everything, he supposes, no matter how hard he tries and how much he wants to be. “What? No, that ain't it. The only thing I will say, and not just imply, is that I hope that you comin' with me doesn't come with the condition of wantin' a guilt-free pass to grill me for my decision.” He pauses again, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. “I'm askin' for your trust, like I've given you mine so often before. Please. This is ... really fuckin' important to me.”
The soothing, near-tranquil rush of Imadris’ falls feeding the mighty River Bruinen cannot calm those seated within. An unknown fear on the horizon, the Shadow they must all make sense of, only unsteadies hearts and overworks minds. At least the half-elf’s welcome soothes her expression, a warm smile he coaxes along with her name.
“Brienne Guyot of Dorwinion, my lord.” Chin ducks as is polite; her hands mirror his lightly folded at the front of her green gown. “And I was told you are either Lord Elrohir or Lord Elladan. My sincere apologies for lacking such discernment since I was also told you look identical.” Lindir was kind to aid her small company with information about the House of Elrond in hopes of better finding their bearings.
“Twins are considered the rarest of gifts in our culture.” Mused a beat later, herself thinking of the joy a mother would feel should she be blessed with two children instead of one. “But thank you for the welcome. I seek, as others here, to make sense of that which remains unclear.”
Elladan dips his head in acknowledgement of her introduction, mirroring the gesture she pays him in kind. By the time his eyes meet hers again, the corners of his are lifted by a smile — light-hearted, though not as obvious as it might have been prior. The long shadow that the future has already cast makes even his amusement a weighted thing.
“You need not apologise. Time has a way of desensitising us to these things. I am Elladan Peredhel, son of Lord Elrond,” he clarifies after a moment, his smile upheld thence by the footnote regarding twins' significance in the lady Brienne's culture. That, then, her distant home shares with his. Where children are a relative rarity, twins might border on the miraculous.
“Of course. And what bade you come here? A vision, a message?” It almost feels impertinent to ask ... Almost. It would have, perhaps, if not so many had arrived near-simultaneously under unclear circumstances. “I suspect my father among others will serve to alleviate your confusion more so than I.” There are those things that his father mandated secret, or too uncertain yet to be discussed with those unaware of the danger. Elladan does not seek to go against his vow of silence. However ... “But if you have questions, I shall answer them to the best of my ability.”
Frankie and Johnny (1991) — dir. Garry Marshall
There were sacrifices that were demanded if one was to settle down. To have roots meant then that she was the one that needed to bend - it was no longer enough to be light, one needed to be resilient while the roots settled. And that, that was how she had ended up amongst these women and beneath the loud roaring of crowds that were far too pleased to see a display that did nothing but keep their eyes focused on what the organizers wanted them to.
More. Or worse, perhaps, was that Maxima enjoyed keeping them in a comfortable illusion. The comfortable illusion that she was weak in some aspects, weaker than any other woman in Sparta. Keeping herself in an angle to be undermined was, in part, what made the job lighter to carry. Weak, but not too weak. It was a hard balance. But again, roots. This meant too that when the sun shone and the lights turned towards her, the reigns of control needed to be given to whoever had orchestrated the show - and, in this case, not her.
The truth, then, was that she was more trained than they expected. She held no strength training, or very little, but in what she lacked in strength there was in underhand tricks, there were in well placed hits - in knowning which parts of the body she needed to hold and for how long before being let go. The truth was that she was far more exposed to combat these days than some of these women, despite their earlier training in life.
The truth then, is that she leaves the space bruised. Bruised and in pain and knowing that while this was necessary to make sure the roots grew stronger, it had also cost her in other ways that were harder to anticipate.
“Ah, dearest.” her voice is softer than she’d like, but the fatigue held too her vocal cords and it held the waning strength. Her brow arches, green eyes glance around them at the shapes and throngs of people moving and she chooses to remain as she had been. Her hands move to the front of her body with a small grin, voice lowering to a whisper ”Thank you. Had I known that you were going to watch then perhaps I should have tried harder to put on a spectacle.“
Her hair, brushed carefully, would end up still far curlier than she would have worn it, that much was clear on the few strands that framed her face as they moved. Brasidas looked pleased, that was a good indicator that the gamble had been worth it, both for the benefit of her place there, the stance within some members of the court and his own opinion.
She could almost sigh in relief, but doesn’t. Instead she allows her smile to grow, head tilting in his direction with a softer whisper “But I suppose it is enough, that I tempted you enough to attend an event I didn’t even invite you to!”
She looks more dishevelled than he's ever seen her ( and that says a lot, given the other levels of dishevelled he's witnessed her at ... ). The pull she exerts on him is magnetic, otherworldly — bordering on the divine, and he's not one to describe anything or anyone as such lightly.
Without warning, he feels the metaphorical swat of a hand at the back of his head. Rein it in. Discipline.
The self-awareness bearing down on him like a closed fist at least manages to keep him from salivating. Whether it extinguishes the flicker of lust in his eyes, he can't know for certain. The way he catches himself raking his eyes across her body, top to bottom and back up again, suggests he isn't entirely cured of his overt ... appreciation.
At length, he squares his shoulders and guides his gaze elsewhere — past the other women spilling out of the bathhouses, towards nothing in particular. Far away; enough to cleanse his mind.
In doing so, he bites back the urge to brush her tousled hair aside, to touch her shoulder, to kiss her and—
Ahem. He clears his throat, though his expression doesn't sober; he's grinning. “A spectacle you served all the same, Maxima; a spectacle worthy of your name.” He did not bury his nose in some dusty tome to find out the meaning of it. Admittedly, it was shared with him almost in passing — by none other than Livius. He'd caught Brasidas awestruck by the political meandering Maxima managed to make herself at home in, the leverage created, the results achieved. Maxima, indeed.
“Ha! Wait for your invitation, and risk missing this? Never,” he jokes, the contour of his beard shifting with the width of his smile. “In all honesty, beloved, I was invited — by the kings. Perhaps they thought it wiser not to announce my presence. I wouldn't want to ...” he pauses strategically, but before he can air out the lewd thought circulating in his mind – the desire to bite his lip and look her over again, to then kiss her in public – he thinks better of it. “Distract you. Are you not happy I was there to witness it in the end?”
SCHITT'S CREEK 2.06 – "Moira vs. Town Council"
“Ah shit,” right. One person’s relief is another’s… vomit bag or whatever the saying was. She puts the cigarette out, waving the smoke away from her as she moved - almost felt like dragging herself - towards the stupid large window. She squints at Vince’s shadow, or rather,his outline against this cursed place. There was some metaphor in there somewhere and she was truly too hung over and with too much of a headache to pull it out “sorry.”
Right, right, that also made sense. Val probably had better things to do than try to pull Vince’s head of his ass and try to wrangle Viv from attempting to manually extract it from said body part. V. rubs her face until it hurts but at least it feels better than the banging going on inside her head. Her hands reach out towards her pockets for another cigarette but she stops herself before that happens.
“Yeah, let’s do that.” text her, maybe the solution of this horror show was, in fact, to split the party or maybe that was just them veering off into the edge of the road at top speed and Valheri choosing to hop the fuck off. But that wasn’t Vivian, Vivian was too fucking stupid - the type of girl to ride around a bike without a suit and helmet until prodded by people that really shouldn’t give more of a shit than she did about this flimsy body that soon enough wouldn’t be hers anyway.
Was it too dark to say that sometimes the cliff looked pretty damn appetizing?
“What d’you mean?” she clicks her tongue in annoyance, giving him a once over as if he’d called her the worst of names “’Course I’m staying.”
If he was about to veer off the cliff then maybe she could be close enough to make sure that if he needed a punch and cpr - in that order - that she was close by enough. Or maybe she’d crash and burn too, by the way things were lookin’ it sure as fuck looked more and more like that “What’s next? Infiltrate the party?”
“On it,” he nods, no sooner than which his eyes flip to that tell-tale blue while he types up that message to Val ( 'still in dogtown, viv's with me; let's meet at 5 at vik's?' ). It takes all but five seconds, and he's back to the present — here, in Dogtown, regretting his decision to stand in the sun.
He steps aside as such, into the shade, plucking a questionable-looking can of Nicola he'd opened last night ( he's pretty sure he put it there, at least ... ), and taking a long drink of it. It's luke-warm and no longer even remotely fizzy. Gross.
He's glad not to be given the chance to contemplate how disgusting that was. He's also pretty sure he used it as an ashtray on accident at some point, given the weirdly ashy aftertaste overtaking his palate just about now ... Disgusting, but fitting — particularly when confronted with the blasé denial of last night's disagreement. He's not sure if it's intentional or not, but he's in no mood to pick a fight about it.
Of course she's stayin'. You're just overthinkin' it, like always.
With a shake of his head ( which he instantly regrets ), Vince finally circles back to her. “Yeah. We gotta meet Reed and Alex to go over the plan. Just ...” he stalls, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Didn't think you'd be taggin' along anymore. Seem none too fond of So Mi — or my goin' after her, for that matter.”
