#per6e

[bak3rs]

[ larke. p ] : it is actually [ larke. p ] : thats a better idea [ larke. p ] : im at home

˚₊‧꒰ა 🐬 💿 🌊 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ -> @per6e 🏝️ continued ​ ❝ texts ❞

[laperlina]

your blog is so pretty <3

ETTIE!!!!!!!!!!!????

THE ettie.WORLD you are saying this to ME????????

[morcgo]

“ I’m ready to save it with style ” ( @per6e )

[enchaentales]

gif starter call, accepting!  ˎˊ˗  @per6e ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

         before a day out in the capitol, daphne cocoons herself in pink lace and silk, from the tips of her trembling, scarred fingers to the top of her head, haired tied with ribbons and fabric petals. then, back down her legs, where there's just enough skin showing to keep her exotic before back goes the lace of her socks. it doesn't truly hide her, nor keep her any safer, but it's a routine that daphne's kept since she's gotten here, and she doesn't intend on breaking it now. it's the only thing that keeps her feeling like ... her. at least there's something to disappear into when this happens, some citizen of panem fawning over a victor of the hunger games- barely, if daphne might add. they poke and prod at her like they might a doll. and she feels it, frozen in time.

         another thing she'd donned- her shutterbug smile, like her father called it back in ... oh, well, that had been another time, hadn't it? it freezes in place in the same, porcelain way, and, behind it, daphne doesn't feel a thing. but it doesn't stay that way for long. as daphne sits in a pearlen cage of her own making, she hears the flap of steady wings. freedom. but it's not, it's only the flash of brown hair and a set of eyes that she recognizes. actually recognizes, beyond the haze of capitol names to run from, or pay attention to, or practice in the mirror. persephone larke may not be her friend, but that's what she excuses herself with, anyway. polite as peaches, with a rotten, dark pit.

         they don't know that though, carefully concealed by her fresh, juicy skin. they don't know that she's chasing cigarette smoke behind a tucked away wall because she can't stand the feeling of their words on her skin. persephone doesn't know this, either, because daphne hasn't told her. only stood by her, silently, with her eyes shut. " i'm sorry for disturbing you, i ... " daphne swallows, her brown eyes open, again. " i was tired of talking. " the honesty startles her.

[morcgo]

-⠀ ݁ ⠀. . STARTER FOR (@per6e) : SECURITY SECRETS

❛   an   organization   that   monetizes   world’s   peace.   ❜   shrouded   in   shadows,   sentence   echoed   faceless,   a   quiet   opulence   contrasting   the   arabesque   ornaments   in   the   corridor.   orchestra   dwindled,   gala   in   the   main   hall   muffled   by   distance   in   their   own   atmosphere.   ❛   a   century’s   old   child   tale   that   decided   to   come   out   from   the   shadows   to   assassinate   prominent   citizens   of   gotham   now.   ❜    boot   glided   forward   in   a   step,   vespertilian   form   emerging   from   a   nook   on   the   woman’s   left,   gaze   slitted   in   a   glare,   accusation   charging   tone   with   gravel.   ❛   you   would   profit   from   a   secret   alliance   with   the   c.ourt   o.f   o.wls.   ❜

[thelasttimeiswear-realmythsmoved]

🌙 : a mutual whose aesthetic you adore

@per6e/ @brightas/ @mstjohn

Bea, your aesthetic is just beautiful. I wish I had half your talent in making graphics, but alas I don't. I adore yours, though. And I feel like all your blogs have a distinct identity, partially because of the aesthetics. Love that for you! <3

[unitlead]

can hotties join the unit?

HIRED IMMEDIATELY, NO INTERVIEW NEEDED. SALARY? HOLIDAYS ? WHATEVER YOU WANT.

[sasorikigai]

"everything went silent... it's beautiful isn't it?"

FIRST DAYS OF WINTER · INSPIRED STARTERS || @per6e || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥|| The words fall from her lips like stones into still water - measured, deliberate, breaking the surface of silence with ripples that spread outward into meanings he suspects she does not fully intend to reveal. Everything went silent... it's beautiful isn't it? She speaks of silence as if it were a gift, a sanctuary, something to be admired rather than endured.

Hanzo knows silence differently.

He knows it as the absence that preceded annihilation - that crystalline moment when breath stopped in his lungs and time stretched into eternity. The memory lives in his marrow still; snow falling without sound, Sub-Zero's blade catching moonlight, the way the world hushed itself as if bearing witness to murder most profound. That silence had weight, texture, taste. It tasted of copper and betrayal, of blood freezing on his tongue before the words of defiance could fully form.

