You can’t miss [ALORA WILSON] walking the halls of the Avengers Academy. She's the [20] year old child of [SAM WILSON], and quite enjoys [YOGA]. She’s not hero material just yet, but she’s already working on [MARTIAL ARTS & ACROBATS] on her [FIFTH YEAR] at the Academy. I bet if her story ever was made into a movie [ZOE KRAVITZ] would play her. – (Blue, 20, EST, she/her)
Accepted! Welcome, Alora Wilson! Zoe Kravitz is now taken. Please, send in your account within the next six hours.
she’s in the garden come spring with the tulips blooming & budding about all around her when it happens. there’s a brilliant shade of purple to one of her patches, yellow the next & pink upon the third. mere tulips, but hers, & she thinks, wiping a hand across the sweat that had gathered on her forehead, that it’d be a much prettier sight to enjoy with a friend at her side. she had quite the record for being perhaps the worst gardener in wilmington, & though there had been plenty of doubts in the outcome of her flowers, there had been a certain someone who had stood beside her in her insistence that her tulips would bloom. there’s one patch, two, three gorgeous patches, & she thinks of his face, his soft smile & his softer hands, & she thinks he wouldn’t be so out of place after all.
ii.
she’s lying in bed with the lights dimmed low, the clock on her bedstand reading 2:32AM as she sighs softly under her breath. it’s a quiet night, undifferentiated to the rest, & yet a sleepless night as she stares blankly at the high ceilings of her loft. doc snores quietly at her feet, his tiny paws kicking with every rabbit he imagines chasing in his dreams, & beside her head, dopey’s tail tickles at her ears. it’s quiet, quiet, quiet, & yet her thoughts feel so loud. far too loud where they echo about in her head. it’s 2:35AM in the morning, as another glance at the clock shows, & her mind drifts to the only person she wants to see. she imagines the warmth of his arms, the way his quiet laughter would thrum through his body, only to echo through hers as he held her. she wants him something terrible in that moment, wants that safety, the security, the love. but it’s passing 2:38AM, & he’s something past her reaches. unattainable if only in how unfair it would be of her to ask. she turns to curl up on her side, hugging herself in a poor mimic of his hold, & she wills herself to sleep. quietly, she thinks. she’ll wish for him quietly, & hope for pleasant dreams.
iii.
she’s never quite certain about what to do in situations such as these. sitting outside a hospital room as she listens to a doctor tell the family that it’s time to say their final goodbyes. the ear piercing desperation in the way they cry, the prayers she bears witness to, the pleading— the loss of hope. it’s not the first time she’s heard it ( the doctor’s apology, & the haunted, watery gasp that follows ) & it’s certainly not going to be the last, but each time she does, each & every goddamned time. it’s always the s a m e. from the way her hands shake where she has them clasped atop her lap, to the way her shoulders stiffen to accommodate to the way her body locks in place, as if to brace herself for the impact of the weight, the sorrow. she knows the pain of a doctor’s unwelcome news, & her heart is impossible in the way it hands out pieces of herself to each family that shares the experience.
she’s ever silent in her grief, in the wetness of her eyes, & her hands tremble where she reaches for her cell. daunted fingers are what wake her screen, missing once, twice, three times where they swipe the pattern & fail. on the fourth, she breathes deep & clenches her lower lip between shaky teeth. she’s teetering on the edges when she finally reaches his name ( & for a moment, she finds herself spitting where ‘ v ‘ sits so late in the alphabet ) but that’s as far as she gets before she realizes why. why it’s his face she sees first in her mind, imagines first on her lips, his arms she wants holding her tight.
it’s the same reason she finds herself needing him there so fiercely, that she finds herself unable to dial.
iv.
she thinks of his fingers first. his hands— his lovely, lovely hands. from the way they hold a cigarette to the way they hold her hair. the way they stroke through & stop, the way they feel rubbing circles into the skin of her shoulder, how they hold onto her own hands with their fingers interlaced. then his arms, where they hold his guitar to strum beauty through the notes, the way they hold her when they’re sitting by the window, or on her couch & between her sheets. she thinks of the broad of his shoulders, the way they feel when she’s pressed tight against him, the perfect slope for her head to rest & her lips to press kisses. gentle, peaceful little things that she could stretch across the plane of his shoulders, down the reach of his back. she thinks of his hair, softly tickling where he rests his head on her thighs, the strands soft & feather light where she pets, the curve of his lips where he smiles, the affectionate, subtle thing he reserves just for her. the way his nose crinkles, in both distaste & in delight where he laughs & where he chuckles, grimaces & frowns. she thinks of the wrinkle on his brows, when he’s deep in thought & pondering, the smooth lines of his face when he sleeps. from the endless length of his legs, the way they continue on in stretches where he stands so much taller above her, & yet the way he ducks down to listen, how he curves around her to befit her, the way he accompanies himself to accompany her, moulding & shaping himself until he becomes———
it isn’t until another nurse taps her on shoulder that she realizes her break’s over & her coffee’s gone cold.
v.