Cremisius Aclassi / The Roses of Heliogabalus
𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐭 when she feels the cool, metallic embrace of his fingers intertwining gently with hers. aside from the new layer of realskinn draped around her limbs, they have made sure she is super sensitive to every touch. well, she considers it strongly sensitive, for she no longer remembers how it used to be before the cybernetic modifications. his hand carries the sharpness and surreal chill she has shed, while hers are soft, artificially organic, a sensation so new to her it still surprises so mi. though, this is not just about hands, she thinks. it is symbolic of everything they are now. everything they have become. it is the city, the fia, the meaning of all their mistakes shifting between them, passing silently through that careful touch, weighing their fate.
she lifts her gaze slowly to meet his. in the muted glow from the distant cityscape, she sees the internal war still raging in him, sees it mirrored clearly enough to feel it ache within her own chest. and it is more painful than she expected. to watch him grapple with the uncertainty she once cruelly planted. his hesitation feels earned, a consequence of the lies she had worn so comfortably.
her thumb brushes lightly over the smooth metal of his new hand, learning this version of him. the same, but irrevocably changed, just as he must learn her all over again, too. she swallows hard, unable to suppress the tremble in her voice. ❝ you've earned more than a moment. you've earned every right to doubt me. ❞ she lets their thoughts breathe. the apologies, the explanations, all the excuses she no longer wishes to hide behind. none of it seems enough to immediately bridge the issues she has created between them. and none of it can truly undo what has already been done. all she can do now is promise sincerity, even when it only grants the smallest bite of comfort.
❝ if you forgave me without hesitation, i'd probably think you were lying. because no matter how much either of us wishes differently, there's still a wound there. i put it there. ❞ her fingers tighten gently around his, offering reassurance as best she can despite the turmoil still blazing within her. if this is the closest she will be to him for a while, might as well make the best out of it. ❝ i'm not asking you to pretend it didn't happen. just… if we can both acknowledge it's gonna hurt for a while, maybe that'll be enough. ❞ there is a tenderness in her gaze, a flicker of hope bursting through the sadness. she does not retreat into the guarded persona she has once perfected around him. instead, she faces the vulnerability head-on, allowing herself to be seen, flaws and all that makes her so mi.
❝ we've both changed. probably more than either of us wanted to, ❞ she admits, her voice tinged with wistful nostalgia. ❝ i think that's why this matters. after everything… we're still trying. that has to mean something, doesn't it? ❞ her eyes soften further as she asks it, her voice quieter still. it is the kind of question rooted in a tentative hope.
He feels the uptick in pressure of her hand in his ( that much even this budget-friendly piece of cyberware affords ), but not the softness of her new skin. It's a painful reflection of what life – what's left of it – is to him these nowadays — tenderness rarely felt, even if otherwise plain to see, while stuck in the hydraulic press that is certain death. It's the incongruence between the sight and the feeling ( or lack thereof ) that stunts his ability to really consider what he's faced with here; too fixated on wanting so desperately to feel the gentleness of So Mi's touch, and let himself be swept away by it – by her – completely.
You've earned every right to doubt me [...] there's still a wound there. I put it there.
He could cry. He could seriously fucking cry, simply for wanting the opposite to be true.
But then she calls for him to forego his intended wishful thinking, and to instead face reality rather than bury it. For all the bullets he's taken and the losses he's suffered, though, he hasn't grown less sensitive to pain in the slightest. If anything, he's grown more responsive and aversive to it — though no one will ever hear him confess to that. That would equate to admitting defeat, to acknowledging the relapse into what he'd thought conquered.
He'll stay true to the one kindness that the grim reaper has afforded him: he's got nothing to lose. Might as well go out chasing his bliss ... even if it'll hurt like a bitch before he gets to come out better – allegedly – on the other side.
Through all his ruminating, he's looked anything but reserved; the harshness of his frown is all but gone, and the beginnings of his headache along with it. Only with her last question suspended between them does he recognize the gap between them has narrowed, too. Suddenly, his blood pump's in his throat.
He can think of a person or two who'd accuse So Mi of talking a good talk — but they don't know shit. They wouldn't know sincerity when it slapped them across the face ... just like he doesn't know a lie when it slaps him across his. ( It's never that black-and-white though, is it, champ? Would you have made it here without your paranoia? )
Vince shakes his head and lifts his eyes back to So Mi's, wet with the very hope he's been dying to feel, himself. “It does — mean somethin'.” What means the most still, though, is her uncanny ability to make him face his demons rather than run away from them. He can't help but find it endearing.