In that terrible quiet, his family's screams existed only in the past tense, echoes he could no longer reach, names he could no longer save.

The silence that followed - the void between death and whatever unholy resurrection dragged him back - that was different still. An abyss without dimension or mercy, where consciousness floated untethered and the self dissolved into particles of rage that had nowhere to anchor, nothing to burn.

Now silence walks beside him like a shadow he cannot shed. It fills the spaces between him and others, a moat of his own construction. He maintains it with the discipline of a monk tending sacred flames, understanding that proximity breeds danger, that affection becomes fuel, that anyone who draws close enough to matter becomes kindling for the inferno that sleeps restlessly beneath his ribs.

The fire does not discriminate. It would consume his tenderness as readily as his enemies, would incinerate discipline and memory alike, reducing everything he once was - everything he struggles to remain - to ash and regret.

Yet here stands Persephone Larke, speaking of silence as if it were an aesthetic choice rather than a survival mechanism.

He studies her with eyes that have learned to guard their depths, taking in the careful architecture of her composure. She carries herself with the precision of someone who understands that revelation is weakness, that vulnerability must be locked behind formality's fortress walls. He recognizes the strategy - has employed it himself countless times. The professional distance she maintains is not aloofness but armor, and he respects it as one soldier respects another's defensive position.

"Silence," he begins, his voice carrying the texture of smoke over gravel, "possesses many faces, Miss Larke." He does not move closer, does not retreat. The distance between them remains fixed, intentional. Professional. "In combat, it precedes the strike - that suspended moment when adversaries measure each other's worth in heartbeats. In meditation, it offers clarity." He pauses, weighing whether to continue, whether these next words venture too close to confession. "But silence also serves as shelter. A place to contain what should not be released."

The heat still simmers beneath his skin, a secret he keeps caged behind flesh and will. Even now, speaking with measured cadence, projecting the calm authority expected of a tactical commander, he feels the fire's presence - patient, eternal, waiting. It whispers seductions; Let me free. Let me show them what you truly are. He denies it with the practiced ease of long repetition, though the effort costs him more than his expression betrays.

"You find beauty in it," he observes, neither questioning nor confirming, simply acknowledging her statement as fact. "That suggests you understand its utility." His head tilts fractionally, a gesture that might be curiosity tempered by caution. "Or perhaps its necessity."

The corridor's fluorescent lights hum overhead, their artificial brightness casting both of them in stark relief against the institutional walls. Behind him, the bunker door remains closed - he thinks it remains closed, prays it remains closed - containing evidence of the maelstrom he unleashed. The smell of ash has either dissipated or become so integrated with his presence that he no longer distinguishes it from his own scent. He hopes the former, fears the latter.

Persephone Larke speaks like someone familiar with shadows, with the kind of silence that conceals rather than comforts. Her words carry weight, subtext, layers he suspects she reveals deliberately, testing perhaps, or simply acknowledging a kinship of isolation. Former operative, the fragments of intelligence suggest. Rogue force. Someone who has walked away from allegiance into the uncertain terrain of self-determination.

He understands that journey more intimately than he wishes.

"In my experience," Hanzo continues, maintaining the professional veneer that serves him so well, that keeps others at the necessary distance, "silence becomes beautiful only when one learns to survive what it contains." His jaw tightens imperceptibly, the only outward sign of the discipline required to keep his tone even, unmarked by the weight of history that threatens to color every syllable. "Otherwise, it is simply... empty."

Lonely, he does not say. Isolating, he keeps locked away. The price of protecting others from the monster you have become, he will never confess.

Instead, he offers her the courtesy of directness wrapped in formality. "You have a philosopher's perspective, Miss Larke. It is... unexpected." The compliment, if it can be called such, emerges careful, genuine despite its guardedness. "But perhaps not unwelcome. These corridors rarely host conversations of substance."

He stands before her - a commander, a weapon, a man pretending at normalcy - and wonders what she sees when those sharp eyes measure him. Does she detect the faint tremor in his hands that discipline cannot fully suppress? Does she sense the supernatural heat that lingers like fever beneath his skin? Can she perceive the carefully constructed walls he maintains, brick by brick, between himself and anything resembling connection?

Or does she simply see another professional maintaining professional distance, two strangers exchanging pleasantries in a corridor, nothing more?

The silence that follows his words stretches between them - and yes, perhaps there is a terrible beauty in it after all. The beauty of two people who understand that some secrets must remain unspoken, that some distances exist for good reason, that survival sometimes demands we stand alone even when standing together might be infinitely preferable.

Hanzo waits for her response, patient as stone, burning like embers beneath snow. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥||