“I WILL . . . do my very best.” which is the best promise e.ames can give & still mostly keep. mostly——— despite his best efforts, more often than not something still went horrificly, terribly wrong. not always within his control but too often not completely out of it, either. not without reason then, that he would rather not offer concrete promises . . . good a liar he might be, it is not synonymous with enjoying to lie. if his job permitted, he would much prefer to be more honest & open but alas, but alas. (OH, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GIVE YOUR SISTERS A CALL SOONER OR LATER . . .) “if i have a moment for calm reflection at any point while trying not to get dragged out of a dream kicking & screaming, i shall remember that ‘ah dang, arthur asked me not to actually’.” sounding like an asshole &, surprise, regretting it before the words have fully rolled off his tongue, e.ames sighs. the sarcasm, while a comfortably shield to wear & sword to wield, may not be entirely called for. kindness repayed with cynicism has a rather short half life. the next attempt at a response is vaguely more feebly, out of practice. there is a little shrug & a smile that can almost be called timid. “thank you. i will give you a call as soon as i can.” / / / SHITTY HOROSCOPES FEAT. @arthisan
she much prefers a crown of thorns — christ's crucifixion looked a lot like hers, she likes to think. bottles drained and busted open, hair dye staining someone's sink, slurs slurred and prayers thrown to the wolves. she can see it in stained glass, on a cracked phone, in the dirt and gravel parking lot they're huddled together in. but there's nothing biblical about the smile she gives him: gleaming in its truth, wicked in its warmth. ❝ me? never. ❞ her lighter flicks alive in the nighttime; she touches the flame to the end of the joint wedged in her teeth and leans back with a smooth exhale. ❝ i'm the only one you can actually trust in this world. ❞ and even though she's never been a religious girl, she knows well what she's doing as she leans into arthur and drops the lightest of kisses to his cheek.
x. screams there were so many of these in my inbox djhjkdsh ok i got some facts whipped up for the twin
the first game i ever played was parasite eve, a ps1 game that my father thrusted upon me at the tender age of 5. that has fueled my passion for horror/thriller video games since. i do play a wide variety of things though, just not as often as i used to. rn my currently lineup is: balatro, tekken 8, ffxvi, stardew valley, monster hunter world, remnant 2, slime rancherrrrr...and some others.
on the same note, i am a playstation stan for the pure fact i grew up with the brand. i have all the main consoles, 1-5. and want to get a PS tattoo one day.
speaking of tats i have a bunch! happy to share some pics over discord if ur interested lolol. they are kinda scattered everywhere but i love getting them and want more.
❝ this place, this whole thing, it's like a nightmare. i just wanted to get away from it, even for a second. ❞ | continuation from here [ 🌌 ]
Sometimes there was something about Arthur's collectedness that triggered Isaiah. The nonchalance with which he sometimes responded and still the blonde would never comment on it. Never allow himself to judge, let alone blame @arthisan for anything. And yet Isaiah couldn't shake the feeling that Arthur's manner made him feel even lonelier up here than he had imagined. He didn't wish for someone else, but it didn't feel like he could talk with him about the things that kept him awake at night. Before he had left earth, his mom had requested him to bring Arthur for dinner someday; when they were back home. To this day, this inquriy lingered within Isaiah, because he never had the balls to approach his superior. On most days, Isaiah felt like Arthur rather bore with instead of actually liking him. The desire to be liked was so deeply rooted in the Michigan boy, it even haunted him up here. Maybe they were just colleagues, forced to work with one another and that was it.
It was the first time that Isaiah had lost his composure and he was beginning to find the entire situation difficult to bear. He regretted every second he spent up here; oh, if only his eagerness and thirst for knowledge, and perhaps to some extent his arrogance, had come to an end on Earth. Perhaps man was not made to navigate through the vastness of space. “No, Arthur, we aren't safe. We're fucked,” he replied, burying his face in his hands in a hopeless gesture. He felt like crying, but didn't really feel at ease in the brunette's presence. He had rarely been able to read any emotion from him, of course there had been a few cheeky remarks here, a rational analysis of the situation there, but they had spoken little about anything like feelings. About fear. About the big picture things that moved people. Isaiah didn't want to die. And certainly not alone. “I need to be alone for a moment,” he apologized and straightened up, walking along the walls, the machines and flashing lights that sometimes reminded him of home. Headed to the sleeping quarters, his shoulders were slouched, as was his head, while he stroked his eyes and sniffled under his breath.
starter for @arthisan
(i'm so sorry this took so long, i promised you this one ages ago)
The setting sun bathed the evening sky in picturesque colors as Isaiah leaned against the streetlight of the local diner. Content, he closed his eyes as the warm autumn sun warmed his face and the fresh breeze blew around his nose, carrying the smells of his burning cigarette and fried bacon. All of this felt like the calm before the storm, even if he wasn't going to do anything dangerous in the next few hours. Two days ago, he had asked Arthur if he would like to accompany him to the diner after one of the training days, so that they could eat together and get to know each other before the mission itself started in just under two and a half weeks. An impulse born of the deep admiration he felt for his superior; Arthur, whom he had known for weeks but had never really gotten to know. There was something stoic about the brunette that Isaiah couldn't quite grasp. And yet he liked him somehow, had found a kind of anchor in Arthur. And today he would really get to know him.
Outside he reminisced about the last few days. The day before yesterday, he had read his mother's letter, the heartfelt lines she had written to him, which, if he was completely honest with himself, made him a little homesick. It hadn't taken him long to finish writing his reply to her. He had told her about his training, how alive he felt, how fascinating and beautiful it was to experience the theories he had developed in practice and to be confronted with completely different problems that were real, complex and tangible: Orbital paths, the great mysteries behind preparing for space travel-all this was now more than just thought experiments, more than a game of numbers and imagination.
