YOUR BEST AMERICAN GIRL.

she's  more  than  pretty.          she's  a  churchyard  angel ,     a marble  carving ,     with  her  ivory  curls  and  her  pale ,     pale  stony  eyes.

𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒 :     AN  INDEPENDENT  ORIGINAL  CHARACTER ,     written  by  love.     exploring  themes  of   the  effects  of  mothers  on  their  daughters ,     death  and  mortality ,     cults ,     femininity     and  the  obsessed  artist  trope.     drawing  inspiration  from  the  film  black  swan ,     the  netflix  tv  show  &  it’s  book  tiny  pretty  things ,     shakespearean  heroines ,     and  the  trope  ‘soft  is  not  weak’.         this  blog  is  for  18+  audiences  only ,     all  minors  will  be  blocked.

“      i   would   say   you’re   right   about   that  ,    but   you   needn’t   apologize   for   it.      it   takes   time  ,    that’s   all.      one   can   spend   years   in   the   political   ring   and   not   know   everything.      i’m   sure   bail   would   tell   you   the   same.      ”        releasing   serena’s   hand  ,    breha   smiles   at   her  ,    almost   as   though   serena   is   a   small  ,    frightened   animal.      such   anxiety.      she   only   hopes   that   continued   time   in   her   presence   will   ease   it.        “      speaking   of  ,    bail   and   i   intended   to   have   lunch   on   the   northern   terrace  ,    but   his   duties   have   him   trapped   in   his   study.      perhaps   you   would   like   to   join   me   in   his   stead.      ”

-ˋˏ*・★。STARTER CALL → ACCEPTING !

               She’s gasping for air ,  injury tightening her chest   (  but it’s not anything the   all powerful jedi   hadn’t encountered before ,   so why does she look like she’s gravely injured ?   )     ANSWER:  FEAR .     The fractures in her chest are reminding her all too intimately what it feels to not be able to breathe ,   how it feels to die .           ❝   Your brother …..  cannot know about this ,   promise me .   ❞          //   @saintslip   !

serena  cradles  sierra  in  her  arms ,     her  own  fear  palpable  and  overwhelming.          no  ,     no ,     i  need  to  help  you  somehow  . . .          but  all  she  can  do  is  sit  aside  helplessly  while  sierra’s  body  takes  care  of  itself.

it’s  too  much  to  witness ,     but  serena  will  never  leave  her.

@saintslips​  /  𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐄

❝ never you mind the tulips !  they can be very ,  very rude ,  you know . ❞  the smallest tut from alice ,  holding fast to her companion’s hand as they made their way through the underbrush .

𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙸𝙶𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙿𝙾𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁'𝚂 𝙷𝙾𝚄𝚂𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝙻𝙾𝙿𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝙳 .  the fresh pink paint is still dripping from the dyed blue wood .

❝ of course ,  i have found most plants to be rather terrible conversationalists …  𝐢 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐢𝐥 .  we’re almost there ! ❞  she smiles brightly ,  squeezing serena’s hand gently ,  and ducking beneath a particularly stubborn branch .

❝ we mustn’t be late ,  otherwise he shall be very cross .  i hope you brought your appetite for tea ? ❞

wonderland ;     the  rules  made  no  sense  to  serena ,     the  unrules  or  tips  and  advice  that  alice  kindly  shares ,     yet  something  about  it  was  so  deeply  enchanting.          she  gives  her  hand  a  squeeze ,     deriving  comfort  from  her  touch.          this  place  would  be  far  too  overwhelming  alone.

everything  recaptures  her  attention ,     making  her  look  one  way  than  the  next.         she  almost  doesn’t  catch  alice’s  next  comment.

❝          oh ,      that’s  interesting.          the  soil.          do  you  think  it’s  different  from  the  other  soil ?          ❞                   but  then ,     of  course  it  is.

@saintslips​

     ONE WOULD THINK MUSEUMS WOULD BE UNBEARABLE FOR HER. thousands of years of history, of hands, of creators and thieves and archivists and - and - and ought to be LOUD beyond belief, but there is something about them that is oddly … BERABLE. more-so than a crowded street of lives. objects are easier. they do not tend to shift too rapidly themselves, not like the constant freefall of a human life. OF MOST HUMAN LIVES, of nearly all human lives, of the human lives of people who shift and change day to day.

