#vipier

[turks01]

[crimewrought]

ㅤ" you're looking terribly pleased with yourself. " teasing words, but there's nothing terrible at all in seeing him look so impossibly unburdened. it's so heartening a sight that maria feels her mind tuck the image away, something to be coveted in all its bizarre oddity; tristan's easy smile, his loose shoulders not showing the weight they surely carry, bathed in the sweet orange lamplight of the booth they share. the charade will doubtless peel away quickly. the glossy paint of normalcy will chip, revealing the truth beneath as something quite contrary. she very nearly likes that, though—the utter absence of pretence between them. the knowledge that either has to pantomime ordinariness, because there's no good reason to, not when their bond is welded by the atoms of a complete lack of it.

ㅤmaria pushes his drink towards him across the tabletop, her fingers curved around the stem of her wine glass. " one of your conquests here? or you got another government sweating over your antics? "

starter for @vipier.

[ragedagainst]

send a number (1-100), get a song lyric starter ! @vipier​ : 42 → mouthpiece - dan mangan + blacksmith 

jyn huffs in irritation, scrubbing a hand across her face. “ –– but everybody's pissing in the well of our suffering. ”

[dreamwaited]

@vipier​ liked for a starter

THE UNDERGROUND WAS BOTH VAST AND TINY. he’d been operating in this world since he was just a teenager. to him it felt just as normal as linkedin. even if he knew he’d get a gunshot to the back of his head if he ever tried to share someone resume with another person. but he’s run into tristian enough times to consider the guy a friendly acquaintance. or as friendly as either of them could get. flynn didn’t want to think about how with lance missing and the baron out to kill him this was probably the closest positive relationship he had. he takes a sip from his drink as he slowly raises an eyebrow. ❝ if you found the baron took out a hit on me would you take it? or would you do it for free? ❞

[crimewrought]

“ no better version of me i could pretend to be tonight. ”   @vipier.

   “ is that what you think i want from you? ”     if the words sound like an accusation,  she doesn’t mean them to.   it’s just the stroke of surprise she feels resolves itself to be heard,  boasting a defiance all its own.  a better version?  maria’s mind lingers on the notion,  conjuring up a cartoonishly holy image but otherwise coming up empty.  no.  that’s not what she wants.  not at all.  never.  she’s practically balking at the thought.

   “ you know,  i think the dead last thing i want tonight is a better version of you.  where’s the fun in that,  hm? ”     her attempt to reduce the conversation into something shallow is an obvious one–––and it’s a charade maria knows tristan won’t buy.  so,  she pinches her red lips to one side,  rummaging around her chest for something sincere to present to him;  a gristly offering,  but earnest in the effort.     “ i’m actually pretty content with the version i’ve got in front of me. ”     there’s a pause,  and she uses it as an opportunity to look sidelong at him–––she’s bubbly enough on account of the champagne to smile,  but not drunk enough to pretend her attempt at sidestepping a deeper conversation was any good.     “ you start getting all goody two-shoes on me and this friendship is going to fall apart,  my dear tris. ”     she turns her head up to the star-speckled skies,  rolling her shoulders as though there’s something clinging there in desperate need of shrugging of.     “ you know i couldn’t keep up with that. ”

[daylighter-gone]

forgiveness? you've never forgiven anything.

it was only one instance of a thousand more, where tristan had spoken up, said the very thing that seemed banal truth to the world they inhibited. it's enough that he looks up from where he had been hypnotised earlier, eyes wide and only a little bewildered by the turn of conversation : one that had started with attempting the map the deceptive gravesite of a death mage, and the followers who had turned on him, unwilling to forgive. the throng of books and stolen letters scattered around his legs would piece out the whereabouts of a portal key he had left behind. his hair, tousled from the sleep he's bargained off his plate with potions and a few quick spells, grows paler in the dim light of candles.

tristan by contrast, looked like a ghost seething. the words hadn't been exactly been a challenge, but one could rarely be sure when it came to the two of them and their uncertainty. ❛❛  why should i?  ❜❜  then, a slowed beat, the chasm between them big as a snake's maw. ❛❛  i'm the one that has to live with remembering. look at you — barking up the wrong tree.  ❜❜  his eyes drift their way back to the book in hand, the one they have fought and clawed to get their hands on and return to the safekeeping of the viper's den. part of a greater plan, better plan. that was what he had wanted, had killed himself for and singed tristan's soul on. did tristan remember? ❛❛  you, who couldn't even forgive himself if he tried.  ❜❜