fault lines

@faltlines​ sent :  ❝  you are angry, and not without reason.  ❞ (from alana bloom @ faltlines ) song of achilles rp starters // not accepting.

  HE HIDES BEHIND THE MASK ONCE MORE - a defence mechanism so she can’t read his expressions. He really doesn’t like being analysed , really fucking hates it. She’s new , a new face. They’ve met maybe once or twice. He should have seen that coming. Krista , wherever she was , was never coming back. SHE’D CROSSED A LINE ; not that Billy entirely understands. He’s asked to see her six or seven times and been told no. What she did to him was wrong. His hair was starting to grow back , he’s been allowed to keep it long , no longer seen as a danger to himself. Just to other people , he guesses. THERE’S ALWAYS A GUARD OUTSIDE THE DOOR & one in the room too when Alana visits. She’s taking no chances. He can’t say he blames her really.              “Do i doc?” A snort leaves him but it’s pained. HE’S OFTEN QUESTIONS IF HE HAS THAT RIGHT AT ALL. What he did to Frank , to his family , it’s fucked up. Yet the man had brought him here regardless , had gotten him real help instead of pulling that trigger. BILLY DOESN’T UNDERSTAND IT. He really doesn’t. He hasn’t seen the man since - Frank doesn’t visit. That , Billy gets but the rest of it? it makes his head spin. “Do i have the right to feel like this? after what i did?” HE STILL DOESN’T REMEMBER , NOT REALLY.    She’ll tell him he’s a murderer and she’d be right. She has told him , he thinks. Either way , it’s something he has to live with. BLOOD ON HIS HANDS.             “Yeah i’m angry.” It’s a lot , it’s too much but it’s better than those moments where Billy feels nothing at all. WHERE THE HOURS DRAG ON AND HE JUST STARES AT THE WALL OPPOSITE HIM. Hollow and empty. Anger was better , it was easier. Feeling nothing …that was endless. A void that couldn’t be filled no matter who came to see him.

Alana had been surprised when they asked her to take on Billy Russo as a patient–– mostly because she assumed S.H.I.E.L.D or whomever had jurisdiction over the Raft would have gone in-house. She isn’t too sure she’d trust whatever doctors the organization may have hired, but really, they could be excellent; she’d have no way of knowing. Regardless, she’s glad to be assigned to Billy’s case because she’s reasonably sure she can help him, if he’s open to working with her. It’s not all out on the table, but from what she’s seen in his file, they’re a relatively good match. Doctor Bloom is of the belief that no one is without some family trauma, and Billy has experienced it with more than one kind of family. It won’t be the first time she’s worked with a former soldier, and while she wouldn’t call herself an expert, she knows that many people find home with their units. If what she’s read about him and Frank Castle is true, well then. That trauma is family and it is fresh.

She offers a thin smile. “You do. I understand why it might feel like you don’t, but...” A shrug. “You do. I could sit here and talk to you about moral judgements and gray areas, but the fact of the matter is, you have a right to your emotions. No matter what they are.” Alana wishes he wasn’t wearing the mask. It would be helpful to be able to see him, to gauge how he’s responding to her words–– even a microexpression could be so revealing. The briefest flickers over a patient’s face could, every now and again, tell her what they needed to hear better than they ever could themselves. She doesn’t press Billy on it, though. Maybe after they’ve gotten to know each other a bit. Boundaries will be important––  god knows Krista Dumont had crossed them. And if Billy is ever going to trust her, Alana needs to make sure she doesn’t come even remotely close to doing the same.

nanaue looks at cleo for a few moments, blinking, not saying anything. he isn’t the least bit uncomfortable with the silence; he wouldn’t know the feeling. it’s a very distinctly human thing he had never had cause to learn. and besides, cleo is easy to be with. nice to be with. but eventually he gets the idea that he’d like to do something.

@faltlines

malcolm & alana — “  i’ll be here. when you’re ready to talk.  ”

more prompts for your feels ( accepting )

his fingers twitch involuntarily.

malcolm makes no effort to hide them, his other hand instead coming up to card through unkempt dark locks. he stops just as suddenly, as soon as dr. bloom speaks, his gaze snapping upward to meet hers from his seat at the empty conference table.

the doctor says something else, but malcolm’s thoughts are elsewhere, her voice replaced with an unfamiliar, uneasy whirring in his ear. her lips are moving, but no sound is coming out. malcolm blinks, focusing extra hard on her moving lips, and is able to make out a few words, but the sentence she’s stringing together makes no sense.

suddenly, as if a taut rubber band has just been released, it all snaps back into place and bloom’s last question hangs in the air, unanswered.

“ hm - talk ? about what? ”

how about the fact that your father had planned to kill you on that camping trip, hm? and you’re only here, you’re only alive - because he lost the nerve to do it.

perhaps it wasn’t the right time to float that question, alana thinks. but then, there might never be a right time, if malcolm has his way. she notices the way his hands move–– has noticed it each time they’ve met; she politely ignores it. alana doesn’t mean to analyze him, but it’s entirely too difficult not to. malcolm could be the poster child for family trauma–– it’s difficult to stop herself from looking for signs of trauma, and more difficult still to stop herself from prying. it’s in her nature, not only as a profiler but as a person. it’s nigh impossible for her to see someone in pain and not want to help.

welcome 2 margaritaville, apparently | meadow gets shitposting privileges uwu

eye follows the movement and then flicks across to the spot the other winds up in next. it is the way a cat stares before an occurrence, like an earthquake might happen in that spot, and between those small seconds the witch is gone and then returns again.

a curiosity of things. it does not feel like her magick. not something taken root so deep in her body it is a holy thing. it does not feel like the devotional prayer she was raised to understand it. it feels like something she cannot quite name and the scent of a burning match crosses her nostrils immediately, then gone. the air lit aflame, she assumes, from the swift transference from place to place, in a way nothing but a creature can sense. she feels the smile drop from her lips. she keeps a trained eye on the magick that seems to be not magick at all.

it’s a moment of mirage as her image shudders and then begins to sweep itself away, an enormous beach of electric blue sand blowing into the wind and dissipating. and then beside the magician is materialized herself, yes there, her crouch on the fire escape every bit as animal as she. now the gaze drops, and skims her body with what might be interest. with what might be wondering. what might be curiosity.

she looks beside her where the young witch stays, peering down only by virtue of her strange perch.

“ magick? “

the question says explain it to me.

she’s too nervous to smile, but there is still a little thrill at surprising someone, impressing them. yes, look at me, purrs her ego, look on in wonder. though she imagines this can’t be all that impressive to a god–– or whoever this person was.

henley certainly wouldn’t describe her magic as holy. no, hers felt much more like a friend, a plaything and companion. mischievous, like a lick of fire in the palm of her hand. the smell of burning is familiar to her; always in her nostrils when she vanishes, so that she hardly notices it anymore. her mother had said nonchalantly one day when she was young; “it was like you could turn invisible, you were always escaping your crib and turning up in a pile of toys.” her parents had chalked it up to exhaustion on their part, but her grandfather has always been playfully convinced that henley was special.

she always wondered whether or not he knew for certain that he was right. 

henley’s eyebrows jump up when kitty vanishes and reappears in a flash of blue, not expecting such an exact parallel of one of her own abilities. it’s a much more beautiful transition, though, she notes–– visually fascinating and whimsical, but still somehow fearsome. it wouldn’t serve henley’s purposes, but she feels oddly envious of it for a moment, of the flourish and of the gravity. this is magic that doesn’t hide.

STRANGER IN THE ALPS SENTENCE STARTERS | accepting

ready or not sentence starters || accepting? i guess

grizz blew out a breath. “ahh... i don’t know about that.” he found he couldn’t quite meet carla’s eyes. a little puff of dirt clouded around his toe as he kicked at a rock.

             “no, i hate being fucked up about anything.” it’s easier to be perfect, to not be vulnerable. it was easier to act like a god among men, superior to his peers. he watches her carefully, watches her expression. he half laughs at her remark. “it is what it is. i’ve learnt to expect that from them.” people didn’t love him when he had nothing to offer. people in this town were superficial, fake, self serving. 

               he knew he wasn’t any exception to that either.

               “i just have beer, at least up here, so i’m sort of a shitty host,” fingers run through brown locks as he forces himself to get up, to move across the room. he stoops down to open the mini fridge, retrieving two beer cans. “sometime when shit is back to normal, you should come to one of my parties. the drinks are much better,” he offers the can to her, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. he never really knew elle but in this moment, he feels like she’s the only person who can see him.

       elle nods. “it’s a shitty feeling,” she offers. she feels a little skittish in here, in harry bingham’s room. there isn’t really anyone to tell, but if there was, she feels like no one would believe her. after all, she’s no social butterfly and harry seems to be the uncrowned king of the school. still though... what’s it all worth if no one came to check on him after his dad’s funeral? 

      she wants to say something comforting–– something like ‘fuck those guys.’ but the sentiment sounds hollow in her head, so she doesn’t say anything. 

      maybe being here is enough.

      “no, beer’s fine.” she’s glad they aren’t doing shots. elle doubts her dad would appreciate her stumbling home in a few hours. the invitation makes her smile, despite how odd it feels. “yeah,”  she says, trying not to look too surprised, “that’d be fun. thanks,” she accepts the can, figuring one thank you will suffice for both the drink and the invite. parties aren’t usually her thing, but maybe that’s just because she’s never really been to one. 

open,  elle  tomkins

              “why  did  i  think  he’d  be  different?   but  it’s  never.  ever.   different.’

           the footsteps had sounded like his sister. glancing up and seeing elle causes him to blink, an attempt to shake off the alcohol induced fog. fuck. he debates trying to pull himself together, trying to laugh it off, but he doesn’t have it in him. “i thought you were maddie… my sister,” as if that mattered, as if that would make her laugh and retreat. “sorry i look like a shit show right now.” he hasn’t showered since the day of the funeral, and he can’t remember if that was yesterday or the day before. a pause, he digests her words. he just wants to pull himself together, to snap his fingers and not be able to feel. then people might come by if he was fun again. people didn’t like him when he wasn’t fun, he didn’t like himself like this. but then again, did he ever like himself? “thanks. you’re like… the only person who’s come by.” no friends, just… elle. “… d’you want a drink?”

“no, it’s okay,” she says earnestly. “you have every right to be, like...” blonde hair spills off her shoulders as she shrugs. “fucked up about it.” elle didn’t know what harry was going through, but she knew what it felt like to feel alone and she knew what it felt like to be miserable. her eyes widen almost imperceptibly when he speaks again. she figured she might catch him alone today, but no one coming by? a part of her knew she shouldn’t be surprised. the people harry hung out with could kind of suck–– she knew that first hand. 

...but no one?

“that’s fucked up,” she said without thinking, “i’m sorry.” 

open.

                 “the  wine,  the  beer,  the  whiskey  are  the  only  things  that  fix  me.”  a  pause,  another  drink.   “i’m  not  saying  it’s  a  problem,  i  could  stop  it  if  i  wanna.”