“All right, then,” he concedes, with it squeezing her hand lightly in return. “Consider me convinced. But before we hug it out and all, one final question ...” With this, his forehead puckers again. “Do you know what you're signin' up for — really? Do you see what's on the horizon, and are you good with those odds?”
the light brush of his lips against her crest is enough to send a shiver through her , peebee's eager --- determined , actually --- to return the favor but liam's going for sentimentality ... which is honestly a predictable move for him , less so is her willingness to go along with it , but she's trying. shifting her head away from his neck , peebee tilts it back far enough to be able to meet his gaze as requested and ... huffs a laugh immediately once his question is posed. liam is about the farthest thing from a quitter she's ever seen , it's one of the things she loves most about him ...
' a quitter would've given up on me a loooong time ago ... ' she states matter - of - factly , but their drastic shift in relationship status was sort of the perfect example of liam refusing to give up on something , no matter how many set - backs he faced ... she sure as shit hadn't made anything easy on him ... while she's within easy reach , peebee catches his chin and presses a brief , but solid kiss against his mouth before she once again retreats to the hidey - hole of the curve of his neck.
the exhale that leaves her is borderline exasperated. not due to his questioning , more due to her own ineptitude. peebee doesn't love not having easy answers to something that was supposed to come naturally to her people , but the cold hard truth was that she'd never had much of an interest in the asari , she'd always wanted that never - been - done ... ' as much as it pains me to say it , t'perro might be a better resource for this kind of thing ... she's a more asari - y asari than I am ... '
There's no stopping the laugh wresting itself from his lungs. Sure enough, Lexi's brought into the conversation — the resident expert on all things Asari, apparently. There's just a small dose of irony tacked onto the thought that he might have to ask the asari-who-specialised-in-alien-biology about the workings of her own race. And even then: something tells him it's not a one-size-fits-all sort of thing. “Is this stuff not part of the standard asari curriculum? Like, sex ed?”
Pointless question, really. Peebee's more likely to have skipped those classes than attended them, assuming she's always been as she is ... well, now. Trying to imagine her any differently seems like it might hurt his brain. It'd be a pity to die of a thought-induced aneurysm in a galaxy full of dangers old and new, so he foregoes spending any more energy on it altogether.
“Not to be that guy, but,” he says, stalling more so for the sake of amusing suspense than actual gravity, “I think you might need to talk to her. Don't think anything she could tell me will let me guide you through this instead of the other way around, y'know?”
This one's all you, Peebs. Hell, Liam hardly gets what's not to like about this — but they've disagreed plenty of times and misunderstood each other twice as often. “Hey, you're always after the never-been-done ... No one's ever, uh, had total access to my mind before. There's a whole world in here for you to poke around in,” he proceeds, tapping his forefinger against his temple. “Not to toot my own horn, but I think it'll be worth the excruciating talk with Lexi.”
@psychescape | Lord Elladan, p.s.
Imladris is crowded as of late, or so the lady hears. The convergence of peoples from distant lands to this elven stronghold affords confusion to one who subscribes to reason. But the growing Shadow in the east defies what is reasonable, stoking concern into movement. It is what drove her far from a home torn from within.
Despite the welcome from the valley’s esteemed inhabitants, Brienne is cautious in her steps and mindful of whom she speaks, if only for the distrust of prior misfortunes. But the discovery of a familiar face among the outsiders — one unfriendly and suspicious — encourages the need to query.
The elven lord, a son of Elrond, is found among the many shaded glades. He is exceedingly tall, grand in his refinement, and no doubt wise for the years he does not wear upon his fair face. Elves are strange in this way, among many.
“My lord, apologies if I am intruding.” Soft in voice and graceful in approach, Brienne curtsies, but the pleasantries at the greeting are marred by the worry tenting her brow. “Would you happen to have a moment? A question I hold concerning one of the guests, though a guest she might not be.”
He sought tranquillity and would have found it, were it not for the ceaseless circulation of all the questions yet-unanswered. Dark clouds have been gathering on the horizon for some months; preparations are underway. Before whatever decision must be made at the impending Council has indeed been made, however, Elladan predicts he will continue feeling stuck.
The wait is always the worst. Inaction. There can be no proactivity towards a near-future as uncertain as this. There can be no proactivity without his father's leave at present, either.
The moment his exasperation threatens to pull his eyebrows together in disgruntlement, he hears a voice — a stranger's. Elladan turns towards it, searching for its source.
