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@velourya
#(MY)VELOURYA : an independent multi-muse featuring various characters from various brainrots. muse list is subject to change at any time. WRITTEN BY INK ( SHE/HER, 25+, MELB., AUSTRALIA, ADHD-C ) sporadic activity, does not follow first. established may 22, 2024. muse list here. CURRENT BRAINROTS : anakin solo, oberon, boone, deb armstrong
idk if i still have followers on here but for my muse list . . . who should i keep ?
idk if i still have followers on here but for my muse list . . . who should i keep ?
me when i dont take my meds for a month & wonder why i'm depressed & have no interest in my hobbies :
*points the camera at Tyler again*
Twisters (2024)
listen, i'm the guy who fought magneto every time he was a bad guy.
i'm the guy who went toe-to-toe with the white queen and got buffer for it.
i'm the frickin' iceman, bozo.
learn your x-men.
BOONE: bitch scoot over… i love yall…
* austin weekes … photographed on the nicomachean book tour 2023
* austin weekes … apartment sneak peek.
+ austin weekes, writer & poet oc.
you are tired eyes & ink-stained fingertips ; wire-rimmed glasses nestled atop tousled hair in need of a wash, forgotten even as gaze attempts to squint artwork into some form of focus. you’re a from-page-to-life cliche, austin weekes - standing alone in a quiet gallery mere minutes after opening ; all boney limbs & too-big t-shirts & lightwash jeans that don’t quite sit right on your hips & bunch up around your ankles. whoever told you it was possible to subsist on a diet of black coffee & cigarettes was lying, & yet still somehow here you are proving them correct. one almost expects an unironic it’s the art that feeds me to fall from your mouth when questioned about it. you remember the glasses, & pushing vanity aside, you place them on your nose, taking a step back from the painting ( you swear even to yourself this is wholly unrelated to the hawkish glare the security guard pierced you with just moments prior as the tip of your nose threatened to touch the canvas ). doesn’t he know who you are ?
pretentiousness permeates thoughts, despite best intentions. just because someone works in a creative space, does not themselves a creative make — nor does it assure an interest in the area, either. you thumb through the small notebook you hold, opening a fresh page & scrawling a few words about the artwork & the feelings it creates within you. flip back through the other pages, you’ll see it’s all the same : excerpts of novels ; song lyrics ; a description of the sunset four thursdays ago ; a snippet of a conversation heard on a train —--- but all with elaborations on how it made you feel. people think you’re good with feelings because you can make them sound pretty on paper. your string of failed romantic relationships does little to give any weight to the hypothesis, but you often don’t bother pointing that out. you fall for it too, sometimes - thinking that your ability to spin pretty words together as art, as a career, means something about you as a person. perhaps that is why you find yourself in an art gallery early morning : an attempt to prove to yourself there is substance to you ; a meaning that isn’t just AUSTIN WEEKES, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR.
you take a moment to think about how this in & of itself - the creator of substance who so lacks any himself - is a cliche, & remind yourself to watch that video essay later on instagram poetry ( & then you’ll post your most recent photo dump, picking out a few words here & there from the notebook as the caption. after all, it’s other people who try to argue you’re in a different categories to those creators — you never confirmed or denied it, so what’s stopping you from doing as they do ? ). the notebook slips back into your pocket, heavier than it was before as the inked words regarding the painting ( & some about the security guard who is on his fourth lap of the room already, despite you being the only occupant ), & you itch your inner forearm as you head out of the room, taking the shortest route to the exit. you haven’t had your coffee-&-cigarette breakfast yet, & the signing in a few hours will be all the more worse for it if you put it off, so that’s your new goal for this morning. coffee & a smoke whilst ducked into an alley somewhere. maybe a pastry if one strikes your fancy enough.
it reminds you of high school, of college. affecting a persona until you couldn’t tell where it ended & you began. croissants, black coffee, & a cigarette for breakfast. you were fifteen. your girlfriend had just been come back from summer vacation in france. she’d thought it was hot. ( that - if you ever were to write a biography - is where it all started, you’d say ). she started the whole poetry thing, too. thought a man in touch with his feelings was hot. you soon realized other girls tended to agree - something about it being a refreshing change of pace. didn’t hurt that you’d be the one they turned to for english advice, & they often found inventive ways of thanking you for your assistance. you have that noted down in an old journal somewhere - not unlike the notebooks you carry around now. poets get pussy. a pithy observation at seventeen, but one you’d ( unfortunately ) still argue stands the test of time.
YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE, AUSTIN WEEKES. the self-awareness of the fact does not negate the assholishness.
you glance at your watch - still early. already though, you’re sure there’s a line forming outside the store where you’re due in three hours to recite a few pieces, answer a few questions ( yes, that one is about sex. as is that one ), & sign books until your fucking fingers fall off. someone will inevitably hang back to flirt ( what is it about the gaunt perpetually tired look people find so sexy ? ) & you will, likely, accept their advances. kill some time before dinner, which you follow with a trip to a local bar, where you find time to kill yet again. repeat ad nauseum. a new city every few days ; a few fake-deep instagram posts to keep the masses happy, & hours spent repeating the same conversations & the same movements with different people. OH, HOW DIFFICULT IT IS TO BE AN ARTIST ! if you really hated it, you’d give it up. delete social media, skip town, block your agent. but deep down you like all the perks. you like being thought of as the sensitive guy people can bring home to mom. you can quote austen ! how charming. it’s all an affectation. you’ve just long since forgotten which part of it that is.
your fingers accidentally brush the barista’s when they hand you your coffee. “ thanks, ” you say. “ sorry, ” you say. i’m a huge fan, they say. i was gonna go to your signing later, but i gotta work. you glance at them. “ oh, thanks, ” you say again. “ oh, sorry, ” you say again. a look shared between you. you’ve got some time to kill. you’d just be aimlessly sitting on a park bench somewhere after the alley coffee-&-cigarette anyway. “ when’s your break ? ”
AUSTIN TYLER WEEKES, TWENTY-EIGHT, A NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER IN 2021, 2022, & 2023. FIND HIM ON INSTAGRAM : @atweekes. TOURING NATIONALLY FOR NICOMACHEAN, AVAILABLE NOW WHEREVER YOU GET YOUR BOOKS.
JORDANA BREWSTER as LUCY DIAMOND D.E.B.S (2004) dir. Angela Robinson (insp.) ☆ happy birthday to my most beloved heidi @kjxlll <3
this gives him absolutely everything, selfishly holding onto it and refusing to let go. the wind is knocked out of him, yes, but his gaze is darkening in its entirety, and therefore, there are no complaints from him. this situation is wholly acceptable, evident in the way that john looks up at bobby once more. as if he is now unable to look away. ❛❛ you’re the first to complain, bobby. i didn’t know you’d be so difficult to please, darlin’. ❜❜ the fire mutant allows gaze to leave bobby’s, making a slow path down his body. he is so close that he could just... his hands move forward, catching iceman by the waist and pulling him closer. fingers apply gentle pressure before he releases, instead catching bobby’s hands and bringing them to his hair. then he drops his hands, hoping that iceman takes the reigns. ❛❛ and you’d know all about grabbin’ onto, correct? ❜❜
his smirk is unforgiving, teasing and appreciative. suddenly, he fails to know what he had been so nervous about. this was easy. ❛❛ maybe i’m tryin’ to find out — i’ve never gotten a bouquet. ❜❜ he leans back slightly on one hand, chin tilting upward as he refuses to break eye contact. at the mention of home, a confused expression crosses his face; much too raw and genuine for it to be pretend. home? john does not believe he ever truly had one to begin with, and certainly not since he was around thirteen years old. ❛❛ i don’t have a home. where would you be takin’ me exactly? back to a place where everyone thinks i’m fuckin’ evil? ❜❜ if the brightness in his eyes had not been nearly wholly consumed by black at that point, it surely would have happened now. ❛❛ i’ve gotten used to the idea that i’ll never have one. it’s no fuckin’ big deal. ❜❜ emotions hit like whiplash, expression softening as he hears bobby’s words. not that special? ❛❛ i think... ❜❜ only here does john move his free hand towards bobby again, catching his hip. ❛❛ you’ve always been that special. it’s why it hit harder that i wasn’t anythin’ special for you — not like you were to me at least. that was rogue, wasn’t it? i saw you guys choose each other. ❜❜
