that bubblegum goth aesthetic

on the videos, her shirts cling to curves and cinch neatly into high waists ( or hang, cropped, tightened without the need for help ).  a funny sort of put together that never fits what the hell she’s actually, you know, doing with solo.  crawling through busted windows from an old abandoned hotel?  perfect to hang skirts around her bird bone hips.  just kick glass shards away with creepers, why the hell not?  she likes it.  screwing with the traditional expectation of someone in her... well damn, in her job position, having to be all shitty khakis and oh my god.  the dirty ass sneakers that most of the community wears.  what happened to looking good?  she likes to think it’s a sort of inspiration.  that other girls won’t shy away from killing it on the photos and videos.  every time another member of the UE community shows how pretty they are, it makes her heart flutter!  cheesy, totally, but that’s one of Mars’s favourite things to be.  at least she’s crooning over real people, not a fictional character that lives as CARDBOARD CUT OUTS in solo’s damn room.  

wow, off topic much?  the point is, she’s a matter of put together beauty on celluloid.  

at home though, not so much.  a t-shirt too loose and graphic to ever be hers hangs from the sleep slumped lines of her shoulders, baggy against a flat chest and nearly covering sleep shorts.  each sharp crease speaks to having been washed recently.  shit.  did she really steal one of solo’s shirts again?  not that it’s her fault, mind you.  mars prefers the baggy for sleeping in, and when four am is knocking on her brain it’s easy to mix hers and his up.  he might not mind.  so long as she doesn’t splatter magma hot butter across its fresh surface, or anything equally staining, he might not even fucking notice.  some things just fold into a state of normalcy after years of childhood side by side.  living together hasn’t helped much, she thinks.  a dream punched smile tugging at her teeth as she flicks the stove top off.  

a tap of her heel against the floor.  and then she slams it down.  ouch, damn!  vibrations carry, but they leave a faint ache when mars pads over to pull two plates down.  fill ‘er up kind of meal, the all classic american.  eggs, hash browns, and sausage.  she plates carelessly.  tearing a small chunk of sausage off to drop for her cat, spilling and sweeping has browns not a second later off of the counter.  they leave small halos of oil behind.  digging into her baggy eyes for a moment, two.  until mars heaves a dismissive groan from the center of her chest.  

fuck it, someone will clean it later.

( but solooooo, i cooked!  c’mon man, you owe me... )

a change in noise signals his approach.  one brief moment of peace when he enters the kitchen before she turns, shoves one packed full plate towards the center of his chest.