He finds it in a woman, a stranger, whose curtsy he greets with a shallow bow. It is entirely second nature, instilled into him over the millennia spanning this Age. So, too, is the smile that settles on his features, light as the silk of his robes. With his mind turned away from the darkness towards the south-east, his expression grows sincere. “I welcome the company and curiosity alike, in fact, lady ... ?” His posture straightens, his hands loosely joining along his midriff.
@mercysought ( maxima )
Athleticism as a civic duty on display. Before him unfolded the event — sober, yet still of theatrical value. It was a love letter from Spartan women to society, Brasidas felt then. More importantly, it was one from Maxima to Sparta — that same society she seeks to enter and establish herself in.
Competitions such as today's cover but one section of the path she must walk for that dream to be made reality. Brasidas, however, feels she has won many hearts today by eschewing any reservations and following local custom: wrestle the women responsible for Sparta's greatness, and count yourself among them.
And wrestle she did.
Now, in the aftermath of watching her outsmart her opponents, most of which notably more seasoned than she ( to all attendants' knowledge, that is — himself included ), he beams with pride upon descending the cavea. Surreptitiously, he sneaks off to the side, weaving past and through the crowds discussing the unexpected turns today's tournament has taken and what surprises might await the crowds tomorrow.
Brasidas remains fixated upon what he just witnessed, however ( perhaps especially because he wasn't quite meant to; he had a physician to see, in fact ).
He wants her to know, and so he loops around the field, finds where some of the women exit after having taken their baths, and waits — a good stone's throw away, leaving the doorway in his peripheral vision.
His approach ensues only once he recognises Maxima as she steps outside. With a hard-to-stifle grin, he bounds over towards her, stopping barely at arm's length ( at great cost to his self-restraint ). “I could feign being stoic,” he starts, fighting the excitement on his face all the same, “but you deserve more than that. You were sensational.”
"Thanks, I worked really hard on the look today.“ she says, pulling out the last cigarette and crumpling the carton in a single motion. She doesn’t smile but she doesn’t need to, the tone matched the tone and the four of them (their tones and themselves) were as close to dead as they could get whislt rocking a smile on their faces ”The raging shame and fucked headache are really my best fuckin’ work.“
The whole place was still a fucking mess, but not more than they had left it the night before, so whatever Vince had gone off to do he’d done so somewhere else. Smart, not much of a safe house if they were allowed to really get fucked there - but they did allow them to kinda run the place which was also monumentally dumb.
Still, he was alive. She was alive. And that was a win, baby.
Viv shrugs, throwing her body to the side and pulling in the smoke as she moved closer towards the stupid bright light section of this god forsaken apartment.
"She usually has her head set right more often than ours.“ her judgement, sure, could be dry and matter of fact but the truth was Vivian and Vince would not know what either of those terms meant if it literally hit them in the face with a shovel. She was also, more often than not, miles away when it came to being fucking sober ”Well, she’s probably going to have a fun time trying to get back in.“ a pause ”Assumin’ she’s coming back. I’m assumin’ she’ll want to see this through.“
V. stops a groan from escaping her mouth by laying her hand across half of her face, scratching her forehead.
"We should get ready, I guess. We're waitin'?“
Sarcasm is a double-edged sword; at times it amuses him, at times it fails to. Presently, the former applies, pulling Vince's face into a tight grin. If not for the mess he made of himself last night, that deed would go unpunished. Right now, it takes his headache and blows it up like a balloon, pressing against the insides of his head, against the backs of his optics. He'd groan if he wasn't in the process of regaining self-awareness — quiet is preferable.
He pushes himself off the pillar he's been leaning against in favour of the window ( that is, the giant hole blown into the wall ), and the pseudo-fresh air pouring in from it. As prone as he is to lighting up when stressed out, the smell of a burning cigarette still feels like an olfactory assault. It's right up there with that All Foods Factory's stench.
He turns his face towards the exterior, where he's met with the full power of the sun blasting down on his forehead. His eyes shut as he commits to simply bearing it. “I don't know if she'll be back. Haven't heard from her. Wouldn't be surprised if she'd want to stick to the plan hatched back in Pacifica.” It was the best lead they'd had so far, thanks in no small part to Alt ( or what was left of her, in a sense ).
As far as Vince is concerned, they'll continue preparing for that — he just doesn't want to risk missing out on a more certain way out of this mess in the process; hence the Songbird-chase. “No need to wait,” he manages at length, facing Viv again. She looks like Johnny took her for another joyride and then some. “We can text Val and agree on a meet. Question is: are you stayin' in Dogtown today, or leavin'? 'Cause I'd like to maintain the momentum we've built here.”