his old wounds bleeding fresh, john tactfully chooses to ignore all else. there was only one topic that mattered. ❛❛ and i get it, things didn’t work out with you guys. but you chose each other in different ways too, don’t tell me you didn’t notice. ❜❜ john allerdyce had been too aggressive, too confrontational, and they had chosen each other instead. ❛❛ but that’s good, i'm glad she’s good. i really liked her until you became part of the picture. ❜❜ his smile refuses to burn out, even if he feels like he is being torn apart inside. ❛❛ mystique is doing real well, still deadly loyal, still deadly beautiful. you seen her fight lately? ❜❜ a low whistle escapes the fire mutant, gaze dropping to his hand still on bobby, applying pressure again. this was real. ❛❛ but going back to you, sweetheart! ❜❜ he sounds excited for once, ❛❛ i’m glad you’re havin’ fun now. you always seemed to have a stick up your ass when i was concerned. i need to see more of this side of you... immediately. ❜❜
there had always been something between them, something that perhaps neither of them had really dared to speak into existence, but it is undeniable now that they’re older, facing each other like this. bobby had spent too many of his teen years dealing with the fact that he was a mutant to deal with anything else that othered him, but god . . . if he hadn’t, maybe this would be easier. or maybe it would be equally as difficult. worse, even, with the way things had ended between fire & ice. maybe the unspoken weight had made it easier to bear . . . for now.
bobby runs his fingers almost experimentally over the hair shorn short on @unheavenly’s scalp, humming contemplatively before pulling them back with a shake of his head. ❛ i still don’t like it, ❜ he states, hand falling back into his lap. too short, too severe, perhaps. too used he is to seeing john use his hair to hide behind, almost a mask of sorts. theoretically he should like it better this way, being able to see his face, but it’s just . . . not right. maybe he’d meant it when he said there was nothing there to pull. the thought doesn’t color bobby’s cheeks the way it used to, late at night in bed at xavier’s, thankful for the cover of darkness.
& of course he brings up rogue. again. bobby knows it’s a soft spot - they’d both vied for her affections, & he’d come out victorious. is it really a victory though if it turns out he was just a closeted kid trying to bury his burgeoning sexuality & the complications he feared came with it by flirting with the girl everyone else was interested in ? he knows now that hadn’t been fair to rogue ( or judy, zelda, opal, lorna, kitty – all the girls he’d dated. looking back, the way he’d bounced from girl to girl to girl should have been some sort of a sign, really ). can’t take it back, though, & she seems pretty settled with gambit. he’s pleased for her, if a little jealous. even since coming out, he’s still had the same laughable bad luck when it comes to relationships. christian, judah, romeo, . . . simon . . . ( something tells him to keep that particular one night stand to himself ).
❛ i’m sorry about that, ❜ he confesses. ❛ goin’ after rogue the way i did, not the fact that you’ve never gotten a bouquet. ❜ eyes pyro, expression inscrutable, something out of character for bobby. ❛ they don’t think you’re —-- ❜ it’s difficult, this whole mutant against mutant thing. ❛ they’d take you back, you know. if you came back, they would. you’d have a place that wasn’t . . . this. ❜ gestures around the room, realising john mustn’t live here. he knows that really - he’d had to check into this room via the front desk ; that’s not what people who live in hotels do - & a crease appears in his brow. dare he ask where john is living ? does he want to know, does he want to face the reality of whatever the answer is ? ❛ if charles can still forgive erik after everything, you’ll be easy. it’ll always be there for you, if you want it. that’s what it’s for, after all. ❜ the xavier institute for higher learning. THE X-MANSION. the first real place bobby had ever felt was home.
