DARLING, DEAREST, DEAD.

sylvia saint / for axedhq

[sylviasaint]

so sorry for my truly stunning slowness here!!!!!! work’s been kickin’ my ass and barely figuratively. but i’m here tonight! also big hi new members! let’s plot?

[sylviasaint]

dvilshaircut·:

hector is chaos personified, but even chaos has to have some sort of routine. plus, as nearly everyone who spends more than a week here says, there’s not much to do in crescent lake. hector really doesn’t need much to survive: a place to sleep, people to mess with, parties to attend (or create if there’s nothing going on anywhere else), and copious amounts of mind altering substances. the conestoga wagon provides more than enough. so usually he ends up here, drinking at the bar, stepping out for cigarettes or weed occasionally, and surveying just who ends up in the wagon that night. a fine mix of locals and tourists, there’s always the usual barflies and someone new, always someone to talk to and—hopefully—take home later. the redhead at the bar isn’t new, she seems to be here even more than he is, like she just showed up one day and decided to never leave, but hector’s never gotten the chance to talk to her. or rather, she never really caught his attention enough for him to bother her. tonight, however, in a room full of drunkards standing shoulder to shoulder, his gaze is glued to the woman. hector boasts that he’s not afraid of anything, and truly it does take a lot for him to quiver in his chuck taylors, but there’s a bit of anxiety lining his stomach as he approaches the empty bar stool next to the stranger. it’s excitement rather than nervousness, always something a little bit… naughty in approaching older women. he can tell his stare is bothering her, probably more so now that he’s right next to her, but her outburst makes an amused grin grow across his mouth. he ignores the rest of it, singling out just the middle. “autograph? why?” his brow quirks, fingers gripping over the neck of his beer bottle, “are you an actress or somethin’? you’re pretty enough.”

Her memory for faces is sort of uncanny and she remembers his easily enough. Places him here, remembers his face the way it is now: lit red and blue by the collateral light of the many, many neon signs that only serve to add to the kitsch. She remembers him outside, too. He’s a smoker. She avoids him and the people he’s usually talking to and smokes alone by her car. He’s social, unsurprisingly. He’s handsome and has an easy charm. She wonders, idly, how many girls that line has worked on. She’d never admit out loud the way the compliment makes her stomach sort of -- flutter. It feels a little bit like losing when she has to lower her gaze, flustered but contained. It’s been a long time since anyone complimented her, frankly. Sure, when she gets dolled up she’s pretty enough to glance twice at but these days she practices a purposeful plainness. She’s trying to go unnoticed. There is something appealing in having been noticed anyway, even if it is by a boy who’s young enough to be her son. For a moment she considers telling him just why it is she thinks he might have recognized her but it is so nice not to be known. Perhaps people are forgetting her. Or maybe he just doesn’t watch the news. “I was -- being sarcastic.” Lies easily, voice flat as she finally resumes eye contact. A hand goes to cover her work, a little protectively. “That’s a good line.” Terse smile and a small nod -- she’s trying to remain impassive. “You ought to save it for someone your own age.” Softly reprimanding but she can’t help the way she gives him one last once over, almost marveling at just how perfectly he’s cultivated the look of the quintessential Bad Boy, Small Town Heartbreaker. He’s like a character in a novel. It endears him to her. 

[sylviasaint]

💥 - frm. avan

It happens, the way that horrible things so often do, in an instant. ‘Baby killer,’ They haven’t shown her face on the news in years now. You’d think that people would forget but they haven’t. People with nothing better to do than drink and think about the things that Fox News tells them to think about rarely forget a face. Well, at least, they don’t forget the unsmiling, unfeeling face of a woman Nancy Grace said killed her own child. They thought said she dumped the body in the ocean. Her breath stops, her heart stops, and when he throws her drink her face, she hardly responds because those two words that had been hissed with so much vitriol, so much spite have already knocked the breath out of her. Of course, the assailant is wearing a MAGA hat. “G–g–go fuck yourself, cousin fucker.” She manages to stutter out just before he walks out of the bar and, sure, it’s…in-eloquent but she’ll be damned if she says nothing. She’s left dripping rye, struggling to breathe, ashamed to feel tears welling in front of all the people who wont stop staring. She feels a cry bubbling up, pressure building in her chest and then a hand comes down on her shoulder, she is handed a rag. She is dimly aware that she’s being sort of gently guided from her seat by a kind-faced, soft voiced man and she has to blink at him a few times to reorient herself. “I didn’t – I don’t know him.” Chokes out, tears threatening. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.” It’s as close as she comes to apologizing, admitting lack of intent. “Thank you.”

@avcni  /  from this meme.

[sylviasaint]

👩‍⚕️

It’s embarrassing, to say the least. Sylvia isn’t overfond of asking for help, even more unhappy with having no choice but to accept it. Ordinarily she’d send the stranger scuttling off with an unkind word, a withering glance but as it is all she can do is watch with wide eyes as crimson thickly from the pink that peeks through the hole torn in blue jeans. It’d happened so quickly she didn’t even realize what was happening until it was too late. An old tree with roots so long and dense had eroded the ground of the hill beneath her that it had given quickly and she had tumbled down, on hands and knees. Her palms are bleeding too. She supposes she’s lucky that the boy had happened to be passing at exactly this moment. Though she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t suspicious of a man who takes walks alone through the campgrounds at dusk. Wide, calloused palms come down on the wound and press; firm but gentle, stopping the flow of blood. Sylvia doesn’t wince but she looks pointedly away and inhales sharply. The woods are quiet and steadily darkening, there is no birdsong and the stillness is ominous; feels like a calm before a storm. “Thank you,” Finally, belatedly and with a thick tongue. “But we should get somewhere before it gets dark, shouldn’t we?” It’s rare that she should ask for direction from a man but now she does, seeing as she’s a stranger in these woods. 

@budjvl / from this meme. 

[plotbunnie]

Nonverbal RP Starters

I’m finding it difficult to find memes for nonverbal characters ( be they mute, or just not fond of talking ) so I thought I’d make a few!

Neutral

☝️ Tap my muse on the shoulder

👉 Point to something for my muse to see

🤙 Bump into my muse

😊 Sit down next to my muse

🤨 Sit down across from my muse

📓 Push/Slide [an object] across a table to my muse

✍️ Pass my muse a note

🙄 Roll their eyes at my muse

🚪 Tap on a table/door/wall/chair to get my muse’s attention without speaking

Aggressive

🐺 Growl at my muse

😬 Snarl/show teeth at my muse

😠 Death Glare at my muse

🙌 Push/Shove my muse

👊 Punch my muse

👖 Kick my muse in the shin

👠 Stomp on my muse’s foot

😵 Knee my muse in the gut

💀 Knee my muse in the groin

🔪 Point a weapon at my muse

🖕 Flip my muse the bird/a similar gesture

👔 Roughly pull my muse down by the collar

💢 Bang on a door/wall/table to get my muse’s attention- angrily

Angst

👩‍⚕️ Put pressure on my muse’s wound

🌡 Push my muse down to give them medical attention

🥣 Bring my muse soup/medicine when they are sick

🤢 Hold my muse’s hair back/Rub my muse’s back while they are sick/throwing up

👐 Hold my muse when they are badly wounded/dying

👁 Wake my muse up during a nightmare

🐱 Hold my muse after a nightmare

😭 Hold my muse when they are crying

😢Touch my muse’s shoulder while they are crying in secret

💧 Wipe away my muse’s tears

💥 Try to calm my muse during an overwhelming emotional moment

⛈ Find my muse after some kind of trauma

Soft

👕 Tug on my muse’s sleeve/shirt/skirt

🐈 Lean against my muse’s side

🤝 Hold my muse’s hand

🤗 Pull my muse into a hug

🐕 Rest their head on my muse’s shoulder/knee

🐶 Nuzzle my muse with their nose [specify a location]

✋ Touch the back of my muse’s hand

🤝 Reach for my muse’s hand to hold it

👗 Fix/Straighten my muse’s clothes

😴 Stand by the bed to see if my muse will let you under the covers with them

🛌 Crawl under the covers with my muse

🥪 Set a plate/tray/bowl of food down for my muse

😚 Kiss my muse on the cheek

Playful

🌸 Put a flower in my muse’s hair

✨ Playfully shove my muse’s shoulder

💃 Pull my muse onto a dance floor/up to dance

🤞 Come up beside them and tap the shoulder opposite where they’re standing

😈 Jump out of the shadows to scare/startle my muse

😛 Stick their tongue out at my muse

😱 Make a silly face at my muse

🤭 Tickle my muse

👃 Poke my muse’s nose

💪 Pick my muse up

Sensual/Sexual

💘 Pull my muse in for a rough kiss

💕 Pull my muse in for a tender kiss

💞 Pull my muse in for a messy/desperate kiss

💖 Lean in to give my muse a sweet/chaste kiss

❤️ Lean in to give my muse a tender kiss

🔥 Pull my muse down by the collar/by their clothes - in a sexy way

😉 Pull my muse in by the hips

😲 Smack my muse’s butt

💋 Kiss my muse’s neck

👌 Push my muse down and give them a massage

👙 Pull [an article of clothing] off my muse

👀 Push my muse down on the bed

👄 Pull my muse onto the bed

[meiringen]