     THOSE WHO STAY STILL ARE JUST AS … OVERWHELMING. it’s not a surprise. it can’t be. circe knew when putting on her rain jacket and picking up her umbrella and beginning the walk from her month-to-month lease apartment ( she doesn’t take the train, even if it would be easier, the sound of breaks and lives and breathing and ending and beginning too much in the enclosed space ) to the metropolitan museum of art who she would come across. where they would come across each other. what time of day. SHE STILL WASN’T READY THOUGH. she never is. circe stumbles a little sideways at the onslaught of - - - TERROR, really, body stuck like in amber, kept one way - - - that trails serena carlisle like the wake off a ship. “sorry,” the word sticks to the back of her throat and she clears it, taking a step back, “sorry.” WHAT IS SHE APOLOGIZING FOR? what she knows? what serena has seen? stumbling into her? circe bites a lip and backs away another half step, eyes distant, the acrid smell of poison burning her nose.

the  museum  is  her  home  away  from  home.          the  stage  would  always  be  where  she  belonged ,     where  she  shined ;     but  the  museum  was  where  she  fit  in.          a  living  dead  girl  amongst  objects  that  had  lived  beyond  their  time ,     beyond  their  usefulness.          serena  feels  the  same  way.          at  least  these  items ,     these  paintings  and  wax  figures ,     can  all  be  repurposed  into  something  new ;     something  to  learn  from.

the  same  couldn’t  be  said  for  her.

the  girl  bumps  her  shoulder ,     and  a  few  pens  and  the  top  paper  slip  from  serena’s  grasp ,     but  she  manages  to  keep  hold  of  everything  else  in  her  hands     ━━     looking  over ,     she  hears  the  quiet  apologies ,     but  there’s  something  else  that  catches  more  of  her  attention :     the  fact  that  the  girl  looks  absolutely  terrified.

PALM.      you  give  and  give.     you  are  a  gentle  heart ,     broken  but  still  standing...     always  lending  a  hand  for  those  who  need  it ,     expecting  nothing  in  return.     you  deserve  someone  taking  your  hand  and  kissing  your  open  palm ,     the  hands  which  have  selflessly  helped  so  many  others.

tagged by :     @vicioushope  &     @sorehsu  <3

The kiss is a reminder that he is wanted. It takes him out of the dreadful trance that maybe it all had been just a dream. The confessions. His eyes flutter before landing on her flushed cheeks when she pulls away. The smile on her soft features could bloom flowers in the darkest reaches of the galaxy. Nev swears on it. He listens to her speak, but his eyes stay on her lips. Watches them form the words and reads them more than he really hears them. Her actual voice a hum that warms his chest before her last words pulled something from him. Not exactly panic. Surprise? Perhaps.

“Somewhere you want .. to take me?” His eyes glitter with more questions but he can’t fathom how to ask them and likely they’d be answered by whatever left her lips next.

her  smile  widens  as  she  watches  him.          nev  reveres  her  in  a  way  serena  never  thought  possible ,     not  since  so  long  ago ;     and  certainly  never  thought  she  deserved.          it  feels  nice.          he  feels  nice.          she  doesn’t  want  to  step  away  from  him ,     so  she  only  moves  back  a  step ,     in  case  anyone  were  to  chance  upon  them.

          swirling about them in a   abyssal haze,   vader’s aggravation is palpable within the force. heavy on the senses, weightier on the mind. it makes his leather gloves creak with a murderous grip hidden beneath his cloak. dark, transparisteel lenses level a guise of a    CRUEL,   INDIFFERENT  gaze  —  and beneath it, vader’s own luminescent, amber   stare   isn’t too far off. 

         ❛  —    what   …   did the   emperor    tell you,   @saintslips​?   ❜

serena  feels  the  weight  of  darth  vader  like  a  blanket ,     sopping  wet ,     heavy  and  clinging  to  her  skin.          his  presence  is  thick ,     and  impossible  to  ignore . . .          but  it  doesn’t  stop  her  from  trying.          her  index  finger  tap ,     tap ,     taps  the  table’s  surface  before  she  glances  up  at  him.