& even as he reminisces, his own words come to haunt him. why had he asked about mystique of all people ? head nods, nose scrunching. ❛ yeah, i’ve seen her fight recently. ❜ been on the receiving end a couple of times. remember when he dated her, too ? jesus, sometimes bobby blushes just wondering which x-man woman he hasn’t dated. ❛ not sure if i’d call her loyal, though. unless it’s to herself. ❜ there’s a slight bitterness there, morally-driven x-man versus immoral x-man ; & never the two shall meet. at least they’d worked that out sooner rather than later.
bobby’s gaze copies pyro’s, dropping to look at the hand on his hip, but he laughs a little, the sound casual & oh-so quintessentially iceman. ❛ man, i think you’re the only person ever who’d tell me i had a stick up my ass. ❜ but the caveat is where john was concerned & bobby can’t argue with that, even if he casually rolls past it. they know why it had been different where john was concerned, whether they say it aloud or not. it had always been different, it had just taken bobby a long time to work out why. ❛ most of ‘em probably wish i was serious more often. i’m too immature for a lot of them, even now. ❜ guess that’s just what happens when you’re the youngest of the original x-men, he supposes.
mm that one time lorna was like ' bobby's immature and inexperienced. you don't sleep with bobby. you endure him ' before he was out . . .
BRANDON FLYNN as Matt in HELLRAISER (2022)
You seem awfully dark tonight. How are you not?
i might be adding him so if anyone is interested in affiliating with a greek demigod conman ( son of tyche ), let me know :)
your daddy always considered himself a very lucky man. that was a good thing, especially in his line of work. oh, conning people out of their money left, right, & centre takes work & skill, of course --- but a lot of it is luck. right place, right time, right damn people. that's your daddy : mr lucky ! or he was.
he met your mom in the town of mainz, germany when he was twenty-three. they met under the statue of saint boniface - your namesake. he was backpacking around europe, relying on nothing but his impeccable people skills & snake oil salesmen techniques ; she was a goddess, wanting to see up close he who walked along luck's knife edge.
they were only together for a night, but that was all they needed. nine months later he was back home in vermont, & you arrived on his doorstep.
your daddy named you boniface, meaning good fortune - not only did he meet your mom under his statue, but you arrived on the saint's feast day. pure luck, he'd thought --- & if he'd only known how right he was.
having you was the luckiest thing that could have happened to him. everyone wants to help the single father with a young child, & thomas lacey took no time in exploiting you for his own personal gain. you didn't mind ; you were too young to, & by the time you were old enough to care, you'd grown to love the world you & your father lived. you roamed the country, never staying in one place too long. some times you lived like kings, booking long stays at the ritziest hotels around & paying cash ; othertimes you'd be sleeping in a denny's booth at three-thirty am.
luck is a fickle mistress, but it always seemed to favor you just a little more than it hurt or hindered you. you were homeschooled & you liked it that way ( you were never really good with structure, & a classroom would have bored you to tears.) but all luck runs out at some point, & yours ran out on april 12, 2005. your daddy pushed his luck just a little too far in a con involving a police officer, & he was arrested, tried, & found guilty on multiple accounts of fraud, theft, & more. he was sent to jail ; you were sent to live with your aunt jemimah in maine.
you hated maine ; you hated the fact that you had to go to school ; that you had to share a house with your six year old cousin. you started to act out - you got into petty theft, vandalism, drugs. when you realized things weren't going to change any time soon, you decided to make your own luck. you started dealing, & brazenly. you were twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, & you weren't caught. you'd get to school, & reports of how you'd sold weed to a teacher, three feet from a policeman & didn't get caught had already made the rounds. older kids started ruffling your hair for good luck ; younger kids spoke your name with fervent admiration. your luck had picked itself back up again, & you were living like a king -- or as best you could, in such a small town.
you were sixteen when the coin flipped again & you found yourself on the run from law enforcement, trying to avoid the same fate your father had been dealt. you succeeded -- barely. you like to think your mother was looking out for you in her own way, but you also know better than to take lady luck for granted in that aspect. luck is luck, & there are two sides to it.
that was years ago, & your luck has been pretty good since. not great all the time, but decent enough to keep you alive, & out of prison. you keep a close eye on all the big cons in the news & the instigators, wondering if any of them could be siblings whose luck flipped thanks to their mother's fickle ways.
you, now, know better than to take yours for granted. you push it - of course you do, you're addicted to the thrill - but you also have contingency plans in place because knowing you, when your luck does run out again it will be at the most inconvenient time possible. still ... that's kind of the fun, isn't it ?
declan released the light back into the air. it floated right in front of him, illuminating the sharp lynch features, the knot of worry between his eyebrows, the press of disappointment to his mouth.
