“So here’s the thing, I need the change.” It seems like something stupid to argue about, and maybe it is, truly. However, there isn’t very much she can do about that, considering being broke is somewhat of a lifestyle choice at this current time in her life. “I budgeted exactly enough for a bean burrito, baja blast, and a quarter. So...” A hand waves, like it’s making a point (it’s not, let’s be real). “That change is the part where the weed comes in, and unless you’re going to personally explain to my plug why I’m short, or suck some meeaaan ass dick to make up for it, I don’t know what we’re going to do about it.”
“Here’s the thing I need you to understand about the bathtub.” A dramatic pause beat is inserted in the space between them before she makes a face. A steady side eye given to the bathroom itself, as if the fact that it had the audacity to still exist after this betrayal. “If it’s fucking leaking, I can’t rub one out in there, unless I want to just...you know, raw dog myself, because I have a fucking room mate. So, I need you to understand the importance of getting it fixed.” She stops, tapping an aggressive finger to the imaginary watch on her wrist, that was apparently going to suffer carpal tunnel at this point. “Because if I don’t get some solid time to play DJ diddles by myself, I will burn this entire fucking apartment down.”
FINGERS MOVE ACROSS HER BOTTOM LIP, and she’s painfully aware that it’s nothing more than idle habit as it happens, perhaps paired with a touch of oral fixation. The corner of her mouth is flirting with a smirk, surely some vulgar fantasy unwinding itself within her mind, but that secret is kept behind those lips for the moment. Instead, weight shifts to the side, before finally nodding her head in agreement to whatever was being said. Truly, she hadn’t been listening, but that was beside the point. Hand finally leaves, fingers instead used to point at the canvas she’d been standing in front of.
“It’s missing something.” Finally, a turn, bright eyes looking at him like the answer was stuck somewhere within the man. As if, he’s the one thing that was missing. A small sigh, before hand waves instead. “What do you think?” @elliot-murphy
TENSION SITS TIGHT IN HER SHOULDERS, but that’s nothing new. In fact, it’s the reason that she’s actually dared to step out of her apartment tonight, because all the right answers were always living right there at the bottom of a bottle. The thought ghosted a small smirk across features, the way the expression seemed to be just a little bit of an unspoken invitation for trouble, before weight shifted. Hand reached out for the half empty glass, fingers curled artfully around it before it was lifted, and in a single sweeping motion, tossed back. The whiskey burned, but she took it with all the style and grace of a functioning alcoholic. It was only after that, that dart was pulled from the table, and tossed at the board without really looking at it.
“I can feel you staring.” Words spoken to the person behind her, the look is always something she can damn near feel. “And if you don’t say something soon, I’m going to call to catch a predator on that ass, so I suggest we figure this out, bud.”
Hey is that ADELE HAENEL? No, that’s just SIMONE BEAULIEU. They’re TWENTY-SIX and have spent TWO YEARS in Dayton. I hear that they’re kind of INTELLIGENT but also can be PROVOCATIVE. BUTTON UP SHIRTS, ALWAYS LOSING YOUR GLASSES & A RING ON ALMOST EVERY FINGER remind me of SHE/HER. Can’t wait to see them at the next party!
There is something almost hauntingly normal about the life that she is born into. Her father is the man that most people turn to for advice, open and warm, seemingly. Her mother is the kind of beautiful that is contagious, the kind that touches your soul and completely changed who you are. When they had decided to start building a family of their own, everyone pictured the perfect ending to a story written almost entirely without flaw. But, accidents will happen, and books never do quite deserve to be judged entirely from their covers.
Everything was the illusion of excellence, perfect and ready to be framed as traditional family values right up until Simone, the oldest, turned sixteen. It’s a memory that she can picture just like it had happened yesterday, you know the kind, the kind that turns into a scar that never really healed right. Maybe it’s one she unknowingly picks at from time to time, just to make sure it still bleeds, or it’s never really goes away. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t quite the coming out party that some people had. It wasn’t welcoming arms and acceptance. It wasn’t even the slightest bit of support, at least not from Joachim.
No, it was right there at the kitchen table that all the warmth seemed to drain from him like peeling off layers of disguise. The devil lay beneath the details, really, and what a damn good job he’d been doing of pretending that he wasn’t the living, breathing, embodiment of what hate really did look like. Regardless, her heartbreak holds a soundtrack. Part of it is the sound of the dining room table flipping. The second track is the way a backhand echoes in an otherwise entirely silent room. Somewhere near the interlude lies the sound of her little sister screaming, mixed with the chorus of her own sobbing. The last one, the last one is the kicker, the slamming of the front door that signaled both the end of their family, and the end of an era.
Being broken in such an unexpected way was not something anyone ever planned for. Not that it was something you could, but at least her mother knew well enough to find a way to help her through it. Therapy was hit or miss, trying to find the right brand that would speak to whatever would truly heal her. It was saying the words, but it was also finding something to channel her emotion into, and when paint found canvas, it almost seemed like certain shades of blue just might rewrite her tragedy. A love affair was born, nurtured, and god did it prosper.
It was that passion, chasing the inspiration of something other than her own demons that would led her to Dayton. Parties, endless dramatics, free flowing drugs of any style, all things that very well could spark something in her that wasn’t always paired with the shades of her own emotional bruising. So she had intended to stay for a few weeks, and those weeks eventually turned into months. She showed her first gallery, even though most of the people in the town couldn’t care less about what talent may lay beyond just another excuse to throw a party.
So, she stays, maybe out of nostalgia, or maybe because right before she had shown up, she lost the last little bit of support she had left. Her mother, the woman that had protected her from the proverbial wolf at the door, and now, she really didn’t know how to return to something that felt so lost, an empty house without a heartbeat, really. So, while most people assumed she was here wandering, because who in this fucking city wasn’t running from something (their own demons, their own crimes, their own past), really? In a way, her avoidance fit right in, and so did she.
Hey is that MELISSA PAMUK? No, that’s just SAFIYE AYDIN. They’re TWENTY-FIVE and have spent ALL HER LIFE in Dayton. I hear that they’re kind of OPINIONATED but also can be SARCASTIC. SCUFFED BOOTS WITH RIPPED JEANS, MESSY HAIR & THROWING THE FIRST PUNCH remind me of SHE/HER. Can’t wait to see them at the next party!
People tend to romanticize small towns into being quaint and inviting. For whatever reason, the idea is bought and sold like capitalism is hung firmly on its shoulders. The bread and butter for tourism, the stereotypical bullshit that seemed to appeal to the weary souls of those who seems to just be looking for some kind of escape. There was nothing small, quaint, or fucking romantic about the way she had grown up. Her life hadn’t been some sort of romantic comedy that ends when love fixes all the damage that life has done.
The first attempt at fixing her was done at sixteen, when her mother tried to trade her problems away like a pack of cigarettes between inmates. She was barely able to function outside of her addiction, a flavor of the week sort of love affair, but something had to feed that, and honestly, it might as well of been her daughter. Now, most would assume motherly instinct would stop the exchange of her daughter for a discount, but assuming was the first but not the last mistake made. She truly did not give a single shit about anything but herself.
There is a circle burn, branded right in between thumb and forefinger, that will remind Safiye of this no matter how many years it’s been since she actually experienced it. Sometimes, it’s like a ghost limb, the way her body physically and naturally tends to tune back into it, like it’s the beginning of the end where her redemption had failed her. Regardless, she remembers what her mother said to her when she pressed the cigarette lighter; red hot from pushing it into the car, the way she sneered over the faintest sound of skin burning. You are only worth what I let you be.
That night, she was worth a few grand and a discounted rate. Saf was never built, nor created, to be a victim forever, though. She knew her mother was just another challenge she would have to overcome, and being someone; anyone’s bitch, wasn’t exactly her favorited play style. In fact, she leveled up continuously, until the final boss, her own flesh and blood, ended up in the ground herself. She didn’t even get a tombstone, nor a mark, not even a second though other than the smallest memories that are only permitted to chase her at night, in between recycled nightmares and trauma bonds.
The irony in the dead mommy card, and the mystery father, was that it came with freedom from both responsibility and the standard issues of morality. She was organic, nature far more than the nurture that she had lacked in the beginning. Surprisingly, and despite a slight tendency to self medicate, or even indulge in violence as a form of therapy, she learned to be well rounded, even under the occasional disappointed sucking of teeth sound her actual therapist made at the biweekly sessions. Well, the ones that she would actually attend. Some days, healing just came easier than others, after all.
There are parts of her the world has stripped clean, lessons that life has taught the hardest of possible ways, but that is not to say they aren’t worth looking at. A woman who wears her flaws and achievements equally well, once she actually allows them all to be seen. Sure, most people don’t get passed the black and whites of her personality, the parts that most either love or hate within the first five minutes, but nothing worth having is not without working for.