she’s staring at the bottle & something inside her aches. something horrible & longing & quietly soothing as she reaches not for the drink, but the small bag full of powder beside it. she holds it there, in the palm of her hand, arm balanced on the rest of her thigh where her leg sits, & she thinks. she thinks about her childhood, where loneliness accompanied her like the closest of friends, the way it clung to her in desperation where it begged to not be left alone. ( like her, because of her. ) or of her adolescence, where not loneliness found her, but this time a people who took the innocence the loneliness had sheltered, moulding her into something different. something dark.
she thinks of sleepless nights & shaking hands, of blurred faces & wandering hand. of the numerous identities she could never name again, & of the men & women alike who held her, only to break her where they gripped. she thinks of loneliness, but then she thinks of suffocation, of too many people & too many hands. she wonders which one she prefers, & staring down at the bag, she thinks of something kinder. kinder to herself, & kinder to her future. she thinks of the warm hands that hold her, not to press, but only to help, the way they tug the bag from her hold, prying the bottle from her fingers only to tuck her closer when she breaks. she wants him, she wants him so bad, & she hates herself for the way she does.
in the morning, as she pulls the bag & bottle closer, she’s certain she’ll hate herself for the way she doesn’t dial all the more.
& the one time they do something about it.
she’s sitting with her knees tucked in, her head resting snug atop them, the arm of the couch behind her comfortably caging her in. she’s got a blanket wrapped tight upon her shoulders, & it’s to his voice she finds herself drifting. singing her to sleep, the sneak of the man, that even when she’d insisted she’d be fine to stay up & keep him company, he’d put her to sleep instead. she’s close now, so close, where his voice croons softly in her ear, & where her body goes lax in her lethargy. she could drift off then, & wake up when she did, but before she can, she can’t help but wonder. it’s quiet now, where his hands have stopped playing, & his voice has stopped singing. he had some papers to go over, s’what he’d said, & she’s certain she’s put her guitar aside so he could rise to fetch them, but before he can, she stops him.
with an outstretch of her hands, & a quiet call of his name—— ‘ vince. ’ she pleads for him. & it’s so soft, she wonders if he’s heard her. but he does stop, from where her hand has caught the edge of his shirt, the fingers holding firm, to the way his eyes meet hers when she raises her head. she looks at him, really looks, & for a moment, she WONDERS. ‘ i think— ’ i think this might be love.
⌛: the voicemail my muse leaves on your phone when your muse hasn’t been heard from for the fifth night this week
‘ the number you have dialled is currently unavailable… ‘
it’s a familiar tone by this point in charlie’s ear. the same automated woman with her professional cheer, acting as the buffer between charlie from connecting through to the call. the only thing she’s hearing when all she WANTS to be hearing is the voice she’s come to adore far more. but it`s been days, nearly a week, and with every missed call that adds on to the previous, she feels her chest tighten further, like whatever’s pressing down has added another weight to the scale. but god, she’s certain she’s being ridiculous, curled up on her couch with her phone in hand, the pressure behind her eyes growing with each sound of the dial tone. with each goddamned beep that tells her to leave a message. she doesn’t want a message, she wants VINCE. ——— where was vince?
‘ vince—- it’s, uhm. it’s charlie again. yeah, i know — AGAIN. i know you’re probably tired of hearing my voice at this point but, uhm. god, i’d really do ANYTHING to hear yours at this point. ’ & her voice felt scratchy, sounded scratchy, even to her own tears, as she pressed the heel of her empty hand into the socket of one of her eyes, willing the tears to stay at bay. ‘ i don’t know what’s happened to you, vince. i’m—- god i’m so scared, i can’t. i can’t tell if you’re avoiding me. ’ but considering the fact that there were times that the phone continued ringing on without going straight to voicemail, meaning she was being ignored rather then a dead phone, she was starting to get it at this point.
‘ —- if you’re avoiding me, or if something happened, but god, i’m so, so worried, vince. i miss you so much, & i don’t know what’s wrong, but please, please call me back. you don’t even hav’to bother with seeing me if you don’t want to, y’know? just, uhm. a text would do, please. i don’t know what’s happened & i’m so worried. ’ & a hitch in her voice cut her off, but before she could continue to blabber on about her worries, she simply decided it was time to end the message. it wasn’t the first time she found her saying those words, or something along the like, & if things continued on in this manner, she was certain it wouldn’t be the last. ‘ vince i just, i need you to KNOW—- whatever it is, whatever i did. i’m so sorry, god, i’m so, so sorry, i, uhm. i miss you so much, & i love you, vince. so please be safe, please be okay. ’
The snow was falling hard and not only did Juliet not have a way home, she didn’t HAVE a home for the time being. Just earlier her dad and her got at it again and he kicked her out after calling her many offensive names. So she grabbed her best shit and decided to show up at Vince’s place, not coming shorthanded as she immediately grinned and flashed the drugs for him to see. At least she could buy herself some time to figure out where to go for the night. However when Vince offered that she stayed at his place, she looks at him with wide, blue hues as she swallows, shaking her head, “No, you don’t have to that.” But he insisted and Juliet could feel her heart melting. She knew their relationship consisted mostly of hooking up and having fun but she was grateful that he was extending such a welcome to her when he didn’t have to. Before she could even think about it, she’s pressing her lips against his and pressing her forehead against his, “Thank you. Now wanna play beer pong?”