And of course he had told her about Arthur: the experienced astronaut who had mentored him, who would later accompany him on this mission. It was just the two of them. And also that he had felt like a little kid in the first few days, just like he had in first grade: restless, full of questions, all of which he wanted to ask, but kept himself in check so as not to startle or annoy Arthur from the very first moment. Arthur was composed, almost stoic, which admittedly made Isaiah feel insecure. A man who was familiar with the infinity of space and maintained a professionalism in his presence that Isaiah could not grasp.
Said man spoke his name, causing Isaiah to snap out of his reverie. The evening sun made Arthur's striking features—the alert blue eyes, the well-groomed, sensibly styled hair—appear much warmer than in the confines of the training center. Isaiah stubbed out his cigarette, smiled politely at the brunette and gestured towards the diner.
The smell that had been lingering outside was only stronger in the diner itself. The feeling that he was out of place here, like he was a student who had accidentally gone to lunch with the teacher, persisted, however, he tried to stop himself from letting his mind wander to such currents. At the table, Arthur sat calm and collected, while Isaiah played ceaselessly with the hem of his sweater. Restlessness met imperturbability.
The decision of what Isaiah wanted to eat had been made before he had even entered the diner. A young waitress, about his age, approached the table, smiling warmly at them. “Hello darlings, what will it be?” After his supervisor had ordered, he did the same: a double cheeseburger, fries and a coke.
Then the silence hung over them again. At first, the blonde didn't know what to say. How do you start a conversation again? And which questions are okay? Isaiah exhaled deeply, minimizing the risk of stuttering, and collected himself. “How did you actually become an astronaut? So, uhhh…—what motivated you to do it? And did you always want to? Were there things you thought would be different up there?” The questions—he hadn't quite been able to restrain himself—were still lingering in the room when the waitress brought the drinks. Isaiah toasted Arthur and leaned back, having recently counted the twelve ceiling lamps, fourteen salt shakers and thirteen pepper shakers; things that helped him to anchor himself in reality.
fuck off, arthur. teeth grit along the sentiment— misplaced and blindly swinging, @arthisan is only the messenger. the attempted voice of reason, of measured responses. "yeah?" lizzie pursues half-heartedly, letting the single word hang between them. curt. clipped. her fingers tighten around her cigarette. the motion prematurely ashing it, fluttering half-lit flakes like some angry twist on snow.
"what then?
'I missing some magical little angle?" enlighten me. she bring the cigarette back to her mouth. takes a pull. pointedly evading his gaze, like some fucking sulky child. "do you know something I don't?"
FRIENDSHIP. childhood friends / work buddies or coworkers / family friends / friends with benefits / smoking buddies / adventure buddies / fake friends / recently friends / party buddies / friendship of need / dying friendship / circumstantial friendship / partners in crime / old friendship / [ your muse ] is the good influence / [ your muse ] is the bad influence / [ my muse ] is the good influence / [ my muse ] is the bad influence / opposites attract / ride or die / frenemies / roommates or flatmates / penpals / exes to friends / enemies to friends / other
ROMANCE. childhood sweethearts / [ your muse is mines ] childhood crush / [ my muse is yours ] childhood crush / exes / exes to lovers / forbidden lovers / highschool sweethearts / secret relationship / opposites attract / long distance / unrequited [ from your muses side ] / unrequited [ from my muses side ] / unrequited [ from both sides ] / skinny love / friends to lovers / enemies to lovers / spurious relationship / power couple / newly entered / soulmates [ metaphorical ] / soulmates [ literal ] / awkward / turning toxic / toxic love / cheating [ on your muse ] / cheating [ with your muse ] / other
FAMILIAL. siblings [ half ] / siblings [ step ] / [ my muse ] is an older sibling figure to your younger sibling figure / [ my muse ] is a younger sibling figure to your older sibling figure muse / [ my muse ] is a parental figure to yours / [ my muse ] is a child figure to your muse / guardian figure / legal guardian / adoptive child / foster child / [ your muse ] is taken under mines wing / [ my muse ] is taken under yours wing / other
ANTAGONISTIC. dangerous to each other / dangerous to others / unpredictable / rivals / petty / developing into sexual or romantic tension / based off family matters / based of off circumstance / based of professional matters / based off misunderstanding or lies / conflict of ideology / betrayal / hero - villain dynamic / enemies / fight club / friends turned enemies / lovers turned enemies / exes turned enemies / other
[ @arthisan ] ARTHUR MABEE: maybe you just need a little inspiration.
outside the window, it's storming in gotham. the rain's pouring down, thick sheets. it never stops raining, or that's how it feels. every so often it breaks, and there are scant hours of sunlight that warm towers of concrete and metal. but that's rare. most days it's wet, wet, wet, all the way down, rainwater flooding from top to bottom, a metal tinge in the air.
"inspiration," parrots bruce back, low, hoarse. glad that the cowl and the angle an obscure most of his expression. it's not quite a smile, but maybe it's something pleasant.
it obscures a lot of things. the black eye from a fight last night, the dark circles under his eyes that he mostly uses makeup to hide, at least just enough. some sleepless nights work for gotham's prince, out late at bars and clubs. too much, though, and it starts to raise questions.
the truth is that he miscalculated. which is why he's here, sitting on arthur's couch, listening to rain hit the window. built new impact plating into the suit, and now it's just outside the ability for a grappling hook to hold that weight.
the line snapped. he managed to save it, mostly, but he'll have a twisted ankle and a map of bruises for his trouble.
"if you can find a way to keep the line from breaking without me having to go back to the old pattern, i don't care where you take that inspiration."
he pauses. looks at himself, the gloves, the suit.
"well. i care a little. mostly about the color, though."