THE VOICE THAT CREEPS UP on him is unfamiliar to the point that it shakes brandon back to reality after poorly trying to scope out the scene in front of him for any sign of a certain friend hanging around, making him flustered enough to burn red like a child with their hand caught in a cookie jar. ❝ oh, ❞ fingers tighten against the skin of a football in hand and he’s quick to drag his eyes away almost at once after feeling like he’s been staring at the other like an idiot. ❝ — I mean shit, ❞ he tries to recover by clearing his throat ( and pushing away the current rush of thoughts dancing about in his head ) and forcing himself to look up at the door of the home instead of the blonde. ❝ dude owes me like ten bucks, ❞ smith actually doesn’t. he’s just here because he’s bored and wants to cook some mischief up before the sun goes down, only that sounded too lame to admit all of a sudden. ❝ you know when he’ll be back ? ❞
THE BLUSH DOESN’T GO UNNOTICED, unfortunate as that may or may not be for Brandon. Monroe’s been raised with his brothers attention to detail, the pair of them sometimes a spitting reflection of one another without having to actually try very hard to achieve similarities that would make your head spin. On the other hand, they were also different to a point where they would fight like cats and dogs, it all depended on the day. The problem with that blush though, was that it was going to get stuck in his head, already partially endeared to the softness far too easily before he chuckles, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Yeah man, he’s the one that will teach you a very important lesson about loaning your friends money.” He teases, that grin already hinting at the corner of his mouth as he did so. Afterwards though, the joint is pulled and he’s lighting it, patting the railing next to him. “C’mere, you can wait for him if you want, and I promise that I will share. I know damn well that’s what mama meant when she tried to each us about it in school.”
“Did you know that the moon moves, like, four centimeters away from us every year?” Though she came for a bit of alone time, she wasn’t angry when someone joined her at the end of the dock. She was buzzed from a few too many glasses of champagne at dinner, another celebration of her excellence. Her parents felt content in going on with their lives as if their entire scheme hadn’t been exposed. Ivy wasn’t guiltless. She let them, but lately her ability to pretend she was fine waned. Hence the alcohol. Turning to them, she smiled. “Which is scary to think about, right? But also, how terrible would it be if it was moving closer?”
THERE WAS NO SURPRISE THAT THIS ASSORTMENT OF FACTS came from the girl in front of her, unprompted, but always a variety pack of interests. It was cute, in a way that Jaq was sure to appreciate. The quirks of other people were supposed to be celebrated after all, she’d learned that the moment she had stepped out of the shadows of mommy and daddy’s money. “Honey, I would love to move a couple miles away from here every year.” There was a matter of fact tone, flashing a smile before swishing the contents of her cup around, looking up at Ivy. “But, I don’t think the moon will ever really abandon us, the earth is hard to forget about, unless you’re busy polluting it every five minutes.”
THIS IS NOT HER SCENE AND ANYONE WHO ACTUALLY CAN PUT A NAME TO HER FACE, knows that is the definition of true. The dress that is fitted to frame is not her choosing either, but damned if it doesn’t look like it was made with her in mind. Expression is purposely clipped, trying to make this a quick and painless experience even though she knows it won’t be. Instead, she heads to the bar to find the person she was looking for. Not to her surprise, she finds her favorite secret instead. Smile finally highlights dark lips, just barely flirting at the corner of her mouth, like she’s afraid someone might notice the way this seems to light up her world. “Don’t say a damn thing, not a single word.” She threatens, playful hint to the ends of tone.
poppy let out a screech when the rain suddenly came pouring down on her as jaq dragged her out to the car, but it quickly turned into laughter when she’d realized what had happened. by the time she was settled into the front seat, totally drenched, she was panting, and shaking her head slowly at jaq. “my mom’s gonna kill me!” despite the tone in her voice, she was laughing, definitely not as annoyed about being tricked as she maybe should have been. “i bet i look crazy right now.”
THE SOUND SHE MADE WAS ONE JAQ WOULDN’T FORGET. That was probably part of the reason she’d started laughing to begin with. She was still amused by the time she’d gotten to the car. “Your mom will never know.” Jaq corrects quickly, already having planned to make sure they were both cleaned up and presentable before they would even dream of seeing her. She knows how that judgement used to go for her, she can only imagine how it goes for Poppy. “Not as crazy as I do, I can pinky promise you that. We can go back to my place and dry off, make sure your mama is none the wiser.”