[mirroir]

Richard Siken; “Snow and Dirty Rain”

[huesosdesnudos]

Visit Original Link

[amazingamyadams]

[sylviasaint]

Sylvia has only been in town for a month but already she’s managed to establish a routine. Up with the sun, two cups of coffee, at least one cigarette, a shot of vodka to get her through the morning, lunch at Sapsucker, hours and hours and hours of seemingly endless research, drinks she doesn’t bother to count. None of the dots connect. Frustration begins to pique. She starts to think of Tess. She goes down to The Wagon and she starts drinking bourbon. The Wagon is crowded and buzzy and warm -- she can’t say that she likes feeling seen but there isn’t a lot of variety in Crescent Lake. Tonight she’s here earlier than usual and she sips her bourbon (two fingers, neat) unhappily at the bar, pouring over her notes. Attention tickles, hot and unwelcome at the side of her face. She can feel their gaze boring into her; intently curious. She sets her mouth into a hard line and tries to ignore it. Maybe it’s just because she’s new in town. Maybe they’re just looking. But she can’t help but assume that they recognize her: the woman who may or may not have killed her own daughter. “What?” Finally regards them with a cool and level gaze. The iciness maybe a little surprising coming from someone who looks like a Disney Princess. “Can I help you with something? Do you want an autograph? If not could you kindly fuck off?” 

[sylviasaint]

Sylvia’s always liked libraries, always felt safe in them. Ever since she was a little girl. That reverent hush, and the sweet pulpy smell of well-loved books makes her feel the way that she imagines some people feel in Church. The library in Crescent Lake is especially cozy, easy to spend hours in, browsing old newspaper articles from the town’s paper. Ariella, the soft-faced, doe-eyed librarian who reminds her so very much of Tessa has become something of a friend. Well, if not a friend they are at least friendly and so Sylvia smiles at her -- cheek dimpling. “Slow day,” she comments mildly, “You’d think there’d be more kids here studying. Midterms must be coming up.” She guesses, but how we she know? She doesn’t have a kid. She places her books on the counter, a couple on the history of Crescent Lake (more research). “You must be bored out of your mind.” 

@redheadbutpsycho

[sylviasaint]

( amy adams + cis female + she/her ) / who’s that rustling through the trees? oh, it’s just you, SYLVIA SAINT. i happen to know that you’re a FORTY year old. while you’re from COLUMBIA, MISSOURI, you’re currently living in the THE MARIPOSA LILY TENEMENT. i think that you’re DISCERNING & GENTLE but my mama says you’re SECRETIVE & GUARDED. is that NO CHILDREN by THE MOUNTAIN GOATS currently playing on your spotify? well, turn it down please, you’re disrupting the peace. ( ave + 25 + she/they + pst )

hey what’s up hello from me & sylvia, your (un)friendly neighborhood angst-y, brooding alcoholic w/ a heart o’ gold!

BASICS: 

i’m ave! i’m 25 & i’ve been rp’ing for a long time :/ i mostly indie tbh so groups are always a weird thing for me but i’m super excited for this!!!!

first of all here is her about page. cw for child death, kidnapping, and implied child abuse

the tldr there is that sylvia is a Big Mess and your character probably knows who she is if they watched the news at all 2 years ago bc the kidnapping of her child was a Big Deal and everyone thought she did it bc she was a true crime writer who knew how to Commit Murder (the suspicion was mostly actually driven by homophobia and sylvia’s emotional constipation/inability to cry tho lbr) 

she moved to crescent lake to do research for a book about the cult and the subsequent disappearances bc she hasn’t published anything in like 5 years probably and the royalties from her last books are drying up and all that booze is expensive bby 

please help her 

WANTED CONNECTIONS: 

i’m honestly still kind of mulling these guys over but tentatively 

one of her horrible older brothers

her ex-wife

a??? friend???

someone who reminds her of her daughter 

[jacobrkannel]

Visit Original Link

In a little while I’ll be gone The moment’s already passed Yeah, it’s gone

[antigonick]

—and in longing      she bites her tender mind

Sappho, excerpt of “Fragment 96”, in If Not, Winter (tr. by Anne Carson)

[flawlessbeautyqueens]

Amy Adams photographed for So It Goes Magazine (2018)

[antigonick]

You do this, you do. You take the things you love                                             and tear them apart.

Richard Siken, excerpt of A Primer for the Small Weird Loves (via antigonick)

[thelastrealthing-blog]

Visit Original Link

Acid Tongue - Jenny Lewis

So I found myself a sweetheart with the softest of hands. We were unlucky in love, but I’d do it all again.

[flospughsadadad-deactivated2021]

Sharp Objects “Dirt” 1.02 | “Ripe” 1.04