A STRONG PART OF HIM is holding back the want to roll his eyes since he sure as hell isn’t up to being picked at with sticky little questions by pretty girls carrying champagne. so he stiffens a lean against the wall as he watches her pour their drinks, prepping himself mentally for the white lies he’s certain to spill if she asks him anything too beneath the surface . . . only his brows end up twitching together when she offers other terms for their little on a whim arrangement. ❝ you want to hear a story from me ? ❞ his tone adjusts to something flat, features twisting as if he can’t imagine anything worse for them to do. ❝ what’s exciting about that ? I’m boring, believe me. ❞
SHE KNOWS WHAT APPREHENSION LOOKS LIKE. For awhile, she wore it like a second skin. It helped people from getting close enough to hurt her feelings, when she was still trying to figure them out. Now, that was ancient history, but no one had scars that were that easy to forget. They taught a lesson for sure, laughing a little bit at the way that she already can see what is brewing under the thinly veiled surface. “Everybody’s got a story to tell, and if you don’t, use your imagination. You’re already tryna find a way to lie to me.” She mentions, leaning forward on her elbows, while pushing the drink closer to him. “So let’s hear it, make it dramatic, I’m feelin’ spicy.”
❝ MY AESTHETIC IS VINTAGE. ❞ brandon rolls off a shrug like his pricy $35.99 ( not including tax ) senior class hoodie is designer and not from champion, playing into the idea he indeed thrifted it like he’s sure kooks obsessed with their instagrams do at their local goodwill. only the reality is that he’s saved up weeks of bad tips from mowing lawns in the eight over the summer so that he could afford such a nice piece before he graduated. ❝ but shit, I knew I was in the wrong place. ❞ a hand cards through the length of his hair after he’s got a good enough look of the other to let recognition settle. the name escapes him, but the face offers a better memory. sort of. so he offers up an easy introduction to iron out the details, ❝ name’s brandon. liam garrity’s my dad, he used up to coach up at the school. ❞ he rocks back by the heels of chucks with a short laugh. ❝ so, yeah, I’d say I come here often. ❞
THERE IS SOMETHING THAT RESONATES WITH HIM ABOUT THAT FIRST STATEMENT. Probably because he has heard the kooks that curate their aesthetic talk about it his entire life. That is probably the reason he is met with an instant roll of Smith’s eyes, clearly thinking better of that option. “I know, it’s easy to mistake the actual beach with a kiddie pool, but the pools have their advantages.” He remarks, almost laughing at they exchange sarcasm like a love language. “Smith, St. Thomas. Caroline was my mother.” Everyone, everyone knew of her, and the entire town seemed to have attended her funeral. He offers a half smile, crooked, even, before nodding again. “I remember him, I think he gave ‘Roe hell.” He seems amused by this, but because he is. “Guess you aren’t as lost as you thought you were, huh? Unless we just became friends enough to start talking existential crisis.”
THE THING DEE LOVES THE MOST about parties hosted in the eight is not the fact that the liquor came easy or that party favors came in dainty forms of goodie bags being slipped discreetly into moisturized hands. it isn’t the satisfying feeling of throwing your coat in the safety of one of six closets or feeling the mayhem booming beneath heeled feet while those in the prime of their lives vibed to whatever overpriced dj that’s been hired for the night. no, dee’s true appreciation for it all comes in the form of society kings perched on marble, addressing subjects and harboring future secrets through innocent games of never have I ever. ❝ in other words, be careful of this one, ❞ she says as she swoops in with just enough time to catch the tail end of his words. ❝ or you may just find him with yours. ❞
THE VOICE IS FAMILIAR AND THE WARMTH IT BRINGS IS SPECIFIC TO DEE HERSELF. There is something special about her, perhaps it’s the pieces of himself he sees when he looks at her a little too long. Much like him, she got along with mostly anyone, and seemed to find life a little more amusing than most. Taking yourself too seriously should, and would have been criminal, despite the fact most of their acquaintances did just that. He grinned at the way she announced herself, before raising his glass in makeshift cheers. “You say that like we have ever crossed swords, darling Dee, and that has yet to happen.” He scoffs, as if they had boundaries that would never meet before taking a sip. “Nice to see you, satan in a sunday hat, please come sit.” The counter next to him is patted. “Tell me how you’ve been.”
